Writing Historical Fiction

I’ve been hard at work for the last year and a half on an upper MG novel set in medieval Europe. The subject is the Children’s Crusade, which is thought to have occurred during the summer of 1212 A.D. I came across a reference to it while researching the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Historians have speculated that instead of a plague epidemic or a pipe-playing rat catcher—Der Rattenfänge—leading the town’s children into a mountain cave, perhaps they all marched off to the Holy Land. I became fascinated by the idea. What an adventure that would have been for a bunch of kids! Summer of the Sword and Cross was born of that research discovery.

Little did I know at that moment that I was committing myself to hours . . . and hours . . . and hours of research—reading reference books, documents, on-line websites and so much more. For months my desk has been piled with random bits of information like “12th Century Underwear” and “Some Romani proverbs and sayings.” My file cabinet is over-flowing.

I’ve read Avi, Cushman, Fleishman, Sutcliff, Gray, Grant and others, and I’ve even watched Orlando Bloom in The Kingdom of Heaven (just last night, as a matter of fact) as he attempted to defend the city of Jerusalem from Saladin. Ask me about the Sack of Constantinople or deerhounds, the Monastery at Mount Cenis or Dreikönigsschrein. I know.

I’ve pored over maps, paintings, diagrams of castles, and costume illustrations. I’ve learned about medicinal plants, the diets of medieval peasants, Catholic saints’ days, how to construct a snare, and the sound made by an angry wild boar. (Did you know you can actually listen to such things on line?)

The daunting fact, however, is that I have barely scratched the surface. In the process of all this, I’ve learned that a writer needs to be wary about becoming so caught up in the research that nothing gets written. It’s just that I know there’s a middle school librarian out there somewhere who’s also an expert on the Middle Ages and who’s waiting to pounce on me for some historical inaccuracy!

So these days, as I fret about the care and feeding of my blog, I also worry about the care and feeding of my young characters on their journey to the Holy Land. Perhaps I’m at the point where I just need to tell my story, get them to their final destination, and then go back at a later time to power-up the authenticity factor. Any advice, fellow writers?

Day 2 of My Redemption

The other big writing event of the fall was the picture book contest I entered. It was sponsored by the Tallahassee Writers’ Association. They produce a literary magazine called the Seven Hills Review, which merged last year with Penumbra. The two magazines have been in existence fifteen and twenty-two years respectively. I wasn’t sure I was even eligible, not being from Florida, but I checked out the list of past winners and was reassured to see that residency was not a requirement.

Although they accept multiple adult genres each year—flash fiction, poetry, short stories and creative nonfiction—they also invite writers of a particular children’s genre to submit their work. This year they were looking for picture books, so I submitted three of mine—just text, no illustrations.

The first was Cub’s Lunch, a book written in terse verse and based on a news article about marauding bear cub in Lake Tahoe. It seems the cub climbed into a camper’s classic convertible and ate his smoked chicken and jalapeno pizza. No, he didn’t carjack the vehicle, but he did considerable damage to the camper’s pride and joy before wandering back into the woods.

The second entry was The Small Smudger. In this contemporary coming-of-age story, a small boy wants to help his father in the citrus groves during a winter cold snap. Tomás stows away in the back of his father’s pickup in the middle of the night, only to discover that filling and refilling the smoking smudge pots with crude oil in the freezing dark is not the adventure he’d expected. But he earns his father’s respect (and his gloves) through his diligence. Tomás also shares a special moment with his father when the man points out una uña de gato, a cat’s claw moon.



My final entry was Tap Tap Mishap, an animal tale set in Haiti. Tap taps are a Haitian art form—outrageously-painted converted buses, vans and pickups used as communal taxis. They are often dangerously overcrowded, as the one in this story is. The driver, a goat named Mr. Kabrit, is overly proud of his beautiful tap tap and succumbs to the flattery of his friends in need of rides to le marché. Crammed to the rooftop, the brakes fail, the tap tap careens out of control, and it flies off the road. But even a crash on the beach doesn’t spoil the day. Mr Kabrit’s friends come through for him, as friends do.

I am delighted to say that just before Christmas I received an email from Donna Meredith, the chairperson of the Seven Hills Review. She announced that I had been awarded first prize for Tap Tap Mishap and second prize for The Small Smudger. It has been a thrill to see my stories in print. The prize money was icing on the cake. Now if I could just find a publisher who was interested in Tap Tap, I would contribute some of the proceeds of the book to rebuilding schools in Haiti. Does anyone have a suggestion?