‘I went down a rabbit hole!’

It’s a common cry in historical fiction author circles, especially among writers trying to balance historical fiction research with getting words on the page. Sometimes cried in dismay about lost hours in chasing down information, and at other times, it’s a cry of delight about an afternoon lost to the magic of research. 

I personally don’t feel like research rabbit holes are a bad thing for historical fiction writers. There’s always a little piece of knowledge about the past that can be tucked away for another story or possibly woven into a work in unexpected ways. I was trudging down a rabbit hole about the First World War when I came across a reference to deserter stamps, a wonderful detail which worked its way into Undercover with the Heiress. A similar thing happened when I was researching Oxford social clubs in building out Duke Arley’s personal history for A Most Improper Duchess, and I came across a reference to the Bullingdon Dining Club. A scene immediately sprang to mind, and it forms an import part of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms. For me, a committed non-plotter (I hate the word pantser), rabbit holes are part of the creative process.

Sometimes it is important to rein in the research — especially when you’re learning how to research historical fiction without slipping into plancrastination or procrastinating through planning. There is always a danger that the research becomes a substitute for just getting on with the writing. When it seems impossible to become unstuck, it can help to know what role the history research will form in your story. Knowing the purpose of the research can help in knowing when you have what you need, when to stop, and when to keep reading, listening, or digging!

Here is how I think of historical research, how I use it, and how I make sure it is both a creative stimulus and a (mostly) controlled beast.

1.       Create a strong sense of place from overview history

This is the type of research that often provides general information about a time and place. It’s not so much about chasing down a piece of information, but about getting a sense of time and place.

This is possibly my favourite type of research. For me, it involves reading a range of history books (not only the Victorian era) that encompass different perspectives. It isn’t just about reading. It can include listening to podcasts, watching documentaries, or even YouTube videos. Museum visits also count, as do art galleries! And listening to music! To me, this is history as love—working with others, admiring the work of non-fiction writers, and celebrating the study of the times before.

2.       Craft vibrant settings

This is my weak spot—I go way into the deep end crafting settings and places for my stories. On Honeysuckle Street, I can tell you the year each building was built, the architectural style, any renovations undertaken over the years, and how well-maintained the gutters are. 

I also often link features back to character traits. Number Four Honeysuckle Street, owned by trader and businessman Albert Abberton, is built of red brick. It’s honest, earthy, elegant but not overdone—just like Albert. Whereas Number Eight has a façade treatment known as ashlar. This is where a dressing is laid over cheaper, often mismatched bricks, giving the appearance of a more expensive finish but is a much cheaper alternative. It’s a nod to the Dalton family, which is plays pretence at being from the elite, but in reality, there is a considerable strain on the family coffers.

You may also like to sketch out or find a floor-plan. I have a street plan of Honeysuckle Street, which includes not only the houses but also the doorways, crossroads, the park and pathways to the chapel.

Other details about the setting that should be grounded in historical research can include the materials roads are made of and how drainage works (if it exists at all). This information can then feed into your writing. Are your characters walking on dirt, cobblestones, or pavers? Each feels different and sounds different. These are all wonderful details to weave into your descriptions and make places come to life.

3.       Hone in on details to bring your time period to life

Is your female main character (FMC) wearing open or closed drawers? Underpants or going commando? Is her clothing held together with buttons, braces, zippers, or Velcro? Are buttons fabric-covered, shell, bone or plastic? These small details are where historical fiction comes to life. Trade catalogues, contemporary artwork, and museum collections are all rich in the information you need to help you find these details.

It’s the area where authors bemoan making errors the most. It’s so easy to miss a small something. And yes, it might feel over the top to write chaise lounge every time, but if you don’t, people will have opinions. Ask me how I know!

The important thing is not to let this type of research stop you from pushing on with the writing. If all else fails, just write ‘buttons’ and move on.

4.       Work not to strict rules, but within the realm of possibility

So, you’ve done your reading. You have an idea. Your invention dates line up. But there’s one problem: you don’t have a specific reference that supports your claim that a person did/bought/received/carried out the thing you want to include in your story. What’s a writer to do?

Welcome to the overlap between past and present, fiction and non-fiction. This is where you ask: I am not 100% sure this thing happened in the time or place that I am writing about. But is it possible that it did?

To offer an example from my own writing, I asked myself this question in writing Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms. In that book, Florence, who grew up in Australia, was in an outback town with her father when she was thrown from a horse. She was badly injured. There was no doctor in town, but a local man was a bone setter. He set her as best he could, but on the slow ride back to the city, her joints began to heal out of alignment. Once in Sydney, her parents consulted surgeons, and a ship's surgeon who had served in the Crimea and read about surgical pinning in medical journals offered to help “pin” it, using techniques that would become the basis of orthopaedic surgery.

First question: Do I have a historical example of this happening to someone in Australia? No, I do not. I have read many, many books and primary sources about Australian history, and I have never read about a person experiencing exactly what Florence went through.

Next question: Is it possible?

There are many sub-questions in here that need to be answered. Let’s break them down:

a.       Did architects in Australia travel from the city to small towns in the Victorian era? Yes, I have read many accounts and know of many buildings designed by architects who did not live in the place but were asked to travel from the capital cities (Melbourne or Sydney) to design a building. Tick.

b.       Did small towns have medical services or hospitals at this time? No, many did not. If they were lucky, a local person might have been a midwife, a bone setter (an occupation popular in Scotland) or a chemist. Tick.

c.       Is the ride in a sulkie long enough to allow bones to heal wrong? This is Australia, where ‘down the road’ could be ten minutes or three hours by car. This journey could easily have taken a week or two. Tick.

d.       Did surgeons from the Crimean War make their way to Australia? Most definitely. The nature of shipping routes, army transports, government correspondence, and the business of empire meant that someone who had been anywhere wound up in Australia at some point. Tick.

e.       Would that surgeon have experience in pinning fractures? Unlikely, but it is possible he would have read about the practice in a medical journal. The nature (and arrogance) of the profession at the time also meant that patients were completely at the whim of the medical profession. Tick and tick.

This is a great example of how historical accuracy in fiction often means working within the realm of possibility rather than documented fact.

It is also worth noting that originally I had thought that Florence might have had polio as a child. Why didn’t I use this as her background? While polio was diagnosed and a problem in the United States and England in the late nineteenth century, it was not an identifiable disease in Australia until 1911. It is not within the realm of possibility that Florence had polio, therefore, I worked on a different history for her.

5.       Beware the Tiffany Problem

You wouldn’t name your Regency, or Victorian, or Tudor character Tiffany, right? Because Tiffany is a modern name. It would be ahistorical to call a character Tiffany. Maybe from the 1950s on, but not before.

What would you say if I told you that Tiffany is actually a medieval name? It comes from the Greek Theophania and was recorded from the twelfth century.

The Tiffany Problem is one of the most frustrating historical fiction research problems writers encounter. When we talk about the Tiffany Problem, we are talking about the challenge of incorporating things that are perceived as modern, but are actually very old, into our writing. Things like automatons, money, language, and names that sound contemporary but are historical. BUT if you include them, there is a very good chance you may get a review that says your research is wrong and your book is not historically accurate.

What to do?

There is no clear answer. I would say, check in with beta readers, ask your non-history-nerd friends for their opinion, check your references, and write good author notes. In my experience, most readers are kind, and if you explain your research in the author notes, they will understand. Many go off on their own research quests, which I think is the best thing ever! And the person who writes a bad review based on inaccurate history without checking their own references first was probably always going to write a bad review.

To which I say, screw ‘em.

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