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»Accidents and distempers, amputations and worms« In 1702, John Moyle has served as a sea surgeon in the navy for almost 40 years. Now old, he decides to write a how-to manual on practising surgery on a ship. His book »CHIRURGUS MARINUS« covers the most common diseases or wounds that sailors around the year 1700 A.D. might have suffered from. Therefore, it is an ideal resource for your seafare novel.
Write about Food in Iceland Iceland – the Nordic country first came to my attention when I read Hannah Kent’s breathtaking novel BURIAL RIGHTS. Now, I discovered an amazing source with hundreds of historical recipes from Iceland. Browse the selection here, and write a scene.
Write about Australian Food in the 1860s Battered kangaroo brains cooked in emu fat, anyone? Discover the best resource I know for authentic Australian recipes. Then, write a scene in which your protagonist prepares a TYPICAL Australian dish.
Why Isn’t There a Novel About a Ganerben-Burg Castle? A castle divided between multiple families … wouldn’t that be the perfect setting for a novel? Imagine: 3 to 5 different families, trapped in a confined space, sharing the same rooms, each and every day. It’s time for internal hostilities and atrocities. Conflict is inevitable. A very special setting that allows you to narrate a very special situation.
Write about Food from the German Democratic Republic Many childhood memories are connected to food — and those special foods cannot be bought any more. But what if you suddenly discovered them? Write the scene.
1945. A Dance with the enemy? It’s the end of the fraternisation ban in post-war Germany. Couples who have met and like each other, are *finally* allowed to meet officially for an evening out together. Narrate how a couple – a British soldier and a young German woman – who have just met, date for the first time.
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Research has long been a backbone of the genre. But beyond the textbooks, there's a whole world of family stories that have not yet become history. They deserve their place in fiction, too.
When you write a historical novel, one of the most common questions you get asked is, how did you research your book? How, readers and writers alike ask, did you learn about the time you were writing about? Did you visit the places you wrote about? Did you conduct mountains of interviews with sobbing survivors? Did you pore through grainy archival footage to find little factoids no one had written about while locked in the bowels of library basements? There is a curious, almost voyeuristic desire to peer into an author’s process. Historical fiction is lived experience, often traumatic, made legible and digestible by the novelist, and people want to know what kind of instruments the author used to excavate said experiences. They want to see the way the pudding is made; they want to understand the ways you stitched the broken shards of history together.
Now that I’m publishing my first novel—a work of historical fiction set in 1930s and 1940s colonized Malaysia, called The Storm We Made , about an unlikely female spy and the impact of her actions on her three children—I’m facing familiar questions about my research process. The questions seem innocuous enough, and well within the realm of reasonable questions to ask of an author of historical fiction. Friends and well-meaning readers want to know which authors’ research processes I mirrored, whose methods I preferred, whose I found cumbersome. An easy question, a throwaway—something I should have no problem answering. They want to visualize my process. Did I scour old Malaysian newspapers, stain my fingers black? Did I lock myself up studying ancient and fragile tapes to understand what people wore at the time? Did I interview thousands of survivors? And even though it seems simple enough to answer, I admit—I am defensive, crushed by the specificity of their questions, terrified to confront the very simple truth.
Because the answer, I’m afraid to whisper, is I did none of those things.
Six months ago, my UK publisher invited me to speak about my book at events in London and Wales to drum up excitement. My first event ever was at a well-known festival, where typically 200,000 people would attend about ten days of programming consisting of book-related panels, speeches, parties, and interviews. At the signing line, my first ever, where I was signing advance copies of my book, a woman came up to the table. I remember very little about her except that her nails were painted a beautiful forest green. She held out her early copy for me to sign.
“Did you ever go to the labor camp from your novel?” she asked, her green nails tapping against the plastic signing table.
She was referring to the labor camp at Kanchanaburi on the border of Thailand and Burma, made famous by the movie Bridge Over River Kwai. It was at this very labor camp that I placed one of my main characters, a teenage boy who had never faced any hardship before his stint at the camp. Documented history indicates that at this camp, nearly 300,000 Southeast Asian civilians and Allied prisoners of war were subjected to inhumane labor conditions. At least 100,000 people died of starvation, exposure, and torture.
