This first appeared in Lit Hub’s Craft of Writing newsletter—sign up here.
Take a look at these opening lines. Their source isn’t obscure, so you’ll likely recognize them right away. Yet pause to study them again and consider their effect:
“So now get up.”
Felled, dazed, mute, he lies sprawled on the cobbles of the yard. His head tilts sideways; his gaze fixes on the gate, as if someone might appear to help him rise.
A single, well-placed blow could still prove fatal.
The excerpt is drawn, of course, from the opening page of Wolf Hall, the Hilary Mantel novel that earned the Booker Prize in 2009. It’s not a radical departure for historical fiction, but it serves as an almost perfect case study for my purposes.
What exactly is the focus? In the rules I’m about to lay out, I warn against the missteps that can derail historical fiction. And Wolf Hall—from its first line to its last page—is a comprehensive demonstration of technical craft that we could all study. We’ll look at a few examples momentarily, but first a note on how I’ll proceed.
You’ll likely object, I’m sure, that literary craft is infinitely nuanced and that any rules can feel reductive or arbitrary. You may also claim that even masters bend them at times, and that they are broken by giants of the genre with impunity.
The truth about literary giants, though, is that they tend to know what they’re doing. When they break a rule, they do so with intention and careful consideration. When you break one, you’ll typically be missing the target. Clear enough?
Indeed, Susanna Clarke has ventured into similar territory, but (a) she has accomplished much more than that, and (b) you are not Susanna Clarke.
Also, one last note: in case anyone missed my punny dig, the “dating” in the title refers to the methods you can use to locate your novel in time and place. You may know some or all of these, but you should still approach them with care. Most require a light touch and a precise aim. Some, though, demand to be treated as if they had fallen from a meteorite into a pool of sizzling slime.
Okay, team, let’s have fun with this!
Rule No. 1: Tread Lightly with Period Diction
Words are the fabric of novels, and every line of prose and dialogue must wear a voice appropriate to its era. If your setting comes stocked with unmistakable idiom—think prithees, sires, and by-your-leaves—it’s tempting to lean on them heavily.
But study Mantel’s passage again. Her Tudor England is rendered with a scholar’s fluency in Early Modern English, yet the text remains readable and live. A modern novel that is roped in by stiff, pre‑Shakespearean phrasing would feel tired rather than contemporary.
Mantel instead favors a poised simplicity, choosing structures that echo the period without slipping into mimicry. She sets the tone from the outset. The boy on the ground is Thomas Cromwell, future Lord Privy Seal and the architect of England’s break with Rome. His formal outbursts will one day brim with courtly niceties and arcane ecclesiastical details. Mantel will reveal just enough of all of that when the time comes.
For now, he remains a boy, shrinking beneath a brutal father. His world had always been narrow, and now it has collapsed into a handful of stark specifics: a sharp taunt, a cobbled yard, a beating. And still, the language for such moments stays simple.
Rule No. 2: Spell Like a Normal Person
Imagine you’ve wound up in England at some point from the early Georgian era onward, or in America a bit later. You’ll discover that your principal sources include actual novels.
Suppose you embark on a thorough, perhaps even relentless, search for unmodernized editions of Defoe, Fielding, or whoever else. It’s a worthwhile linguistic exercise, if nothing else. Our current conventions of spelling, typography and quotation marks took a long time to settle into place, and watching that evolution unfold is instructive.
There are perils here, especially as you move into the nineteenth century. The era can feel familiar, and you may be tempted to regard archaisms, like Austen’s spellings, as harmless quirks. You wouldn’t be the first to do so.
But resist this path. You won’t accelerate authentic Regency vibes by writing “chuse” for “choose.” Clarke experimented with such choices, but (a) she did much more than that, and (b) you are not Clarke.
Rule No. 3: Don’t Use Your Research to Accessorize
You’re writing a historical novel, which means you’ve spent serious hours in libraries and archives. (You have, right? Because this isn’t optional.)
And having done all that digging, you may feel that none of it should stay off the page. That a single detail—say, the turning radius of Shillibeer’s Omnibus—must appear somewhere, surely. The honest answer is usually no.
You should read widely about the era and dive deeply into the particulars that arise naturally in your story. Most of that reading, however, should stay off the page or be lightly cross-hatched. When readers encounter the bits you do surface, they’ll trust their relevance if the surrounding details have earned their place.
Handle the rest of your bright baubles like you would with a mirror-trick when you’re getting ready to go out. If something catches your eye right away, take it off.
Rule No. 4: The Past Is Another Country, but Your Characters Live There
Choosing a point of view is a consequential choice for any novelist, but the stakes are higher in historical fiction. Omniscient narration has its place, as it did in centuries past, along with free-wheeling moralizing addressed to the reader. Yet mastering such obvious anachronisms demands real craft (see how Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries handles it), so consider this fair warning.
