When I was driving to the Big Smoke a few days ago, I had the idea for a blogpost.
But when one has one’s hands on the steering wheel and concentration on the road is implicit, one hopes the idea will stay on the edges of consciousness so that when one reaches a destination, and fingers hit the keyboard, the post will open like a bud in the spring sun…
Last month an enormous challenge arrived in my PM box on Facebook from funkybluedandelion.blogspot.com
It read ‘On March 2nd, Dr. Seuss’s birthday, we’re inviting bloggers and others to choose a book they dearly loved in childhood, write a post about it and then donate a copy of it to a school, library or literacy program or give as a gift to a young friend or family member. Each post and donation counts toward our “kindness totals” as part of our larger SpReAd The Love campaign. We have an anonymous donor who is willing to donate a $1 for each act of kindness to RA’s JustGiving charities up to $200 so we’re hoping to max his/her generosity out.
So often people ask why I’ve written a saga about Guy of Gisborne and not Robin Hood, Arthur, Abelard, Tristan or any of the many others from legend and history. So perhaps I need to place it more fully in black and white.
Gisborne deserves to be placed in its timeframe. What began as a bit of fun has now moved from fan-fiction to historical fiction, historical romance and historical fantasy. Despite the fact that the legend is just that, a myth, Gisborne -the- man- of -folktale lived during the reign of Richard Lionheart and so must be placed within that period.
As the writer, I was beholden to research the period in detail: clothes, time, religious practice, food, habits, entertainment, sex, medicine, politics, trade. More and more detail to get a sense of where my protagonists lived and how they might feel in that environment at any one moment.
Stacking some of the books
The more I read, the more I found to read until I felt myself drowning in books and in PDF’S from online research.
Drowning!
So how does one sort the stuff out, how much does one use? Is too much enough, or is a mere snifter required?
To be honest, I am not sure I know. I ‘ve read the doyen of historical fiction, Dorothy Dunnett with relish and literally gorged on every glorious fact she included in every line of all of the books she ever wrote. And at the other end of the scale I’ve read authors like Posie Graeme Evans and YA writer Felicity Pulman who write with a deft and sparing hand, never drowning the writer in fact; delivering just enough to give an authentic sense of time and place.
So again I ask, how much is enough? I’ve been involved in a lively discussion on Goodreads with the Historical Fictionistas about just this and personally as a reader I know I’ll accept an average amount of researched fact that any writer might want to give. Not too much. The exception to this personal reading rule is DD because it is very much her style, her tone. But as a writer writing my first ever historical fiction novel, I am still unsure how much is required. Without doubt the research must be used correctly; there shouldn’t really be any excuse for saying the clock chimed if the clock didn’t exist in the timeframe. But equally do I really want to know the detail of the canonical hours and how they worked? I love to eat chocolate but I’m not in any great need to read how its created.
My absolute favourites.
My narratives are character driven and I am inclined to only ever give enough fact to give the scene and the character veracity. I’d love to know what other historical fiction writers and readers feel about this and welcome comment! How much, dear reader, do you want to read? How much dear successful hist.fict writer, do you use in your novels?
To date, I have read 48 non-fiction texts that I have either bought, borrowed from the library or researched within the Reference Library and I’ve read over 20 PDF’s online. If nothing else, I shall have a head full of leads for another story and know the difference between chausse and bliaut!
Addendum: You might like to look at :
http://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/1124578-facts-in-fiction
and also:
Have a look at this! Such a wonderful intro. Mark, be my agent!!!!!!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a guest on MWi gets a hard time of it before I finally let them have their say.
An easter gift from Gisborne…
As we in Australia move into Easter Thursday, my novel’s main character and I would like to wish you all a safe and happy Easter break. I’m off to write more Gisborne and walk the beaches. And Gisborne? That’d be telling!
The shortstory has now been published by Bo Press in a robust miniature form and I am delighted with what the studio has created. It portrays the essence of Gisborne’s place in the medieval era beautifully and given that my Gisborne has a predilection for illuminated manuscripts, is even more apt. 
I ordered one immediately but really feel I should order another and send it to Richard Armitage via his agent. Has anyone got the agent’s address?
I could smell his hand and some pathetic part of my body reacted like a cat with a bowl of cream. But the direness of my stuation kicked the bowl to smithereens and as I struggled, squirming and pulling against him, I realized I could never call for help. To whom? De Courcey’s men? I tried to kick backward, wanting to hurt him…
Writing frantically to fill my commitments for FanstRAvaganza was the best thing I’ve done in terms of moving Gisborne along. As a quasi-regular upload to the blog in the past, such lack of commitment to the narrative was not a good thing. Despite the fact I loved writing this story more than any other I’ve done, there were always other writing commitments. Kindle edits, edits of a fantasy manuscript to be sent to London, writing blogs… oh and Twitter, Facebook, and the now famous and much-loved Austen #A4T contributions.
The last instalment for FanstRAvaganza. Further uploads of Gisborne will take place in the short term on Mesmered.
Be calm. Don’t panic. Think. My heart raced and my legs threatened to fold as I poled the craft as quietly as I could. It humoured me, allowing me to slip along in the current, barely making a ripple. But the darkness suffocated. Swathes of giant grasses lined the banks like serried rows of pike-men in some duke’s army. Huge trees towered above the grasses and I fancied they resembled trebuchets and mangonels. The air itself, hardly moving in the night, was moist and laden with the odour of mud and weed. As Walsocam drained into the rivulet there were other smells as well – excrement, the bloated remains of a butchered sheep… the fragrance nauseating.