“Because I did,” she continued.
She told me that a few years ago, she had gone on a multi-day tour where she stayed in a camp and visited Hellfire Pass, a section of the railway that gets its name from scenes of emaciated prisoners laboring to build it by torchlight, in what looked like an imagined scene from hell. As part of the tour, she paid her respects to monks at a temple erected nearby, and she reflected on the unfortunate history of the land she was standing on.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go!” she said. “You should go sometime. It’s an experience.”
As she walked away from me clutching my book, my first instinct was derision. Ugh, I thought. Yet another tourist marching around death monuments to fulfill some morbid sense of achievement. I imagined her green fingernails drumming against the commemorative plaque of death as she exulted in her sightseeing achievement.
But later, I found myself filled with doubt. Had I missed a crucial opportunity for research? I had written a whole character who lived in a labor camp, who socialized with other boys like him, who endured the torture of adolescence while being tortured. My mind had chided the woman with the green fingernails as disrespectful, someone who reveled in her ignorance. But in fact, was I the one who, in not pressing my feet into the dirt that once housed the desperation of hundreds of thousands of men, the one who was thoughtless and disrespectful of the dead, and the survivors?
The first kernel of my book was written in a strange regurgitation. At the end of my first semester of graduate school in 2019, in a class led by the novelist Marie-Helene Bertino, she assigned us a final project—to write a short story based on a prompt.
“Write about someone who does something in a loop, repetitive. Give it stakes.”
I am ashamed to say I was not particularly diligent about this project. The semester was ending and I was ready to be done, plus in grad school everyone got As, so long as the assignments were turned in. I sat down to write, ready to cobble a few scenes together and finish my semester. Instead, five thousand words fell out of me in a two-day fever. I wrote about a teenage girl who had to run through a series of repeated and increasingly dangerous checkpoints during a war to get home before curfew. As she runs, desperate to make it home, she recalls the many difficult moments during the war that had gotten her to this point, praying that she would make it home before soldiers stormed the streets.
Before this assignment, most of my stories took place either contemporarily or in the 90s and early 2000s, all familiar timeframes to me. This was different. I remember being both relieved and tearful after I finished this story. I remember my voice shaking as I read the first paragraph aloud in class. This emotion confused me; I was certainly not alive during WWII, and these were not my recollections. What I had written, in my two-day fever was a scrapbook of stories my grandmother had told me about her life during the Japanese Occupation of Malaya—stories I had clearly internalized, stories that had been gestating in me for years, waiting for the right impetus to make themselves felt. This was the first etching of what has become The Storm We Made , a fever dream of lore that had lived inside me, remembered.
Can memory be research? More importantly, can secondary memory, stories passed down through time, unreliable, malleable—can these stories be considered research? Before the pandemic, when I went home to Malaysia, my then 90+-year-old grandmother would hand me a mug of Lipton tea and tell me the same three stories about her experience surviving the Japanese Occupation of Malaysia during WWII. She would talk about how she was almost killed by an airstrike, about a kind Japanese man who worked at the railway and sometimes secured her family extra food coupons, and about her brother who, while conscripted to a labor camp, was caged in a chicken coop for a year. But each retelling changed a little, and the details were switched—was it only her brother in the chicken coop or was he stuck in there with others? Was it an airstrike or a burning building? Was the Japanese man an administrator or a tutor? Oral histories, as evidenced by the spottiness of my grandmother’s memories, can be unreliable.
