How to Find Your Historical Voice: Authenticity in Writing.

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Let’s talk about finding your historical voice in writing. The past isn’t just a bunch of old facts; it’s alive, full of stories, feelings, and ways of thinking that are completely different from ours today. When I’m writing a historical story, the challenge isn’t just getting the facts right – it’s making it feel real. How do you bring those old eras to life without sounding like a dry textbook or, even worse, a cartoon? How do you give voice to characters who thought and lived so differently from us, but still make them connect with readers today?

This isn’t about making ghosts appear. It’s about really digging in, thinking hard, understanding emotions, and tirelessly working on your craft. It’s about finding that “historical voice” that feels genuine, not just for your readers, but for the very core of the time period you’re exploring. I want to break down what historical authenticity means in writing and give you some concrete ways to build a voice that goes beyond just details and taps into the soul of a particular era.

The Foundation: It’s More Than Just Dates and Names

Authenticity isn’t just a thin layer on top; it’s the very ground you stand on. If your research is shaky, your understanding is shallow, or you just carelessly slap modern ideas onto the past, your work will fall apart. Before you even think about what words to use, you need to build a rock-solid foundation.

Research as Immersion, Not Just Gathering Stuff

Most writers know you need to do historical research. The problem often lies in how that research is done. It’s not about grabbing isolated facts; it’s about building a complete picture.

Here’s what I do: Don’t just read history books about a period. Read primary sources from that period.

  • Letters and Diaries: These are like peering directly into the private lives and raw thoughts of people. A 17th-century merchant’s letter about a business deal tells you more about daily life and money worries than any analysis. A Victorian woman’s diary entry about her daily routine shows you what society expected and what personal struggles she faced.
  • Newspapers and Periodicals: Dive into the daily news, ads, opinion pieces, and serialized stories from the time. This reveals public conversations, common attitudes, fashion, entertainment, and even the way people wrote back then. How did they talk about politics? What crazy events captured their attention?
  • Legal Documents and Court Records: Wills, property deeds, marriage certificates, and trial transcripts give you a look at social structures, legal systems, and who held power. The actual language used in a 19th-century accusation, for instance, is so different from modern legal speak and offers a peek into how formal people were.
  • Travelogues and Chronicles: Accounts from travelers give you an outsider’s view, highlighting cultural norms and differences. Chronicles or official histories provide the big story, but often also show the biases and priorities of that time.
  • Art and Music: Visual arts (paintings, sculptures, architecture) show you aesthetics, social class, religious beliefs, and popular culture. Music (sheet music, popular songs) gives you a sound understanding of the era’s emotional vibe and what people enjoyed.
  • Material Culture: Understand the everyday objects. What did people wear, eat, sit on, and work with? How did technology (or the lack of it) shape their daily lives? Look up historical recipes, clothing patterns, or farming tools. Knowing a Roman soldier carried a pilum (javelin) and gladius (short sword) is one thing; understanding how they were used, their weight, and their effect on fighting changes how you portray battle scenes.

I always actively immerse myself: Don’t just read; process. I annotate my research with questions: Why did they think that way? What were the unspoken rules? What did they value? What terrified them? This active questioning stops me from just passively absorbing information and forces me to go deeper than just the surface.

Understanding the Mentality: The Alien Mindset

This is probably the hardest part of historical authenticity. People in the past didn’t think like us. Their view of the world, their values, assumptions, and emotional reactions were shaped by completely different social, religious, scientific, and political environments. Putting modern ideas onto historical characters is a fatal mistake.

Here’s what I do: I identify and challenge my own present-day biases.

  • Religion and Superstition: How did faith (or not having it) influence daily decisions, morality, and how people understood the universe? For many historical periods, religious teachings were woven into everything, not just a private belief. A medieval peasant’s understanding of illness might have involved divine punishment much more than germ theory.
  • Social Hierarchy and Status: Moving up in society was often very limited. Class, birthright, gender, and race dictated opportunities and expectations in ways that are often hard to imagine today. A servant in an 18th-century English manor would have had a fundamentally different idea of “freedom” or “ambition” than someone in the 21st century.
  • Science and Technology: The absence of modern medicine, communication, and transportation profoundly shaped life. How did people see illness, distance, or time? Before quick communication, news traveled slowly, rumors spread wildly, and being isolated was a common experience.
  • Emotional Expression and Propriety: Society’s rules dictated how emotions were shown, especially in public. Victorians might have hidden grief behind a stiff upper lip, while ancient Greeks might have expressed it through very ritualized wailing. Understanding these nuances stops me from having characters suddenly burst into anachronistic emotional outbursts.
  • Political Systems and Power: How did government work? What rights (or lack thereof) did the common person have? What was the perception of authority? A character railing against an oppressive monarchy in 17th-century France needs to understand the very real and immediate consequences of such defiance.