In most cases, you’ll work through either first person or a close third. That means each scene is filtered through a single character whose particular circumstances shape what is seen, heard, and felt. That person should care about and notice only a tightly limited slice of reality.
Her wardrobe? Maybe, if it matters to a plot beat and she has the means to change it. The streetscape, the storefronts, the hansom cabbies, the coal smoke, the gas lamps, the stink? Unless she’s new to the place, not unless there’s a compelling reason. Like you, she’s probably preoccupied with something, so tell us that instead, and let most of the daily world remain almost invisible. Choose with care.
Rule No. 5: Stop Worldbuilding Like It’s Westeros, Dammit
All this talk may give the wrong impression, so I’ll admit I’m a flawed human with imperfect habits. Exhibit A: I binge on lengthy video essays about fantasy fiction and its fixation on an Everlasting Medieval milieu.
I mention this because I’ve developed a hunch: the quasi-historicism of fantasy has opened a door to a related genre, seeding historical fiction with certain tendencies. Among them are long, explicit expositions justified as worldbuilding, as if a formal term somehow makes it acceptable.
There’s no excuse for wheeling in a talkative non-player character just to justify why the townsfolk act skittish. As with most technical matters, the solution should be natural and unobtrusive.
This habit tends to surface under flimsy pretexts. “We’ve all heard the tales,” someone begins, and the ensuing lore reveals an oral tradition of extraordinary efficiency. We are told of the ills wrought by this king, the usurper, the various interlopers, idolaters, fierce conquerors, and dark masses of the populace. The glories of a past age may be lamented, with the reader’s sympathy steered toward those deemed righteous or wronged.
Timespans—decades or centuries—can be covered by these sweeping, almost comprehensive surveys. Some readers may cheer such breadth, citing convenience or scope. That’s no excuse. This isn’t Elden Ring, and there isn’t a hotkey for lore. Let the world unfold as someone experiences it, or don’t reveal it at all.
Rule No. 6: Stop Set-Dressing Like It’s Downton Abbey
Again, I’m not delivering these words from a lofty perch. I still adore certain glossy triumphs of TV and film—yes, I know every number in that single Buffy musical episode—so I’m not against lush visuals. There is a place for covers with a lush neckline and typography that recalls a wedding invitation.
But if you’re already deep into this list, I’ll assume Bridgerton isn’t your model. At the serious-writing table, you don’t get to lavish your wardrobe and production design and then pretend that’s all you needed.
ornament is not forbidden, and there can be sumptuous gowns and silk hangings. The important thing is that the gaze drawn to them isn’t your own. Who is looking here, exactly?
Is the observer awed and out of place? Is someone quickly appraising craftsmanship or snubbing a social inferior? Is there a brisk act of possession while sneering at the finery?
Moments like these can appear, but only if they arise naturally from the plot. If not, save your fashion hot takes for social media about the Met Gala instead.
Rule No. 7: Your Characters Aren’t Tour Guides
Putting worldbuilding aside, beware explanations that show up at oddly convenient moments. A common technique is to assign a minor character to a protagonist’s service briefly, only to retire them once the necessary information has been delivered.
These always feel like perfunctory roles, with staff, innkeepers, drivers, porters, errand boys, or grooms pressed into service. Discontented domestics and, at times, enterprising sex workers also show up as convenient carriers of information. Anyone will do, as long as they stay long enough to speak a line, but not so long that they become burdensome.
I hear you: exposition is hard, and perfect verisimilitude isn’t achievable. We all compromise. But there’s no excuse for dragging in a talkative NPC merely to explain why the townsfolk are wary. As with most technical problems, the fix should feel natural and unobtrusive. That’s essentially the writer’s job.
Rule No. 8: Historical Fiction Is Still Contemporary Fiction
I’ve saved this final rule for a reason: it’s the one I care about most, and I intend to be entirely earnest about it. If I’ve allowed myself a bit of mischief elsewhere in this list, in this part I’m sincere.
Like any literature, historical fiction should be faithful to its subject and its readers. Yet subject and setting are not the same thing, only closely linked. We honor the underpinnings of our imagined worlds, but we do not claim to be scholars. We conjure moments, days, and lives, and truthfulness is defined by our own voice and method.
We approach the past as attentive visitors, moving with care, but we are not museum-keepers or archaeologists. We do not unearth ancient cities; we recreate them. We do not resurrect the dead, but summon living beings to take their place.
In doing so, we never conjure the same specter twice, and it’s no fault to find our own voice echoed in theirs; they wear our many skins and tremble with our many loves. We honor their imagined worlds, but we craft them for the world we live in.
_______________________________________________________
The Naming of the Birds by Paraic O’Donnell is available via Tin House.