.css-f6drgc:before{margin:-0.99rem auto 0 -1.33rem;left:50%;width:2.1875rem;border:0.3125rem solid #FF3A30;height:2.1875rem;content:'';display:block;position:absolute;border-radius:100%;} .css-1r4wn2w{margin:0rem;font-size:1.625rem;line-height:1.2;font-family:Lausanne,Lausanne-fallback,Lausanne-roboto,Lausanne-local,Arial,sans-serif;}@media(max-width: 48rem){.css-1r4wn2w{font-size:1.75rem;line-height:1.2;}}@media(min-width: 64rem){.css-1r4wn2w{font-size:2.375rem;line-height:1.2;}}.css-1r4wn2w em,.css-1r4wn2w i{font-style:italic;font-family:inherit;}.css-1r4wn2w b,.css-1r4wn2w strong{font-family:inherit;font-weight:bold;}.css-1r4wn2w:before{content:'"';display:block;padding:0.3125rem 0.875rem 0 0;font-size:3.5rem;line-height:0.8;font-style:italic;-webkit-transform:translateY(-1.5rem) rotate(180deg);-moz-transform:translateY(-1.5rem) rotate(180deg);-ms-transform:translateY(-1.5rem) rotate(180deg);transform:translateY(-1.5rem) rotate(180deg);font-family:Lausanne,Lausanne-fallback,Lausanne-styleitalic-roboto,Lausanne-styleitalic-local,Arial,sans-serif;} Can memory be research?
Kali Fajardo-Anstine, in her remarkable essay, “ On Roots and Research ,” writes about how in college, she was afraid to contradict her white professor, who read from a textbook that called the Ku Klux Klan’s presence in 1920s Colorado simply a “social club.” This statement was in direct contradiction to the numerous stories Fajardo-Anstine had heard over the years from her own family, who told meandering anecdotes about the fear and violence the Klan had inflicted on Denver. But because of the inherent shakiness of oral history, Fajardo-Anstine worried that her family stories would not hold up against the professor’s textbook; she felt frozen, unable to defy. Like Fajardo-Anstine, I found myself second-guessing my grandmother’s accounts, setting aside the stories and memories passed down to me over the years. They cannot be accurate, I thought. And, similar to Fajardo-Anstine, there aren’t many records of the time period available for me to verify my grandmother’s recollections.
Then March 2020 arrived, and the world shut down. Libraries were mostly closed, and even the ones that were open felt dangerous to visit when the shelter-in-place order was in effect. Archives were unstaffed. My family in Malaysia had only one duty: the task of protecting my storytelling grandmother, the hero of my burgeoning novel. Once a sociable woman, her life became days of solitude because she had to be kept away from everyone—everyone was a potential carrier of her death sentence.
But still I felt compelled to write. For years when I have talked about my book, I have told people that I wrote the story first—I imagined things that happened and filled them in. But what really happened was I wrote from memory; from the stories I had internalized, but did not realize I carried within me. I wrote about a teenage girl’s friendship with a Japanese civilian that endured for years after the war. I wrote about a boy who disappeared early during the war and returned as a changed man after. I wrote about a mother who mixed gluey tapioca in with miniscule rice rations to keep her family alive. I wrote what I knew, and I was shocked to find that I knew much more than I thought I did. I did have help, though: my grandmother had gifted me her “memory book,” a brown notebook of loose anecdotes she’d started writing down in her older age, afraid to lose her memory. When I was done, I sent my manuscript to my history buff of a father, who did basic fact-checking for me. He reminded me that wartime dishware would have been enamel—not melamine, as I had presupposed. My uncle from Australia sent me a book of photos that he found—some of it government propaganda, but useful for me to understand how buildings looked at the time.
During the writing process, I often felt insecure about what I deemed were my insufficient research skills, my inability to find texts about the Southeast Asian history of occupation. I worried that without a binder of interview transcripts and a multi-page bibliography, I was nothing but an imposter to the genre—a disrespectful neophyte who shouldn’t be allowed into the halls of historical fiction.
Good historical fiction feels immersive. Despite the strangeness of the times, you, the reader, feel as though you are seeing the world through your narrator’s eyes, whether it’s a teen girl trying to hold her family together or a soldier marching to the front—it’s about the ability to become engulfed in the “story” part of the history, to feel the emotion and stakes of the moment, even if time has passed. And what is history if not stories passed down through time? The thing I had to realize was this: there simply isn’t much written about the histories of people living through WWII outside of the Western front. The history of colonized people continues to be written by those who colonize.
