How to Master Revision: Polishing Your Historical Prose.

The first draft of a historical novel is like an archaeological dig to me. I mean, the raw materials are there, the foundational story is probably buried somewhere in there. But honestly, a novel, especially one diving deep into the intricate tapestry of the past, it just isn’t truly found until it’s meticulously polished.

And let me tell you, this isn’t just about catching typos. No, it’s about chiseling away all the unnecessary stuff, strengthening what’s weak, and really illuminating those hidden gems of your narrative until your historical prose just gleams with authenticity and emotional resonance. For me, mastering revision transforms a promising manuscript into a compelling, unforgettable journey through time.

Now, I think a common misconception out there is that revision is just one single, monolithic act. But truly, it’s a multifaceted process. I see it as a series of increasingly granular lenses through which I examine my work. Each pass has its own distinct purpose, and they all build upon each other until my historical world, its characters, and their conflicts are vibrant, vivid, and historically sound.

This guide is going to walk you through a definitive, actionable framework for mastering this crucial stage of your writing process. It’s going to equip you with the tools to elevate your historical prose from good to utterly captivating.

My Macro View: Shaping the Narrative Arc and Historical Fidelity

Before I even think about diving into sentence-level tweaks, I always step back. Like, way back. My initial revisions always focus on the structural integrity of my historical narrative and how well it adheres to the period I’m depicting. This is where I make sure my story works as a compelling whole and that I’m not inadvertently telling an anachronistic tale.

I. My Chronological Compass: Plot, Pacing, and Historical Accuracy

My historical novel isn’t just a collection of events to me; it’s a carefully constructed journey. Does that journey unfold organically? Does it truly respect the timeline of my chosen era?

• Mapping the Narrative Arc: Here’s what I do: I print out my manuscript. Then I grab a pack of colored highlighters. Each color represents a different plotline or character arc. I literally physically trace each highlighter through my manuscript.
  • Example Action: If my protagonist, say, a Roman centurion in 63 BC, embarks on a quest, I highlight every scene directly related to that quest in blue. Now, I look at that blue trail. Are there long stretches where the quest just disappears? Does it resurface abruptly without adequate build-up? Do crucial turning points feel rushed or underdeveloped? This macroscopic view really reveals structural gaps and pacing issues. Maybe a pivotal skirmish in Gaul feels like it comes out of nowhere, completely lacking the tension-building scenes that should precede it. My revision here might involve adding a scene where scouts report enemy movements, or where the centurion grapples with the morality of impending battle.
• Pacing with Purpose: I spend a lot of time identifying my “beats.” Are my high-tension scenes (battles, political confrontations, escapes) balanced with moments of reflection, character development, or period detail?
  • Example Action: If my 19th-century abolitionist novel feels relentlessly grim, perhaps a scene of quiet solidarity among the Underground Railroad conductors, sharing a simple meal and finding solace in their shared purpose, could provide a necessary emotional respite. Conversely, if my Regency romance meanders through too many tea parties, I identify where exposition or internal monologue could be condensed, or where a conflict could be introduced earlier to quicken the pace. Every beat, to me, should serve a purpose in driving the narrative forward or deepening character/setting.
• Historical Timeline Scrutiny: I cross-reference every significant event, invention, and social custom against my research. I literally think like a historical detective here.
  • Example Action: I once wrote a scene where a medieval peasant in 1250 discusses a new printing press. A quick check revealed the movable type printing press wasn’t invented until the 15th century. That instantly necessitated a complete rewrite of that interaction or the introduction of a different technological advancement appropriate to the era. Did I mention a specific type of fabric or weapon? I verify its existence and commonality during my chosen timeframe. For instance, muskets weren’t widely used in European warfare until the 16th century. I absolutely cannot introduce them in a 13th-century battle.

II. My Character Resonance: Authenticity and Motivation in Time

My characters are my readers’ guides through history. They absolutely must feel authentic not just as people, but as people of their time.

