Not PC

Authors who write historical fiction struggle to strike a balance between being historically accurate and not offending modern readers. It's a veritable tightrope. Lean too far either way, and you turn part of your audience off. Not leaning at all can upset them, too.

*reader throws book against the wall* "Choose a lane!"

(kidding)

Personally, Reader-Me prefers historical novels that make me feel as if I've been dropped into another time. Character dialogue and behavior should be true to the setting year, as should the depiction of life in general. I want the main characters to be likable, which often means making them a tad progressive for their time, but I don't mind things being portrayed the way they really were.

Our country was quite patriarchal in the 19th century, and women had few rights. Marriage vows contained the word obey, and men had the legal latitude to enforce it. Prior to the 1970s, there was no such thing as rape in marriage. A man could bed his wife anytime he wished, regardless of whether he had her permission. Because of the way society was back then, some readers avoid historical novels or prefer those filled with anachronisms. 

I don't. 

While I often craft my historical heroes to be manly, unapologetic heads of their homes, I also give them a soft side. To me, the fact an 1800s hero treats his heroine well, even when - by law - he doesn't have to, makes him more likeable than his contemporary counterparts, not less.

In Precious Atonement, the second book in my Forging America series, a widower knowingly marries a rape survivor. Although he does not intend to consummate their marriage on their wedding night, they've been friends for a while, and her fearful behavior stings his pride. 

He speaks firmly to her, as a man in 1849 wouldn't think twice about doing. Some readers didn't like that.

Jacob bent forward, planting the lightest of kisses on her palm. “Goodnight.” He released her hand and turned as if to leave.

“Wh– where are you going?”  

“To sleep in the spare room”

“Why?”

He turned fully back to her then, kind resignation muting his sapphire eyes. “You can barely stand to be in the same room with me. I won’t force you to share a bed.”

She watched him walk to the door, unable to say a word, unable to decide which emotion pouring through her was stronger—relief or regret.

Rachel’s heart beat so fast, it thrummed a constant quiver in her chest. “Wait,” she called as his broad body filled the frame.

He paused and looked back at her over his shoulder.

“Don’t go.” Her nerves settled a bit. “I don’t want you to go.”

His eyes narrowed briefly, then his brow smoothed. “Very well. If that’s your choice.”

“It is.”

Her anxiety rose again as he turned around, stealing what little serenity she’d gained.

Jacob walked to the other side of the bed and sat, causing frame to creak and the mattress to sag deeply. With practiced ease, he removed his boots and began to disrobe. He stood long enough to lower his trousers and lay his clothes across the back of a nearby chair, and then he climbed into bed, wearing only his drawers. After pulling the covers up to mid chest, he rested his arms casually atop the quilt.

Rachel stood frozen, trying with all her might to force her feet to move. She’d already disappointed him once. If she could manage to lie next to him, maybe she could salvage what was left of their first night together.

Jacob looked over at her, his face calm.

Swallowing, she crossed the room and climbed in. With a small and probably unconvincing smile, she turned her back to him and pulled the covers tightly over her shoulder and under her chin.

He blew out the lamp.

Her composure finally broke. She’d thought she could do this—that her will could override her fear—but she’d hurt Jacob’s feelings and ruined their wedding night. She held her sobs inside as tears spilled from her lids and trickled sideways down her face.

“Roll over.”

She shook her head. She was ashamed enough as it was.

“Turn and face me, Rachel. I’m not a harsh man, but I’m your husband and I expect to be obeyed. The bed is shaking. You’re either cold or you’re crying. Regardless, you will accept comfort from me.”

Jacob makes up for it, though.

Reluctantly, she did as he asked, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dressing table mirror as she turned. Moonlight glimmered along the tracks her tears had made, turning them silver. She quickly swiped them away.

Jacob held out his arm in invitation. “Come. Put your head on my shoulder. I only wish to hold you close to my side. Nothing more.”

Rachel moved closer and eased herself into the crook of his arm. She stiffened when his forearm wrapped around her waist, but swallowed the urge to panic and reminded herself where she was and, more importantly, whom she was with. Warmth radiated from her husband’s skin, and her rigid posture began to ease.

“Would it be all right if I kissed the top of your head?”

“Yes.” At least she hoped so. After the way her traitorous body had spoiled things, she wasn’t sure of her reactions anymore.

