by marthamarks | A New Post, WRITING CHALLENGES
Published February 26, 2018
Five years after the 2009 debut of my first historical novel, Rubies of the Viper, I began work on its sequel, The Viper Amulet, which was published in 2017. When that second book’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, is finished in 2019, it will complete the sprawling first-century family saga that I call The Ruby-Viper Trilogy.
I did not set out to produce a trio of novels. The idea only entered my head after growing numbers of readers and reviewers commented that they had enjoyed Rubies of the Viper and wanted to know what happened later to its protagonists.
That suggestion was both flattering and intimidating. The learning curve for writing a sequel so many years after finishing its predecessor would be steep. Since my heroine was young, it would take two more books to do her story justice. And I realized that if the second book wasn’t at least as good as the first, and preferably better, few people would read the third. At last, fully aware of the challenges awaiting me, I decided to plunge ahead.
This post reflects my experience of writing three extensive novels in a chronological series. I hope you’ll enjoy learning a bit about the pleasures I savor and the pitfalls I try to avoid.
PLEASURES TO SAVOR
People: Reconnecting with my ongoing fictional and historical characters while also introducing new ones of both types is just plain fun.
The fictional co-protagonists in Rubies of the Viper are a nineteen-year-old Roman heiress named Theodosia Varro and her older, newly inherited Greek slave, Alexander. The tale is told exclusively through their alternating points of view. Both of them continue as major players in The Viper Amulet, where Theodosia’s point of view goes on while a younger relative’s perspective replaces Alexander’s. Theodosia’s point of view also extends through The Ruby Ring, and the other perspective moves to an even younger member of the family. It’s an unusual way to present a multi-generational story, but as I now work my way through the third book of the series, I’m happy with the way it’s turning out.
The historical male characters in Rubies of the Viper are Emperor Nero and four others—Otho, Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian—each of whom will take his turn as emperor before my trilogy ends. There’s also a real-life female, a sultry courtesan named Poppaea Sabina who keeps things hopping (and men drooling) in Nero’s palace.
Poppaea Sabina
To further complicate the plot, a new-and-intriguing historical man enters the mix in The Viper Amulet. Another equally fascinating historical woman is poised to do the same in The Ruby Ring. More pleasures lie ahead!
Places: Most of Rubies of the Viper is set in or near Rome, although three characters travel to Greece and one ventures on to gritty Antioch and its leafy suburb, Daphne, in what was then a part of Syria and these days is a part of Turkey.
In that book’s sequel, The Viper Amulet, and now the sequel’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, the novelty of introducing additional lands, cities, towns, and cultures from around the Mediterranean keeps me interested… and the reader, too, I trust. Ferreting out exactly the right physical details and atmospheric touches, which are essential to bringing today’s archaeological sites to life as the vibrant places that my characters would have experienced two thousand years ago, amuses me as much as researching a dynamic historical figure or coming up with a game-changing plot twist.
Events: Since my trilogy covers thirty tumultuous years (AD 53-83) and involves a host of ambitious real-life individuals, I take full advantage of the actual events that kept them busy. Wars. Assassinations. Conspiracies. Seductions. Skullduggery.
But what does the writer of a decades-spanning tale do in the inevitable lulls between history-making events?
One approach is to let th
e ordinary characters live their lives. This doesn’t mean, of course, that nothing happens. Conflicts still take place. Old hatreds still boil over. Men and women still make love, have babies, argue, gossip, steal, cheat, lie, bully, murder, and commit other atrocities. Invented people do just what real people have done throughout history. It’s up to me, as the author, to infuse their activities with the tension and uncertainty that keeps readers turning pages. I work hard to fill my stories with conflict and suspense, so I’m delighted that many reviewers report staying well engaged with them.
A second approach is simply to skip the slow parts. At one point in writing The Viper Amulet, there was little I could do to juice up Theodosia’s child-raising routine, which had no bearing on the plot anyway and threatened to smother it if I didn’t do something dramatic. So I planted one of those game-changing plot twists at the end of that section and then jumped seven and a half years forward into an energetic new section. The ploy works, the story moves along, and the suspense continues unabated to the end of the novel. Fun!
PITFALLS TO AVOID
Too much repetition: The writer of fictional sequels must produce notably different novels each time. While in most cases the main and supporting characters can and should continue into a second book and even a third or more, the typical reader won’t be thrilled to find all the same people with all the same quirks doing all the same things in all the same places with only minor variations throughout.
