Once again, I’m reading a historical novel. They’re my go-to in the Libby filters when I’m searching for a new online freebie read.
My setting preference is 1800’s United States. That’s probably because of the novel series I’m writing based on the diary of my Quaker ancestors during Reconstruction. Or the fact that I taught American Lit to high school juniors for many years.
This week, while skimming through Libby, I latched onto a novel about a famous American Romantic Era writer, one who generally captured the interest of even my most disinterested students. I thought I might pick up a few interesting details of his life from the book. It was available, so I borrowed it and began swiping.
No more than a couple of chapters in, I began to feel a little unsettled. After another several chapters, I had to stop reading. I just couldn’t tolerate it anymore.
Why did I return the book in disgust?
Historical inaccuracies.
It’s true that I read all of The Underground Railroad, a ponderous story that is predicated on the fantastical notion that a real railroad line dug below the mountains of Georgia and the Carolinas offered an escape to the runaway slave protagonist. I shook my head each time a new station was mentioned, wondering how many readers would come away wondering if the Underground Railroad really was a subterranean system, as a few of my high school students believed.
When the protagonist reached South Carolina and worked as a live prop in a museum dedicated to showing the injustices of slavery, while also being housed in a dormitory where the African American residents were institutionally sterilized, I sighed and set down my Kindle in irritation. Not that this kind of thing didn’t happen later and in different settings, but because historical events were being conflated. I eventually pressed on because of the positive recommendations of my book club friends. I confess, however, that I was not impressed with the book, largely because of the many inaccuracies. To me, it read like fantasy- not my favorite sub-genre.
So yes, I have a problem with historical errors in historical fiction.
The biographical novel I recently downloaded from Libby- one from a series proclaimed as “Biographies of American Authors” and published by its author, I later discovered– was filled with a different kind of historical problem. Its premise wasn’t based on historical inaccuracies. Rather, it was filled with anachronisms, facts and diction inappropriate for its era.
I try very hard not to read critically- as if I were grading the work or offering editorial suggestions— but after twenty-five years as an English teacher, it’s hard to put aside those tendencies.
Initially, the book focused on the setting: Boston in the early 1800’s, not particularly exciting as a narrative lead, but well described, so I continued. I could picture the city and general era that eventually narrowed to a theater, where the action would begin. Within a couple of pages, the exposition shifted to a more explicitly narrative form with dialogue between a couple of characters. Unfortunately, the conversation felt off.
At first, I couldn’t put my finger on the problem, other than the tone and diction of the dialogue made me twitch. On a second read, I succumbed to my teacher-like reading mode and realized that the characters spoke in mostly three or four-word sentences, many of which were repetitive and almost comically simple.
“Oliver? What is wrong?”
“I have to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“Constable Ross is waiting for you in the lobby.”
“The constable? What does he want?”
Nevertheless, I soldiered on and skimmed over the weak dialogue. I did think a good editor should have coached the writing in the basic rule of writing fiction- show, don’t tell, but I graciously allowed that the writer was a better expository writer than a dialogue one. I pressed on.
It wasn’t long before my twitching returned, not only caused by poor diction, but by suspiciously inaccurate content.
Two of the characters “went to preschool” together? In the early 1800’s? Hmmm.
“Fast food” vendors were gathered in the town square? Come on!
They played on the “monkey bars” at school? Very unlikely.
The constant anachronisms were starting to impede my interest in the story. Were these errors intentionally used to help readers make more connections to the era? Was it like The Message, an updated version of the Bible that uses modern language and allusions to make the original text more relatable?
If so, I wasn’t buying it. Still, I continued, if for no other reason than to see how egregious the errors might be.
Soon my twitching was accented by indignant huffs. My reading became an obsessive scavenger hunt. I had to know if a term or topic was used erroneously and how accurate my hunches proved.
Two boys were being pursued by truant officers in London in the 1820’s? Was school even mandatory at that time? Nope.
One of the boys was said to be a great detective with his hunches. Were detectives around then? No, not until 1842, when the London Metropolitan Police initiated a detective division.
The boy’s family returned to the United States, where he enjoyed playing rugby at school. Rugby? Really? No way. The first rugby game in the US was in 1874.
By now, I had a Google window open as I was reading. I even had the template phrase plugged into the search bar, ready to go; “History of ______ in America.” My pleasure reading was becoming a game of instinct and verification.
“Kissy- kissy?” Ha! “Kissy” wasn’t used singley until 1873, much less in a double form.
“Lay off the joy juice?” Ridiculous. “Lay off” is traced to 1880, 60 years after the setting, and “joy juice” wasn’t coined until the 1960’s.
By now, it wasn’t merely the inaccurate use of words and phrases that jumped out. Parts of the plot were suspect.
Back in the US, the teenage boy decides to become a poet with the encouragement of his friend’s mother. They read Byron, and she teaches him about syllables so he can become a poet. Okaaay. This kid has been learning Latin since he was four (in itself borderline unbelievable), and reading Shakespeare for years, but she is just now teaching him to count syllables in a line of poetry? Unrealistic.
Two years later, she finally teaches him about iambic pentameter, the most common metrical form and said to mimic the rhythm of human speech? Absurd! The kid had been reading Shakespearean verse, which is practically ALL written in iambic pentameter, for heaven’s sake!
True, most people might not catch these specific errors, but they would flash neon to an English teacher, and probably even jump out to many high school students today.
I had to stop.
No matter how compelled I felt to learn more about this famous American writer, now everything in the book was under my scrutiny. Furthermore, my reading Flow was impeded. The novel– and the writer– had no credibility.
My takeaway? If you’re going to write a historical novel, you must get the details right. Don’t assume that things have always been the way they are today. That’s silly. And lazy writing. Too many sources exist today for even a novice writer to ignore accuracy.
I get why the writer might not do research. Historical research is a challenge! Tracking down historical details, language, customs, and daily life has been a time-grab that I’ve faced as a writer. Getting it right slows me down, and sometimes, I veer off on a trip I never intended to make. But ultimately, it’s a positive challenge, one that will pay off.
Being historically accurate makes writers credible.
And you can bet someone out there will know if a fact isn’t correct. What writer would want to be called out for too many historical errors? I want my accuracy rating to land in the high 90th percentile.
So, no more “Biographies of American Authors” books for me, no matter how they end up in my Libby list. I just can’t suspend my belief and pretend this author knows what he’s writing about.
And, you can bet this lesson means I’ll be keeping that Google window open as I write.
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