Muscles bunched under her cheek as Jacob pressed his lips to her hair. She and Jacob both released a long breath as he relaxed against the pillow.

“This is how it will be between us,” he said, snugging his hold as if to punctuate his words. “This is your safe place. Whenever you wish, you can come to me like this, and I will comfort you. I won’t take your approach to mean anything more.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

She nodded.

His kindness pricked her heart, and tears threatened again. “I’m sorry I behaved the way I did.” She looked up at him tentatively. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I thought I could...” Her lip trembled. “I ruined our special night.”

“No, you didn’t.” He brushed a fresh tear from her cheek. “I’m honored that you agreed to marry me, and I’m pleased that you trust me enough to share my bed, even if only for sleep.”

In book four of this series, which releases soon, I dealt with another aspect of writing historicals - period correct language. It's not my first go 'round, of course, but I've never had to manage it to this degree before. The hero is half Native American, and the story is an enemies-to-lovers romance.

Many words that were common in the 1800s have become offensive by today's standards. When writing Battered Pride, I grappled with our PC culture vs my commitment to etymology. 

In the end, period correct language won. I'll include a content warning on the retail page to aid prospective readers, but I decided what's important is the main characters' attitudes by the denouement and the theme of the story.

What about you? Which way do you lean?

Ginger's View of Housekeeping Then and Now

As I was bemoaning the few chores I faced today, I stopped and gave myself a reality check.  I started thinking about the pioneer women in the novels I read and write, and realized how cushy my life is compared to theirs.

Take for instance making the bed.  All I have to do is spread up the sheets and comforter.  Of course, although I b*tch and groan about how my husband's wiggly foot manages to untuck everything, I gave praise that I don't have to deal with a straw mattress and flour-sack sheets and pillow cases. I didn't have to pluck a chicken or turkey to fill my pillow, nor, do I have to empty a chamber pot like those kept beneath the bed to avoid those nighttime potty calls.

 Next time you have to clean the toilet, thank God you have one. Our pioneer sisters didn't have the comfort of having an "on-suite" bedroom, so those treks to the outdoor privy, especially during the winter months, could really be the pits.

As I tossed a load of clothes in my washer and added my convenient liquid detergent and softener, I paused a moment and pictured the agony of having to visit a local stream and beat the clothing clean on a rock or, in the case of the more modern gal of the ages, lug out a washtub and scrub board and spend a few backbreaking hours laboring to refresh the family wardrobe.  Then my gaze caught sight of my dryer and I remembered back to when I first married in the early sixties.  We couldn't afford a dryer at the time, and I had to hang everything on a clothesline.  OMG, I hated that.  Sure, you got the benefit of a fresh air smell...when there was one, but the towels and linens were stiff and you weren't done with the hanging of the wet laundry, you had to go back and retrieve it.  Somehow, it always managed to rain while I had clothes on the line.  I was so happy to see those days pass, and I can bet the head of a pioneer woman visiting today would spin at all the modern conveniences we take for granted.

How about your vacuum cleaner?  The best a pioneer women could do was gather fresh straw and make a new broom.  They may have owned a rug or two, (handmade of course), but dirt or wood floors were the norm.  No wall-to-wall carpets for them.  Sometimes just sweeping the dirt smooth was the best a gal could do.

Can Openers?  Yeah, some of us may still use the ones you have to "manually" twist, but I've moved on to the one you set on the can and it does its magic all by itself.  Imagine using a knife blade to open a tin?  I'd probably be covered with Bandaids.  Hey, did they even have those back in the day?  I don't think so.  Torn scraps of cloth were some of the best first-aid tools available.

Stoves?  Some of the richer pioneers had them bought from the local mercantile.  They were huge and weighty pieces that took up a lot of room, but a vast improvement over bending over the hearth to stir soups and stews suspended over the fire.  With a turn of a knob, we have flames.  Even their modern stoves required wood, and that meant a lot of chopping and carrying to keep the supply plentiful.

Iced tea anyone?  How often have you sat down to enjoy a nice cool drink during the summer?  I live on iced TN sweet tea, but I'd have to learn to forgo the ice in most cases if I was a pioneer.  Since I wasn't sure how the ice was kept, I borrowed this from Wikipedia:

Ice houses are buildings used to store ice throughout the year, commonly used prior to the invention of the refrigerator. Some were underground chambers, usually man-made, close to natural sources of winter ice such as freshwater lakes, but many were buildings with various types of insulation.  During the winter, ice and snow would be taken into the ice house and packed with insulation, often straw or sawdust. It would remain frozen for many months, often until the following winter, and could be used as a source of ice during summer months.