• Motivation and Worldview: Do my characters’ desires, fears, and decisions truly align with the social norms, beliefs, and limitations of their historical period?
  • Example Action: A Victorian-era woman pursuing a career as a doctor is plausible, but her internal struggles, external societal pressures, and the specifics of obtaining such an education would be vastly different from a modern woman’s. My revision should deepen her motivations, perhaps showing her defiance of family expectations, her quiet study of medical texts in secret, or her reliance on male allies who are ahead of their time. Conversely, a modern sensibility – say, a Roman slave expressing a strong desire for personal liberty and equality in a way that’s overtly anachronistic – needs to be recalibrated. Their desire for freedom would be expressed through the lens of their time, perhaps subtly, or through rebellion framed within the social structures of the period, not with a modern human rights discourse.
• Dialogue as a Time Capsule: Does my dialogue reflect the cadence, vocabulary, and formality of the era without being impenetrable or campy?
  • Example Action: If my 18th-century characters are speaking with modern slang or overly casual contractions, I flag those instances. “Hey, what’s up, Lord Sterling?” would instantly yank a reader out of the narrative. I aim for a balance. I never fall into the trap of using only period-accurate archaic terms, which can be clunky. Instead, I focus on sentence structure, formality, and word choice. “Good morrow, Your Grace. Might I inquire as to the nature of your visit?” feels far more appropriate for an 18th-century noble than a contemporary greeting. I always read period letters, plays, and memoirs to really get a feel for the rhythm of speech.

III. My World-Building Credibility: Immersing Without Overwhelming

My historical setting isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a living, breathing entity that shapes my characters’ lives.

• Sensory Immersion, Not Lectures: Am I engaging all five senses to bring the period to life, or am I just delivering infodumps disguised as description?
  • Example Action: Instead of writing, “The bustling marketplace in medieval London was dirty and chaotic,” I revise to show it: “The stench of unwashed bodies mingled with the sweet rot of discarded fruit and the acrid smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. A dog, skeletal and mangy, snaked between legs caked with river mud, its whine swallowed by the hawkers’ cries and the clatter of carts over cobblestones.” The latter paints a vivid, immersive picture without resorting to direct statement. I always check for moments where I tell the reader historical information they could deduce through carefully crafted sensory details.
• The Unseen World: Politics, Religion, and Philosophy: Have I subtly woven in the prevailing political climate, religious beliefs, and philosophical undercurrents of the age? These don’t need to be explained; they should simply be.
  • Example Action: In a novel set during the English Civil War, a character’s casual reference to “Popish plots” or “the King’s divine right” embeds the political and religious tensions of the era without a lengthy exposition. A character in ancient Greece might offer a sacrifice to a specific deity before a journey, illustrating their polytheistic worldview. I look for opportunities to show, rather than tell, the deep-seated beliefs and societal structures that define the period.

My Meso View: Scene-Level Polish and Narrative Drive

Once the grand architecture of my novel is sound, it’s time for me to zoom in on individual scenes. This is where I ensure each moment contributes to the narrative, escalating tension, deepening character, or advancing the plot.

IV. My Scene Vitality: Purpose and Pacing within Chapters

Every single scene, to me, must justify its existence. Is it moving the story forward, revealing critical information, or developing character in a meaningful way?

• Scene Purpose Audit: For every single scene, I ask: “What must happen in this scene? What new information is revealed? What decision is made? What conflict is introduced or resolved? How does it change the characters or the situation?”
  • Example Action: I once had a scene where two characters were simply “having tea” in Victorian London. If the entire scene is just pleasantries and does not reveal character conflict, advance a subplot, or impart crucial historical detail relevant to the plot, I consider cutting it or integrating its essential elements into another, more purposeful scene. Perhaps the tea-drinking serves as a subtle power play between the characters, demonstrating social hierarchy. Or maybe, during the tea, a critical piece of gossip is exchanged that will impact the protagonist’s future. If not, it’s dead weight.
• Conflict and Stakes: Is there inherent conflict within each scene, no matter how subtle? Are the stakes clear for the characters?
  • Example Action: In a scene where a medieval knight is simply riding to battle, I inject internal or external conflict. Perhaps his horse is lame, making him late, or he is grappling with the moral implications of the coming slaughter. The stakes are his life, but what about his soul, or his reputation? Instead of saying “he was worried,” I show his hands trembling on the reins, his eyes scanning the horizon for enemy banners, his heart pounding.

V. My Show, Don’t Tell: Immersing Your Reader in History

This classic advice is never more crucial than in historical fiction, in my opinion. I always want to transport my reader, not lecture them.

