The battle of Thermopylae. On one side, a vast Persian army over 1,000,000 strong (according to the numbers of the time). On the other, 300 Spartans standing outside a hastily built wall. Their armor and arms are at their feet while they comb their manes of long hair and exercise–nude, so that their enemies might see all those rippling muscles they work on daily and be pierced by fear before a spear is lifted.

Inside the walls of Thermopylae are other soldiers from other states, assigned the tasks of guarding the rear and providing support as needed.

How could it be needed? No one fought like the Spartans. It was their life. Their soul. Their blood. Their law–Fight, no matter how many the enemy. Win, or die trying.

They chose their stand well, in a place where the Persians’ numbers didn’t matter because there was little room for them to move. The Spartans had the longer spears, they had the better training. They did the miraculous and held the greater army off for three bloody days (I mean that literally, not as a curse, LOL), until someone told Xerxes how to lead the Persians around the back of the mountain pass.

How in the world could anyone read about this and not side with the Spartans? Right?? I mean, they were the most heroic of heroes. They fought against impossible odds and won. Well, sure, they all died eventually, but not until the Persians snuck up behind them and took out their backup. They were just beyond reckoning. I’ve always loved the Spartans, always admired their culture and their pure prowess.

But, um . . . well, Xerxes is my hero now, so . . . huh. Guess I gotta root for the Persians in Jewel of Persia, don’t I? And, you know, understand Xerxes’ frustration with it all. It’s a challenge–I’ve been trying to write this life-altering battle for two days and can’t even get to the fighting. Probably because I haven’t hit on the right take for it.

But here’s how I reconciled my not-so-secret rooting for the Spartans in the book thus far–my heroine admires them. Much as she wants Xerxes to ultimately win, she is deep-down struck by what those 300 men dare to do. And maybe, just maybe, seeing them fight in the face of certain death will give her the inspiration she needs to stand up for her own beliefs when the battle is over.

Goooooooo, Spartans!

I remember my first few weeks at college (okay, some of it–it’s been a while, LOL). We were reading The Iliad for our seminar class. The first 6 books were assigned over the summer, so we all leisurely flipped our way through it over the course of two months, thinking, “Wow, this is gonna be great.” Then we opened our mailboxes the first day at St. John’s, got our assignments from our tutors (professors) and went, “Wait–what? You expect us to read the next 6 books in two days? While I’m memorizing the Greek alphabet? And learning all the axioms and three propositions from Euclid? And reading this Theophrastis dude for lab?” Hence began the total immersion into the Johnny life and, that first year, all things Ancient Greek.

Now that you have a glimpse of the rate at which a Freshman at St. John’s becomes a Greek-know-it-all, I’ll get to my point. =) Or closer to it anyway. See, at St. John’s one of the boo-hiss evils are outside authorities. In our classes, all the students are supposed to be on a shared level, so you’re not allowed to reference in the conversation (all classes are conversation-based) anything that hasn’t been covered at St. John’s. So that documentary you watched? Hush up about it. That thing you learned in high school? No one cares. The only facts of import are the ones in that book in front of you, and that ain’t no textbook. It’s the original (translated, usually. Not always, but usually.)

But still we whisper. Like, when reading The Iliad, a conversation out of class may have gone like this:

“Let’s all go to Troy. You can be Agamemnon, and then I’ll steal your god-stick and go get people excited so we can kick some Paris-butt.”

“Yeah, not possible. Oh wait–they finally discovered it again, right?”

“Discovered . . . again?”

“Yeah, didn’t you read about that or see it on the History Channel, back when we had TV [snickers all around–there’s no cable at St. John’s]? For the longest time they thought the whole Trojan War story was nothing but myth because they couldn’t locate any ruins of Troy. But a while back they found it, right where Homer said it should be.”

Now, I always laugh and roll my eyes when scientists and historians discover something right where it should be. Like a recent satellite study that said, “Hey, Eden probably was right here . . . look at that!” For me, it goes toward this really weird modern mindset that says, “We know all. No one before us knew anything.”

Um . . . why? It’s especially funny because 2500 years ago, the Trojan War was still ancient history, but it was known ancient history. When Xerxes was marching to Greece, they stopped at Troy, where “he listened to the story of the war there, then decided he wanted to see where Priam ruled, so the whole troop went up to the site of Ilium . . .”

But a century ago–a century ago it was fiction. Fable. Until, oh wait . . . look at that! Troy showed up!