So I shake up my sequels with brash new players, even-more-epic conflicts, greater suspense, higher stakes, unique settings, and fresh plots and subplots.
Flawed assumptions: It’s never safe to assume that the reader of a sequel knows or cares that another book or several books came before it. Even a trilogy like mine, which explores a specific chronological sequence of events (as opposed to, say, one with a detective who investigates isolated, unrelated cases during a shorter time frame), may have readers starting with the second or third volume.
I believe that my novels are most enjoyable and impactful when read in order, so I titled the second one The Viper Amulet: The Sequel to Rubies of the Viper. That doesn’t guarantee that people will approach them the way I wish, although it does seem likely to increase the odds. But still, since I can’t force anyone to read them that way, I carefully buried in The Viper Amulet—and now am doing the same in The Ruby Ring—just enough brief, spaced-out, logically introduced trickles of information that will allow a late-coming reader to grasp the essentials needed from the previous book(s) without having to suffer through long, annoying info dumps. And if it’s been a while since a reader actually did read the previous book(s), he or she may appreciate those minimal reminders of what happened earlier in the series.
Unsatisfying conclusions: Since sequels follow both of my first two novels, I leave an opening at the end of each one that gives the main characters a smooth transition into the next. At the conclusion of Rubies of the Viper, they walk—literally and symbolically—through a door into the next phase of their lives. At the conclusion of The Viper Amulet, an emotional parting marks the passage. If readers want to stop at those two points, they can do so knowing that the story they’ve just finished is complete.
Personally, I dislike cliffhangers that require an additional purchase to find out what happens in a book I’ve just read. So I make sure that my novels come to their natural conclusions with all key characters accounted for and all plot and subplot issues resolved. Loose ends are always tied up unless they’re essential hooks on which the sequel hangs. And, of course, the third novel will wrap up the entire family saga with no dangling plot threads remaining at all.
That said, however, I don’t mind teasing readers with just a bit of ambiguity about the main characters’ futures, especially if a sequel is to follow. A reader’s curiosity is a writer’s best friend, after all.
Now, I’d love to hear from readers about the pleasures and pitfalls that you’ve noted in historical novels and their sequels.
by marthamarks | Language, WRITING CHALLENGES
In my first post on the subject of language (So, how would they talk?), I discussed what I consider the #1 linguistic challenge facing an author of historical fiction who attempts to bring ancient people to life while writing in modern English. I promised to post again to offer other thoughts about the choices involved.
So, okay, here goes… and please remember that I’d love to hear your opinion on this subject.
As I see it, the second most challenging linguistic decision facing a novelist who writes about the distant past is how much of the original language and how many archaic dates and place names to drop into an English book. Pile it on too heavily and the text becomes as incomprehensible as “Jabberwocky.” Include too little and some may say it lacks authentic flavor.
Consider this made-up-for-my-blog snip from a non-existent novel set in first-century Rome:
When they reached the ostium, Marcus embraced the senex, who had donned a heavy pallium in preparation for his journey in the procella.
“Vale, Pater. We’ll meet again on the Nones of Iulius, without fail. Please greet Mater warmly on my behalf and give Minor a basium for me.”
After his pater had left, Marcus crossed the atrium, taking care to avoid the overflowing impluvium, and walked into the triclinium, where his amici were assembled.
“Salve, Lucius.” He slapped the miles on the back. “How was Neapolis?”
“Unusually hot this aestas. Fortunately, I was able to spend time in Stabiae. Such a pleasant little urbs!”
Anyone who has studied Latin will find that passage a quick-and-easy read, albeit a curious one. Other readers will probably roll their eyes in disgust. Much too confusing for the average English speaker to bother deciphering.
Would it help to italicize the Latin words, as shown below?
When they reached the ostium, Marcus embraced the senex, who had donned a heavy pallium in preparation for his journey in the procella.
“Vale, Pater. We’ll meet again on the Nones of Iulius, without fail. Please greet Mater warmly on my behalf and give Minor a basium for me.”
After his pater had left, Marcus crossed the atrium, taking care to avoid the overflowing impluvium, and walked into the triclinium, where his amici were assembled.
“Salve, Lucius.” He slapped the miles on the back. “How was Neapolis?”
“Unusually hot this aestas. Fortunately, I was able to spend time in Stabiae. Such a pleasant little urbs!”