I try a “Mental Time Travel” Exercise: I imagine myself living in that period. What would my biggest fears be? What would bring me joy? What would I consider radical or perfectly normal? This empathetic exercise helps me truly inhabit the mindset instead of just observing it.

The Language of the Ages: Crafting Authentic Dialogue and Prose

Once I understand the world and its people, I have to give them a voice. This isn’t about using old-fashioned jargon; it’s about capturing the rhythm, vocabulary, and linguistic habits of the era without turning off my readers.

Dialogue: More Than Just “Thee” and “Thou”

The trap with historical dialogue is often overusing old-timey quirks. A sprinkle of “prithee” or “forsooth” quickly becomes silly and unconvincing. Authentic historical dialogue isn’t about just checking off a list of old words; it’s about subtle differences in how sentences are put together, what words are emphasized, and common sayings.

Here’s what I do: I listen to the language in my primary sources.

  • Vocabulary: Certain words had different meanings back then (e.g., “nice” originally meant foolish or ignorant). Some modern words simply didn’t exist. I avoid obvious anachronisms like “okay,” “cool,” or “global warming” in a medieval setting. While you won’t use every historical term, I try to weave in a select few that feel right for the period and add flavor, without overwhelming the reader. For example, a “hansom cab” in Victorian London is more authentic than a general “taxi.”
  • Sentence Structure and Rhythm: I read texts from my period aloud. Are sentences generally longer, more complex, or more formal than modern speech? Is there a different emphasis on subjects or verbs? For instance, 18th-century English prose often featured longer, more elaborate sentences than 21st-century American English.
  • Idioms and Proverbs: Every era has its unique expressions. I research common phrases, curses, blessings, and proverbs from the time. Instead of “That’s a tough break,” a Renaissance character might say, “Fortune’s wheel turns ill.”
  • Formality and Address: How did people address each other? Were titles used frequently? Was there a clear difference between formal and informal address? A servant speaking to a master, or a commoner addressing royalty, would use very specific forms of address that are vastly different from contemporary interactions.
  • Pacing and Subtlety: Historical conversations might have been slower, less direct, and more deferential depending on the social context. People might have implied more than they stated outright, or relied on shared cultural understanding.

I follow the “Just Enough” Principle: My goal isn’t a linguistic recreation of the era that needs a glossary to understand. It’s to evoke the essence of the period’s speech. I use historical language sparingly and strategically. If a word or phrase is too obscure, my reader will stumble. The ideal is to make the reader feel they are hearing genuine period speech, without consciously noticing its old-fashioned nature.

Narrative Prose: Weaving the Fabric of the Past

My descriptive prose is the backdrop, the atmosphere, the very air my characters breathe. It should reflect the historical voice just as much as dialogue.

Here’s what I do: I consider the prevailing literary styles and what people knew back then.

  • Observational Detail: What details would people notice in that era? Someone in the Middle Ages might notice the smell of unwashed bodies, the specific texture of homespun cloth, or the intricate carvings on a church door. Someone today might filter those out or perceive them differently.
  • Sensory Language: I try to engage all senses in a historically appropriate way. What did the streets smell like? What were the dominant sounds? What was the general feeling of a public market or an opulent salon? How did the food taste?
  • Figurative Language (Metaphors and Similes): These should draw from the world of my characters. A character in a pre-industrial society might compare something to the turning of a mill wheel, the strength of an ox, or the flight of a falcon, rather than a computer glitch or a traffic jam.
  • Pacing and Flow: Does my prose reflect the general pace of life or thought in the period? A slower, more contemplative era might lead to more deliberate, descriptive prose. A period of rapid change or upheaval might call for a more urgent, clipped style.
  • Narrator’s Voice: Even if I’m writing in a close third person, my narrator’s voice can subtly give the text a historical flavor. Is the narrator formal? Conversational? Does the narrator sound like a chronicler from that time, or a distant observer?