What is history if not stories passed down through time?
In order to write my book, I had to think of my family and my own ancestral stories simply as an earlier iteration of the research process. Our stories, because they have not been given their due attention, have not yet become history. This meant relying on less “traditional” methods of research. Instead, conversations with my grandmother, fact-checking from a history buff father, and a book of propaganda photographs had to be enough. This is not to say that I did no traditional research at all and wrote an ahistorical novel. The internet helped me fill in dates of major battles. But it was my family who helped me fill in the little things that mattered, the daily life that was lived—the “story” part.
Memories are records. Yes, there is a shakiness to memories and a patchiness to oral history. But the power of fiction is its ability to transcend the wobbliness of facts—to write shaky moments into concrete existence and make them sturdier than the historical event. Memories make for rich fiction because they are specific, personal evidence—yes evidence—of a life lived. As the documentarians of family histories that have remained ignored by the Western sources, we must trust and rely on the stories our families tell us, and on the histories our ancestors have lived. Our stories deserve their place in history, too.
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Discussions about the writing craft.
I'm curious how historical fiction writers go about researching their books. I've been listening to podcasts with historical fiction writers and their research process sounds so intimidating (years of research, hiring experts and traveling). It seems difficult for someone not published and working a nonwriting job. Has anyone had luck researching on a budget? I do think it is important to do as much as you can, but sometimes it is not possible. Also, how do you get in touch with experts and are they resources for free or do they expect compensation?
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August 11, 2024
This article has been reviewed according to Science X's editorial process and policies . Editors have highlighted the following attributes while ensuring the content's credibility:
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by Debbie Passey, The Conversation
In 1874, a surgeon in South Australia telegraphed wound care instructions for a patient 2,000 kilometers away. A few years later, in 1879, a letter in The Lancet medical journal suggested physicians use the telephone to cut down on unnecessary patient visits.
As the telephone and telegraph spread, the idea of telemedicine—literally "healing at a distance"—inspired science fiction writers to conjure up new ways of treating patients across great distances.
Real-world technology has developed in tandem with scifi speculation ever since. Today, certain kinds of telemedicine have become commonplace, while other futuristic tools are in the offing.
In his 1909 short story The Machine Stops , English novelist E.M. Forster described a telemedicine apparatus that, when telegraphed, descends from the ceiling to care for patients in the comfort of their home. His story is also the earliest description of instant messaging and a kind of internet—both important for real-life telemedicine.
In 1924, Radio News magazine printed a cover story showing the future "Radio Doctor." The cover depicts a physician examining a patient through a screen. Although the magazine story itself was a bizarre fiction that had little to do with a radio doctor, the imagery is evocative.
In a 1925 cover story for Science and Invention, US writer Hugo Gernsback describes a device called "The Teledactyl" (from tele, meaning far, and dactyl, meaning finger). The device uses radio transmitters and television screens to allow a doctor to interact with a patient. The added twist—the physician touches the patient using a remotely controlled mechanical hand set up in the patient's home.
Gernsback was a futurist and pioneer in radio and electrical engineering. Nicknamed the "Father of Science Fiction," Gernsback used fictional stories to educate readers on science and technology, and often included extensive scientific details in his writings. He helped establish science fiction as a literary genre, and the annual Hugo Awards are named after him.
The radio was important for early telemedicine. In the 1920s, physicians across the globe started using the radio to evaluate, diagnose, treat, and provide medical advice for sick or wounded seafarers and passengers. The radio is still used to provide medical consultation to ships at sea.
In 1955, Gernsback returned to the idea of distance medicine with " The Teledoctor ." This imaginary device uses the telephone and a closed-circuit television with mechanical arms controlled by the physician to provide remote patient care. Gernsback said the doctor of the future "will be able to do almost anything through teledoctoring that he can do in person."
In 1959, psychiatrists in Nebraska started using two-way closed-circuit televisions to conduct psychiatric consultations between two locations. This is considered one of the first examples of modern-day telemedicine. Early telemedicine networks were expensive to develop and maintain, which limited broader use.