To my mind, those italics don’t help. Rather, they call attention to how many “foreign” words the reader faces… and quickly paging through an entire book filled with italicized Latin words would be a major turnoff.
In writing Rubies of the Viper, I decided on a few simple linguistic guidelines. I would:
- include Latin words that have survived intact and are easily comprehensible today, such as villa, atrium, pergola, and Saturnalia.
- include a few other Latin words that were bound to come up in my story but had no obvious translation into English, such as palla and stola (common items of women’s clothing) or quaestor and praetor (titles of specific government officials). And, of course, I would try to provide enough description and/or context at first mention for the words to make sense.
- translate into English such Latin words as these from my snip above: ostium (entry door), senex (old man), pallium (cloak), procella (storm), vale (farewell, good-bye), pater (father), nones (seventh day of the month), Iulius (July), mater (mother), minor (younger, distinguished a girl from her mother), basium (kiss), impluvium (pool), triclinium (dining room), amici (friends), salve (hello, greetings), miles (soldier), aestas (summer), and urbs (city).
- translate into English the names of months and major places, such as Rome, Naples, Greece, Athens, Corinth, Britain, and Antioch. I made an exception for small towns whose names carry special historic resonance, such as Reate, Caere, Pola, and Stabiae.
So, by my own guidelines, had the passage above occurred in Rubies of the Viper, I would have written it as follows:
When they reached the front door, Marcus embraced the old man, who had donned a heavy cloak in preparation for his journey in the storm.
“Good-bye, Father. We’ll meet again on the seventh of July, without fail. Please greet Mother warmly on my behalf and give my sister a kiss for me.”
After his father had left, Marcus crossed the atrium, taking care to avoid the overflowing pool, and walked into the dining room, where his friends were assembled.
“Hello, Lucius.” He slapped the soldier on the back. “How was Naples?”
“Unusually hot this summer. Fortunately, I was able to spend time in Stabiae. Such a pleasant town!”
Most other contemporary authors who write about ancient Rome don’t use lots of original Latin either. Some drop in tidbits, like triclinium or impluvium, for flavor. Perhaps they opt to use Pater/Mater as terms of address instead of Father/Mother, or Salve/Vale instead of Hello/Good-bye. Some may choose to use the original place names (Roma, Neapolis) instead of modern English versions (Rome, Naples). They may italicize the non-English words, or not. But it’s a safe bet that all authors of historical fiction wander through the same minefield of choices before coming up with the linguistic scheme that suits them best. There’s no right or wrong answer… just the one that fits a given work of literature.
The biggest trick, of course, is knowing when to stop. Once you start dropping in Latin words (or Ye Olde English or any other archaic language), why use one original term and not another?
That was one benefit to my decision to use modern English almost exclusively. I didn’t have to make those choices more than once.
—text copyright © Martha Marks—
by marthamarks | Language, WRITING CHALLENGES
Interesting. Enlightening. Gratifying. Perplexing. All describe readers’ online reviews… from an author’s point of view.
Sometimes, readers post gratifying comments, the kind you want to feature on your website.
Other times, readers post perplexing comments, as in the case of one reviewer of Rubies of the Viper who wrote: “Roman slaves did not use ‘ain’t’ or double negatives. That is new world slang and its use is really jarring in a novel set in ancient Rome.”
Another wrote: “Having someone in Rome say ‘ain’t’ and ‘he don’t’ puzzled me at first, then made me laugh. There HAVE to be better ways of showing class structure in Rome–where they spoke Latin–than using ungrammatical English.”
Hmmm.
Those comments raise a number of linguistic issues that I’d like to begin addressing here. Other posts on the subject of language will come later (see Avoiding Jabberwocky). I would love to hear your comments on this topic.
Let’s start with three basic assumptions:
- First-century Romans spoke Latin, not 21st-century English.
- First-century Latin would have sounded just as contemporary (perhaps even slangy) to 1st-century Roman ears as 21st-century English sounds to 21st-century British, Canadian, Australian, or American ears.
- Illiterate 1st-century slaves and freedmen would not have spoken Latin in the same way as their well-educated patrician masters.
To those assumptions, let’s add three equally basic corollaries:
- A 21st-century novelist writing about 1st-century Rome will write in a contemporary language (English, Chinese, Italian, Russian, etc). He or she will not write in Latin.
