I wrote 3,000 words. I had the courtship, the marriage, the aftermath all worked out. And then, like a fool, I thought to check another reference that found its way to my email inbox: some clever history buff had digitized all of the NY Sun Heralds from the 1800s and wouldn't you know it, when I did a search, up popped an article about THE MARRIAGE. Yes, the exact marriage, in 1891, of the two people I had just written 3,000 words about. What I conjured up in my head, given the scant details I had - who got married, what year, and the occupations of the two betrothed - was all wrong, according to the article I discovered. So I had to go back and rewrite the chapter.
Worse though, is what was one chapter is now turning into two so I can fit in all of the details. That has been a problem with Heloise (Ella) Durant, the character in my story that gets married, there is scant information about her. Which is surprising given the fact she published a book of poetry, a play, and a novel. She was also one of the founding members of the Dante Society. You'd think there would be more than the 15 or so letters found in an archive at Syracuse University. What happened to her legacy?
And that leads me to the title of my short blog post. The problem with writing historical fiction. I can make up what I have to, to fill in the blanks. I just have to take the plunge. But one day, in the distant future, I can imagine someone finding a pile of letters, or a diary, Ella's diary, in an attic somewhere, from a house or apartment in New York that she once owned or rented.
And it will change the whole story once again.
Worse though, is what was one chapter is now turning into two so I can fit in all of the details. That has been a problem with Heloise (Ella) Durant, the character in my story that gets married, there is scant information about her. Which is surprising given the fact she published a book of poetry, a play, and a novel. She was also one of the founding members of the Dante Society. You'd think there would be more than the 15 or so letters found in an archive at Syracuse University. What happened to her legacy?
And that leads me to the title of my short blog post. The problem with writing historical fiction. I can make up what I have to, to fill in the blanks. I just have to take the plunge. But one day, in the distant future, I can imagine someone finding a pile of letters, or a diary, Ella's diary, in an attic somewhere, from a house or apartment in New York that she once owned or rented.
And it will change the whole story once again.
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