In the 1960s, NASA began efforts to integrate telemedicine into every human spaceflight program. By 1971, a telemedicine system was ready for trial on Earth— in the Space Technology Applied to Rural Papago Advanced Health care (STARPAHC) program. Using a two-way television and radio connection and remote telemetry, the program connected Tohono Oʼodham people (then known as Papago) with nurses and physicians hundreds of miles away.
It wasn't until 1970 that the word telemedicine was officially coined by US doctor Thomas Bird. Bird and his colleagues set up an audiovisual circuit between the Massachusetts General Hospital and Logan Airport to provide medical consultations to airport employees .
From the 1970s onward, telemedicine started gaining more traction. The internet, officially born in 1983, brought new ways to connect patients and physicians.
Satellites could connect physicians and patients across greater distances without the need for two-way closed-circuit televisions. The cost to develop and maintain a telemedicine network decreased in the 1980s, opening the door to wider adoption.
In his 1999 science fiction novel Starfish, Canadian writer Peter Watts describes a device called the " Medical Mantis ." This device allows a physician to remotely examine and perform procedures on patients deep beneath the ocean's surface. In the early 2000s, NASA's Extreme Environment Mission Operations started testing teleoperated surgical robots in undersea environments.
The evolution of telemedicine has kept pace with advances in information and communication technology. Yet, throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, telemedicine remained little used.
It took the global COVID pandemic to make telemedicine an integral part of modern health care . Most of this is consultations via video call—not so far away from what Gernsback envisioned a century ago, though so far without the robotic hands.
What's next? One likely factor pushing real-world telemedicine to match the dreams of science fiction will be developments in human spaceflight.
As humans progress in space exploration, the future of telemedicine may look more like science fiction . Earth-based monitoring of astronauts' health will require technological breakthroughs to keep pace with them as they travel deeper into space.
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COMMENTS
Believe me, you'll need to refer back to your sources. 3) Cross-reference. One of the first things you need to know about historical sources - whether primary or secondary - is they can be wrong. Errors can range from small and annoying (incorrect dates, misspelled names etc.) to major and highly problematic (like ascribing historical ...
Bestselling historical novelist Janie Chang asked six fellow novelists to share their tips for finding and writing stories from the past that will resonate with today's readers in this article from the Jan/Feb 2022 issue of Writer's Digest. Janie Chang. Feb 8, 2022. "It must be easy writing historical fiction.
Those initial research questions ended up raising more questions. I fell in love with the era and longed to bring it alive with thorough research. Here are seventeen questions to ask when conducting research for historical fiction. Many are also useful for contemporary novels and when building a story world for fantasy or science fiction.
Historical Writers' Association. The Historical Writers' Association is composed of authors, agents, and publishers of historical fiction. Their mission is to provide professional and social support to their members, as well to create opportunities for them to meet readers and fellow writers. They also publish a popular magazine, Historia.
Sinmisola Ogunyinka. My top tip for writing historical fiction: Decide the genre you want to write in, the era and then find and read at least three books in the same genre. Be deliberate about the books you choose. Go on Amazon, look at the bestseller ranks of the books and the reviews.
20 authors share tips on writing historical fiction novels that readers love, covering topics related to research, the balance between telling the truth and telling a story, breathing life into characters, and much more. There's something incredibly fascinating about history, whether it's uncovering the strange customs and manners of previous ...
Put another way, the moment at which the story question is answered. You'll no doubt have researched things around this historical time period, and that's good background information. But you only really need to look in depth at the historical events that directly affect your protagonist. 2.
Oct 21, 2020. —. by. Kat Clay. in Novel research, Writing. I write a lot of historical fiction. All but one of my book manuscripts is historical, whether that's set in the 1850s, 1940s, or eep - 1990s. It's easier to write about a period you've lived through, but what do you do when everyone who lived during that time is long gone?