• Action and Reaction: I always replace telling statements with actions and sensory details that convey the same information, often far more powerfully.
  • Example Action: Instead of: “She was frightened of the Gestapo,” I write: “Her breath hitched, cold and sudden, when the boots thumped in the stairwell. She pressed herself against the peeling wallpaper, the rough weave scratching her cheek, and prayed the knocking would pass her door.” This shows her fear through physical reactions and environment, truly drawing the reader into her experience.
• Subtle Exposition: I weave historical details into the narrative naturally, through character interaction, setting description, or internal thought, rather than inserting isolated paragraphs of information.
  • Example Action: Instead of: “The bubonic plague devastated Europe in the 14th century, killing millions,” I integrate it: “The cart rumbled past his window, its bells muted, a grim sign. Another family, perhaps, consumed by the ‘Great Mortality,’ their bodies heaped for the common pit. He pulled his cloak tighter, though it offered no defense against the unseen contagion that haunted every breath and every crowded street.” Here, the historical fact is presented through the character’s sensory experience and fear, grounding it in the immediate narrative.

My Micro View: Polishing the Prose to a Gleam

This is the final, painstaking stage for me, where every word, every phrase, and every sentence is scrutinized for clarity, impact, and historical authenticity. This is where my prose truly shines.

VI. My Word Choice and Period Nuance: Precision in Language

Every word matters to me. I make sure my vocabulary is not only precise but also appropriate to the historical era without being anachronistic or overly academic.

• Anachronism Eradication: This is a microscopic hunt for me. I look for modern slang, contemporary idioms, or technology-related terms that wouldn’t exist in my chosen period. Many authors stumble here.
  • Example Action: I read my manuscript backward, sentence by sentence, or even word by word. This breaks the narrative flow and makes it easier for me to spot phrases that sound jarringly modern. For instance, “He gave her the green light” (modern idiom for approval) should be replaced with “He gave her leave,” or “He granted his permission.” “He logged into the system” in a medieval setting is obviously wrong; “He recorded the transactions in the ledger” is appropriate. “Get a grip” is modern; “Compose yourself” might be more fitting for an earlier period.
• Specific and Evocative Verbs and Nouns: I always replace weak, generic words with strong, specific ones. This applies doubly to historical settings.
  • Example Action: Instead of “The man walked into the room,” I consider “The burly merchant strode into the inn,” or “The stooped mendicant shuffled into the hovel.” Each verb conveys more than just movement; it conveys character and circumstance. Instead of “She had a nice dress,” I describe the fabric, cut, and embellishments: “Her gown was of watered silk, the bodice tightly laced, its folds rustling with every delicate curtsy.” This adds historical texture and visual detail.

VII. My Sentence Craft and Pacing: The Rhythm of the Past

Just as dialogue reflects an era, so too can sentence structure for me. Varying sentence length and rhythm can truly enhance immersion and control reader emotion.

• Sentence Length Variety: A string of short, choppy sentences can make my historical prose feel simplistic. A string of overly long, convoluted sentences can confuse the reader.
  • Example Action: I identify paragraphs with repetitive sentence structures. I break up long sentences with commas, semi-colons, or by splitting them into two. Conversely, I combine shorter sentences to create a more flowing description. For a battle scene, short, punchy sentences might convey urgency and chaos: “Swords clashed. Steel rang. A cry. Another fell.” For a moment of quiet historical reflection, longer, more contemplative sentences might be appropriate: “The ancient stones of the abbey, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims’ feet, seemed to hum with the echoes of forgotten prayers and the quiet industry of generations of monks, their lives meticulously ordered by bells and by the relentless turning of the seasons.”
• Active Voice for Impact: Generally, active voice just makes for stronger, more direct prose.
  • Example Action: Instead of “Mistakes were made by the general,” I write “The general made grave mistakes.” Instead of “The battle was won by the Roman legions,” I write “The Roman legions won the battle.” Active voice often creates a more immediate and compelling narrative, which is crucial when depicting the drama of history.

VIII. My Sensory Details and Period Authenticity: Immersive Specificity

This goes beyond just avoiding anachronisms for me. It’s about building a world that feels real, lived-in, and tangible to the reader.

• Multi-Sensory Richness: I don’t just describe what characters see. What do they hear? Smell? Taste? Touch? How do their clothes feel? What is the texture of the ground beneath their feet?
  • Example Action: Instead of: “The medieval city was noisy,” I try: “The incessant clatter of cart wheels on uneven flagstones, the sharp cries of fishmongers hawking their wares, and the distant, metallic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer blended into the city’s ceaseless thrum. Above it all, the sweet, cloying scent of uncollected refuse mingled with the sharp tang of woodsmoke and damp earth.” This is far more immersive.
• Specific Period Details (Not Just Generic): I go beyond general descriptors. I use details that are particular to my chosen era. This showcases my research without being obvious.
  • Example Action: Instead of “She wiped her hands on a cloth,” I consider “She wiped her hands on her linen apron, still stained with the beetroot dye from morning.” The “linen apron” and “beetroot dye” ground the detail in a specific historical context. Instead of “He rode his horse,” perhaps “He spurred his sturdy destrier through the muddy lane,” or “He guided his agile Arabian stallion across the desert, his hand light on the reins.” The type of horse and the terrain are specific to the period and setting.