- That novelist will have important linguistic choices to make.
- Most readers will understand and accept those choices; unfortunately, some will not.
It’s worth considering how authors in previous centuries dealt with these same language issues.
Reading 19th-century novels about 1st-century Rome—great works such as The Last Days of Pompeii (1834), Ben Hur (1880), and Quo Vadis (1896)—you find characters of all classes employing Biblical- or Shakespearean-sounding constructions such as “Dost thou think ’tis time to leave?” and “Hast not thy father returned?” All three novels were hugely popular, so the linguistic choices their authors made must have sounded right to readers of the era.
Nowadays, an author who employed archaic words such as dost, hast, canst, thou, and thy would be laughed out of the bookstore. English has moved on, and so has the manner in which contemporary novelists portray the speech of ancient characters.
The question of the moment boils down to this:
How should a 21st-century author, writing a novel in modern English about 1st-century Rome, convey the speech patterns of educated patricians and illiterate slaves and freedmen?
I see a range of alternatives, each with its own downside(s).
- One could write all the dialogue in correct English and assume readers will figure out that some characters surely are speaking correct Latin and others surely are not. One might even drive home the point early in the book that “So-and-so spoke poor Latin” and say no more about it. That would be the safest approach, but to me the subsequent dialogue would lack both sparkle and verisimilitude.
- One could write all the dialogue in correct English and consistently tag each line spoken by a slave as “Stefan said in uneducated Latin” or “Lucilla asked in slangy Latin” or “Alexander remarked in proper-but-accented Latin.” In a book with several major slave characters—such as Stefan, Lucilla, and Alexander in Rubies of the Viper—tag lines of that sort would get old very fast.
- One could attempt to create a “Br’er Rabbit” or “Uncle Remus” type of slave brogue in an effort to convey the sound of illiterate Latin. A hundred years ago, that technique was acceptable, but today it would backfire in unimaginable ways. Besides, it would be nearly impossible to read… and tiring!
- One could use a few patterns of ungrammatical (but still common and comprehensible) English—“I ain’t” or “He don’t” or “Nobody said nothing”—to suggest the kind of ungrammatical (but still common and comprehensible) Latin that uneducated 1st-century slaves and freedmen must have spoken. To me, that sounded like the most reasonable approach, and it’s what I chose to do in Rubies of the Viper. The downside, of course, it that some readers will be turned off because “Roman slaves did not use ‘ain’t’ or double negatives.”
Well.
It’s true that uneducated 1st-century slaves did not literally say “I ain’t” or “He don’t,” because they were speaking Latin badly, not speaking English badly. But how else can an author who does not know Latin convey the essence of bad Latin grammar to a reader who also does not know Latin? And even if an author does know Latin, would dropping in bad Latinisms really be the best way to convey the flavor of illiterate speakers of Latin to a broad, English-speaking, modern audience?
To extend that thought… educated 1st-century Romans like Theodosia, Vespasian, Flavia, and Titus—and even educated slaves like Alexander—did not use English contractions or slang either. I guess I’m lucky that, so far, nobody has objected to contraction-filled, slangy (“Father’s so tight!”), dropped-subjects, bubbly-daughter, and generally casual-but-educated dialogue like this snip from pages 18-19 of the paperback edition of Rubies of the Viper:
“Oooooh, what wonderful goblets!” Flavia turned hers around and inspected it closely. “This is the biggest ruby I’ve ever seen, and… what an amazing design!”
“Looks like a serpent eating an apple,” Titus said.
“Is that your family crest?” Flavia asked.
“I’ve never seen it before.” Theodosia turned toward Alexander. “Are these family pieces?”
“No, mistress. My lord Gaius brought them from Rome last year.”
“Oooooh, they’re exquisite!” Flavia ran her finger around the edge of her goblet and down the raised silver face of the ruby-eating snake. “Look at this… even little rubies in the eyes. You’re lucky to have such beautiful things, Theodosia.” She made a show of pouting. “Father’s just so tight. Won’t spend money on anything. Everything we use is as dull and practical as what our slaves use.”
“Soon, my girl,” her father said, “you can squander Lucius Sergius’ money. Let’s hope he’s rich enough to buy you all the things you want.”
As I said above… I welcome your comments on this subject. Please do let me know what you think!
—text copyright © Martha Marks—
photograph copyright © Generale Lee (own work)