2. PHOTOGRAPHS (mid-1800s on) As writers we need to use all five senses when conveying an historical world to our readers. But for the author/researcher, there's nothing quite like seeing a scene from the past. In addition to images that capture major historic events, more casual photos reveal landscape and architectural details, fashion, past-times, and all those wonderful human faces and ...
This guide is primarily developed in support of the course ENGL 3025: Writing Historical Fiction. It outlines elements of research and provides links to resources and research tips. While many suggested resources are available online, please note that research for historical fiction may require using print resources, visiting libraries and ...
Some genres, like hard science fiction or military thrillers, require some deep research or personal experience (or a degree!), along with a vivid imagination. Historical fiction is similar in that you must either have time travelled, OR you must have a knack for researching. Luckily, this knack is not such a secret thing. It can't be learned.
The research can go on forever. At the end, it is the central story, and the characters who make up the novel, while the historical research remains in the background. Get your hands on a copy of River Spirit, out 7 March. If you're working on a historical novel, why not join our specialist six-week online course: Writing Historical Fiction.
8 Rules of Writing Historical Fiction Research. 1. Take bad notes. In 2007, I took some brief notes about a woman doctor who X-rayed eight children at a Jewish orphanage. I didn't even write down her name. Yet these bad notes inspired me to write my first historical novel, Orphan #8. Only after the novel was finished, sold, and rewritten did I ...
Writing The Past. Writing historical fiction is a challenging genre. It requires a level of research and attention to detail that's usually seen in exclusive, academic circles. On top of needing pro-level research skills, you also need to imagine an interesting storyline and dream up compelling characters that your readers will love.
by The History Quill. We're delighted to share this list of 60 historical fiction writing prompts to inspire your creative writing. We've put them on a historical timeline, starting in 399 BCE and ending in 1969. They cover a range of periods, places, and situations. Feel free to adapt them in any way you like.
2. Go Deeper at the Library. Don't stop at Google. Remember, your goal in researching historical fiction is not just to collect information about an era. You also want to gain a well-rounded understanding of what it meant to live in that era. Your librarian can help you with this in ways Google can't.
Today, her topic is research and historical fiction. ~~~ There is probably no other genre of fiction which requires quite so much research as historical fiction. Indeed, many readers will be surprised to hear that the research required for writing good historical fiction is more comprehensive than that for writing straight history.
25 Historical Crime, Mystery, and Horror Novels to Look Forward To In 2023. By Molly Odintz January 30, 2023.
The Outside Lands. by Hannah Kohler. Buy the book. The Outside Lands is the story of people caught in the slipstream of history, how we struggle in the face of loss to build our world, and how easily and with sudden violence it can be swept away. With extraordinary skill and accuracy, Hannah Kohler takes us from 1960s California to Vietnam ...
Find historical fiction ideas, historical fiction topics to write about, story ideas and story prompts here. Skip to content. Menu // Plunder The Historical Resource Library ... Author, Choose Your Time And Setting >> French Atlantic and historical research by the sea 1945 | A Dance Club in Berlin View the original film footage from 1945. ...
It's Time to Rewrite the Rules of Historical Fiction. Research has long been a backbone of the genre. But beyond the textbooks, there's a whole world of family stories that have not yet become ...
1. Read fiction and non-fiction written during the era. (Google Books, or the Gutenberg Project are wonderful for finding out-of-print titles). Subtle clues as to language usage and cadence can be found which may not be evident in a modern-day history. Social attitudes may be hiding in the corners of a whodunnit.
Researching historical fiction. I'm curious how historical fiction writers go about researching their books. I've been listening to podcasts with historical fiction writers and their research process sounds so intimidating (years of research, hiring experts and traveling). It seems difficult for someone not published and working a nonwriting job.
In 1874, a surgeon in South Australia telegraphed wound care instructions for a patient 2,000 kilometers away. A few years later, in 1879, a letter in The Lancet medical journal suggested ...
New research has revealed Stonehenge's monumental six-ton Altar Stone, long believed to originate from Wales, actually hails from Scotland. New research led by Curtin University has revealed ...