Sorry, I just find it both baffling and amusing that we doubt so much about what people before us recorded simply because we can’t see it with our own eyes. I recognize that we sometimes need independent validation, evidence–but instead of dismissing stories we can’t totally validate, can’t we just teach our kids we haven’t found evidence of it yet rather than telling them something doesn’t exist at all?

Seriously. I hate it when facts change. Then you end up with a new generation shaking their heads at their parents going, “Come on, Mom, Pluto isn’t a planet. What are you talking about?”

I have a thousand page book I’m reading for research. I have pages and pages of notes. I have 50 half-page sheets of scenes I need to include in my novel. And suddenly (okay, not so suddenly) it hits me: there’s just too much.

Sometimes when you’re searching for one historical fact, you can’t find it to save your life. And sometimes you have so many facts, so much history around a particular event that the novelist has a whole new plight–what should be included, and what has to be shoved aside? What can get a one-line mention later, and what has to be ignore altogether?

This can be an agonizing process, especially for someone like me who genuinely loves history. Reading Herodotus’s account of the war between Persia and Greece, I find some cool little tidbit on nearly every page that I’d love to put into my book.

But unless I want that book to be 1000 pages like Herodotus’s The Histories . . . um, yeah. I gotta get choosy.

That’s what I’ve been doing this past week. I’ve been reading and checking my notes, I’ve been underlining and crossing out. I’ve been staring at the page going, “Can I work this in? Is it worth it?” and sighing a lot as I decide, “No. It has no relevance to my story.”

I know this must be done–a novelist cannot include every single historical detail. But at the same time, I feel like I’m cheating. Like if I don’t mention this particular thunderstorm that killed 300 men, I’m going to be denying them their due–or that some crusty old history professor is going to get on the news boycotting my book because I neglected this fact. (Actually, that would be some awesome press! Oh crusty professor! Come rail at me!!)

But that leaves Historical Novelist Me with another problem–making sure I don’t err on the opposite side and leave out too much. I don’t want to overwhelm my readers . . . but I also want to keep them grounded in the setting, the time, and the events. I want them to get a full dose of what was going on. What if I choose the wrong parts, leave out something vital, and my readers go away feeling like something is missing?

Thankfully I have critters to help ensure this doesn’t happen, but still. As I’m agonizing over my notes, it’s a concern. I don’t want my book to be like history–too heavy in some things and totally missing in others. I want it to be a complete story, the thing a novel can be and history never is. Here’s praying God keeps whispering in my ear on that score, eh?

In the past, I’ve done my fair share of head-shaking when TV or novels leave out details I deem crucial, but I officially get where they’re coming from. Yes, tidbits can be cool. Yes, they can be important to history. That doesn’t make them relevant.

Unless, of course, y’all would like a 1,000 page novel?? 😉

Giveaway here – Deb Raney’s Almost Forever

Giveaway of A Stray Drop of Blood – a special Mother’s Day contest at Sunnybank Meandering includes my book and many other awesome prizes. Also, there’s a really awesome interview and giveaway to correspond with the ACFW book club this month, by the book club coordinator Nora St. Laurent. Check it out at Finding Hope Through Fiction!

~*~

It finally occurred to me why reading Herodotus’s The Histories is so much more interesting than reading a history textbook from my high school days. It reads like a novel! I mean, modern writing rules would hate it, but seriously.

The thing that makes Herodotus fun to read is that he gets into the heads of the historical figures. He not only reports the actions, he tells you why they did them. He tells us who was jealous, who was arrogant, who was vindictive, who was earnest, who was noble. And when one’s reading, one totally buys it (mostly).

But as I was writing a scene yesterday, wondering why I couldn’t get past a certain part, it struck me. Herodotus, while trustworthy enough with the facts, didn’t know some things any better than I do. So I have ever right to ignore him sometimes (Duh, I know–I’m writing fiction, right?).

I’d already decided to ignore the motivations he states when they don’t suit me. There’s a rather scandalous affair he tells us about, and the only rationale given for it is “He fell in love with her. Then he fell in love with her daughter.” Um . . . that‘s boring. And waaaaaay too simple, given the “her” and the “daughter.” So Roseanna’s gonna take a few liberties. =)

Yesterday’s realization actually came when I had to ignore an underlying image. He never physically describes this one person, but the way he writes him gave me an immediate image of a sniveling little monkey of a man. As I introduced this guy, though, my fingers got a mind of their own and gave him a strong physical appearance. The sniveling became respect. The cowardice he shows later will become good common sense and a touch of divine inspiration. And suddenly I could write the scene!

It was one of those odd moments, when I realized that the very thing that makes me like a book is also the thing that means I don’t have to follow it to a T. Freeing, neh?