Subtlety is Key: I don’t overload descriptions with historical terminology. I integrate elements naturally. Instead of saying, “The knight put on his plate armor,” I describe the weight, the clanking, the confined feeling, giving the reader an experiential sense of the era’s material culture.

The Art of Omission: What NOT to Say

Authenticity isn’t just about what I include, but what I exclude. The modern world is full of concepts, objects, and ideas that simply didn’t exist in the past. Slipping them in, even by accident, shatters the illusion.

Avoiding Anachronisms: The Silent Killers

Anachronisms aren’t just factual errors; they’re jarring interruptions that rip the reader out of the narrative. They can be subtle and sneaky.

Here’s what I do: I try to develop an anachronism radar.

  • Conceptual Anachronisms: I avoid applying modern psychological concepts (e.g., “self-esteem,” “identity crisis” in their modern sense) or political ideologies (e.g., “human rights” as a universal concept before the Enlightenment) to characters who wouldn’t have understood them in those terms. A character might feel insecure, but not have a “self-esteem issue.”
  • Technological Anachronisms: This is the most obvious. No iPhones in ancient Rome, no internet in the 19th century. But I also consider less obvious ones: specific types of lighting, fabrics, construction techniques, or even agricultural methods that weren’t always available or common. For example, perfectly straight, evenly lit streets are unlikely in a truly medieval city.
  • Linguistic Anachronisms: As I discussed with dialogue, this goes beyond “thee” and “thou.” It’s about the underlying assumptions and common knowledge embedded in language. A character in ancient Greece wouldn’t “pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps.”
  • Cultural Anachronisms: I’m wary of modern social customs, etiquette, or common knowledge. Did people shake hands in my chosen period as universally and casually as they do today? Would they have eaten with forks in 15th-century England? Would a woman have traveled alone across a continent without significant social repercussions?

I use the “Justify It” Test: For every detail, thought, or interaction, I ask myself: Could this authentically exist/be thought/be said in this precise historical moment? If I have no concrete evidence or logical inference to support it, it probably shouldn’t be there. When in doubt, I omit or rephrase.

Embracing the Unfamiliar: The Power of Limiting Modern Knowledge

A truly authentic historical voice understands that readers of the past didn’t have Google. My characters shouldn’t, either. I let their ignorance or limited understanding of the world influence their actions and perspectives.

Here’s what I do: I internalize the era’s knowledge limitations.

  • Scientific Understanding: Characters won’t know about germs, DNA, planetary orbits (if pre-Copernicus). Diseases will be blamed on humors, curses, or god’s wrath. This ignorance isn’t a weakness; it’s a powerful tool for dramatic tension and character motivation.
  • Geography and Worldview: Before global travel and mapping, people’s understanding of the world was often limited to their direct experience or local stories. Distant lands were often mythical. News from afar was slow and unreliable.
  • Future Blindness: Characters in a historical novel can’t be aware of events that haven’t happened yet. They can’t reference future wars, inventions, or social movements. Their hopes and fears must be rooted in their present.

I show, rather than tell, ignorance: Instead of stating “they didn’t know about germs,” I show a character performing a dangerous medical procedure with bare, unwashed hands, or a mother losing child after child to preventable illnesses. This demonstrates historical reality far more powerfully than a direct statement.

The Emotional Landscape: Bridging the Empathy Gap

Authenticity goes beyond facts and language; it taps into the emotional core of my characters. While human emotions are universal (love, fear, joy, sorrow), how these emotions are triggered, perceived, expressed, and acted upon is profoundly tied to the historical context.

Empathy Without Projection: The Paradox of Historical Connection

The challenge is to make historical characters relatable without making them identical to modern people. This requires empathizing with their lived experience without putting my own values, desires, or emotional responses onto them.

Here’s what I do: I try to define the “emotional grammar” of my period.

  • Triggers and Responses: What situations would evoke strong emotions? A famine in 17th-century France would elicit a far more primal, desperate fear than a modern economic downturn. The death of a child, while always tragic, might have been a more common and therefore differently processed experience in an era of high infant mortality.
  • Expression of Emotion: How did society dictate emotions were shown? Public mourning might be ritualized. Anger might be suppressed in one context, openly violent in another. Romantic love might be expressed through sonnets and courtly gestures, rather than casual declarations.
  • Moral and Ethical Frameworks: What was considered honorable, shameful, virtuous, or sinful? These frameworks deeply influence a character’s internal emotional landscape and external behavior. A character might feel profound guilt over an act that a modern person would view as trivial, or vice-versa.
  • Hope and Despair: What were the sources of hope and despair in that era? Would a character in a plague-ridden city hope for a medical cure, or divine intervention? Would a person born into serfdom despair of their individual circumstances, or accept it as their lot in life?