My Holistic View: The Final Polish and Self-Editing Strategies

After all those detailed passes, it’s time for me to step back again, but now with a critical eye for the overall reader experience.

IX. My Continuity Check: Ensuring Seamless Flow

Once every scene and sentence is polished, I confirm that my story flows logically and consistently.

• Fact-Checking My Own Story: Beyond historical facts, I ensure internal consistency in my plot and character details. Did a character lose an arm on page 50 but tie a shoe on page 200? Did the weather magically change between paragraphs without explanation?
  • Example Action: I create a “bible” for my novel if I haven’t already: character traits, physical descriptions, timelines of events, locations. As I read, I cross-reference. I might find that the heroine’s hair color changes in chapter 7, or that a minor character’s name is inconsistent. These small errors really disrupt immersion.
• Emotional Arc and Resolution: Does my story deliver on its emotional promise? Do character arcs feel earned and complete? Are loose ends tied up, or purposefully left open?
  • Example Action: After the main plot resolution, does the reader feel satisfied with the personal journeys of the characters? If my protagonist, a young woman in ancient Egypt, finally achieves her dream of becoming a scribe, but the emotional cost or the specific challenges she faced are not fully explored and resolved, the ending might feel hollow. I always reinforce the emotional pay-off that has been building throughout the narrative.

X. My Perspective and Voice: Maintaining Consistency and Impact

My narrative voice is the lens through which my historical world is perceived.

• Consistent Point of View: Am I maintaining a consistent POV (first, third limited, omniscient) throughout, or am I head-hopping and confusing the reader?
  • Example Action: If I’m writing in third-person limited from my protagonist’s perspective, I ensure I don’t suddenly dip into another character’s thoughts or provide information only they would know. “Marcus felt a chill as he entered the crypt. The High Priest, observing from the shadows, smiled faintly, envisioning his downfall.” If my POV is limited to Marcus, the High Priest’s internal thought (“envisioning his downfall”) should be removed or rephrased to be observed by Marcus: “The High Priest, observing from the shadows, offered a faint, unsettling smile.”
• Distinct Character Voices: Do my characters, especially in dialogue, sound unique and true to their historical standing and personality?
  • Example Action: I read my dialogue aloud, without the speaker tags. Can I tell who is speaking just by their words? A serving girl in a 16th-century court would speak differently from a nobleman or a seasoned soldier. Their vocabulary, their speech patterns, their level of deference or boldness should reflect their station and character.

XI. My Fresh Eyes and Strategic Breaks: The Power of Distance

I simply cannot effectively revise a manuscript that is too familiar. Distance is truly my best friend here.

• The Cooling-Off Period: After I complete a draft, I put it away for weeks, even a month or more. This allows me to return to it with a fresh perspective, seeing it more as a reader and less as its creator.
  • Example Action: During this time, I work on a different project, read widely, recharge creatively. When I return, I’ll spot redundancies, clichés, and plot holes I was blind to before.
• Reading Aloud and Text-to-Speech: This is an incredibly powerful self-editing tool for me. My ears will catch awkward phrasing, repetitive words, and clunky sentences that my eyes might miss.
  • Example Action: I use my computer’s text-to-speech function or simply read my entire manuscript aloud. I guarantee I’ll cringe at sentences that sounded fine on the page but are a tongue-twister when spoken. I’ll hear repetitive sentence beginnings, or notice where dialogue sounds unnatural. Often, simply reading aloud helps me identify where the “voice” of my historical period isn’t quite right.

For me, mastering revision isn’t a passive activity; it’s an active, iterative process of refinement. It demands patience, discipline, and a willingness to scrutinize every detail of my historical world, from the grand sweep of battle to the subtle scent of a medieval herb garden. By applying these definitive, actionable strategies, I know I can transform my historical prose from a strong foundation into a meticulously crafted edifice, one that utterly immerses my readers in the vibrant, complex tapestry of the past. My dedication to this rigorous polishing will be the difference between a good story and an unforgettable historical journey.