I'm back. *smile*  You didn't even know I was gone, did you? All the thought of iced tea made me thirsty, so I took a break in blogging and went for something to drink.  As I gazed around my awesome kitchen at the automatic coffee pot, the blender, the toaster, and all the other things that have spoiled me rotten, I opened the refrigerator and noticed the bottled water inside.  Although a few pioneers enjoyed a new-fangled indoor water pump, most had to trek to the well or river for water.  Something as simple as bathing for the early 1800 dwellers, consisted of several trips and buckets full for them in order to fill perhaps the same tub they used for washing the clothes.   Boy, do we have it made or what?

The next time I start to feel sorry for myself, I'm going to pull out my history reference book and remind myself of how far we've come.  As I sit here, blogging on my computer, I wonder how a pioneer woman would react to the Internet and the extended and immediate "reach" we have today.  You know, it often took months for the Pony Express to deliver the mail.  Loved ones might not hear from their families for years.  We can reach out and touch someone in seconds.  How great is that?

Oh, and just to give you a taste of how one might incorporate some of the housekeeping chores in a book, I invite you to share this except from Prairie Peace, my debut novel.  It's listed with all my books, on my Amazon page.

Excerpt:

It was apparent why the previous occupants had left behind the odds and ends of furniture. The table and bench were made out of wood so rough, Cecile imagined picking splinters from her behind if she sat. A chair with a broken rocker rested in the corner next to the fireplace, and beside it was an old crate where a rusty lantern perched precariously, most likely to provide light for anyone brave enough to risk the broken chair.

What had she done to herself? She pictured her mother’s living room with its matching furniture and crisp pleated draperies and fought hard to hold back tears. Her mother had never really prepared Cecile for being a wife or housekeeper, requiring she only do minimal chores around the house. She surveyed the challenge set before her. This was going to be a learning experience she'd have to endure on her own. Her days of being spoiled and pampered had ended.

She took a deep breath and dug in, trying to wash away the accumulated dust and grime.
What she hated most was dealing with the various prairie creatures that thought this was
their home. “Oh dear…I hate spiders,” she proclaimed as one skittered across the floor.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from her forehead, she glanced around the room for something
to shuttle the insects outside, and spied an ancient broom in the corner by the fireplace.
Although missing most of its straw, there was still enough left to use. Looking at the dirt
and grime around her, she wondered why the broom looked so worn. How long had it been since anyone used it?

The floor had dried and warped with age, and the cracks between the planks had widened
to reveal the ground below. Cecile vigorously swept several times, trying to get some of the dirt and dust to fall through. When she finished, she wore most of it. Tossing the broom across the room in disgust, she peered at herself through the cracks in the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection staring back. Her hair hung in unruly strands around her face, and her complexion was gray from the coat of dust. She emitted a loud sigh as the looking glass revealed the sagging and dirty mattress behind her. Who or what had slept there before? Clearly, the bedding needed a thorough beating and airing out, and it was
her glorious job to do it.

The tears welled again. She prodded herself to stay busy, believing work would keep her from dwelling on her disappointment. With great effort, she dragged the mattress outside, and for some reason, every whack of the broom against the old tattered thing made her feel better.

She struggled to get it back into the house and onto the bed frame. She refused to call Walt for help because he was busy outside, cleaning the yard and hauling junk from within their poor excuse of a barn. Silly emotions and false pride were not about to get the best of her. She wanted Walt to be proud of her, and she was determined to make the best of this, even if it killed her. Besides, she was tired of sleeping on the hard ground with nothing but a thin blanket between her and the dirt. Even this ugly mattress had some degree of appeal.

As soon as they moved into the house, she’d cover it with the blankets from the bedroll and bring in the pillows still stowed in the wagon. Using the barn as shelter left her worrying the whole thing would fall down and crush them to death in their sleep. So many boards were missing from the walls, she was amazed it remained standing at all.

Note:  The piece of "mirror," hanging haphazardly and cracked, was mentioned in a previous paragraph.