I ask the “Why” Question: When a character feels an emotion, I ask why they feel it this way, given their period’s context. Why is this Roman general prideful in this specific way? Why is this Puritan woman experiencing despair in this particular form?

The Relatability Bridge: Finding Universal Threads

While recognizing historical differences is crucial, I still need my readers to connect. This is where universal human experiences come into play, but always filtered through the historical lens.

Here’s what I do: I identify core human drives and motivations, then examine how they showed up historically.

  • Love and Connection: The desire for companionship, family, and affection is timeless. But how did people find love? Was it arranged? Sought after? How was it expressed and sustained within societal constraints?
  • Survival and Security: The need for food, shelter, and safety is universal. But for many historical periods, mere survival was a daily struggle, deeply shaping character.
  • Ambition and Aspiration: People have always strived for something. What did ambition look like for a 16th-century artisan compared to a modern tech entrepreneur?
  • Loss and Grief: The pain of loss is universal. How was it processed publicly and privately? What rituals or beliefs surrounded death?
  • Justice and Injustice: The basic human craving for fairness. But what constituted “justice” or “injustice” in different legal and social systems?

Subtlety in Connection: I don’t hammer home the “they were just like us” message. I let the commonalities emerge organically from the story, subtly woven through their historically accurate thoughts and actions. A character grieving a lost child in 17th-century England will elicit empathy not because they think like a modern parent, but because the raw pain of loss transcends time, even if its expression and context differ.

Refinement and Self-Correction: Perfecting the Voice

Finding my historical voice isn’t a one-time thing; it’s an ongoing process of refining, critically assessing my work, and editing relentlessly.

The Read-Aloud Test: Tuning Your Ear

My ear is one of my most powerful tools. Reading my work aloud forces me to confront awkward phrasing, jarring anachronisms, and unnatural dialogue rhythms.

Here’s what I do: I read my entire manuscript, or significant sections, aloud.

  • I listen for stumbles: Do my sentences flow naturally? Do I find myself tripping over word choices or clumsy constructions?
  • I check dialogue authenticity: Does each character’s dialogue sound distinct and appropriate for their social standing and the period? Does it sound like real speech, even if historically inflected, or like someone trying too hard to sound old-fashioned?
  • I identify anachronisms: Often, a modern phrase or concept will jump out at me when spoken aloud, even if I missed it on the page.

I even record myself: Sometimes, hearing my own voice played back can give me even greater objectivity than just reading aloud.

Beta Readers and Sensitivity Readers: Diverse Perspectives

My own research and ear are vital, but I’m too close to the material. Others will spot things I’ve missed.

Here’s what I do: I seek out specific types of readers.

  • General Beta Readers: I look for readers who enjoy historical fiction but aren’t necessarily experts in my period. Their fresh eyes will catch anachronisms, confusing historical details, or moments where the historical voice feels jarring.
  • Historical Experts (if possible): If I know an academic or enthusiast of my specific period, I ask them to review sections for accuracy and nuance. I’m open to their critiques.
  • Cultural/Social Sensitivity Readers: If my historical narrative touches upon sensitive topics like race, gender, class, or colonialism, I consider working with sensitivity readers who can offer insights into how these portrayals might be received by specific groups, ensuring my depiction is respectful and well-researched, not reliant on stereotypes.

I provide clear instructions: I tell my beta readers specifically to look for issues with historical authenticity, anachronisms, and whether the characters feel like they truly belong in their time.

Conclusion: The Unending Journey of the Historical Voice

Finding my historical voice isn’t so much about imitating as it is about digging – digging deep into the past, unearthing its complexities, and letting its echoes resonate through my words. It demands the rigor of a scholar, the intuition of an artist, and an unrelenting commitment to understanding worlds that no longer exist.

My own voice will change with each project, each new historical period I explore. It’s a continuous process of learning, challenging assumptions, and sharpening my craft. I embrace the complexity. I relish the journey into the past. Because when I truly master my historical voice, I don’t just tell a story; I conjure an era, making the distant past feel intimately real, breathing life into the silent archives of time.