I had to share this post again.
I wrote if for Mary Gramlich’s blog a few days ago, but I added a bit to it.
Can I Tell You My Worst Nightmare?
As any historical romance author will tell you, we do research out our wazoos.
Historical accuracy is a must in our writing. To fail to do so is the equivalent of painting a fluorescent orange target on your back and labeling it, “Shoot here.”
No, this is not another post on historical accuracy. But, I thought I’d share a few of the more amusing experiences I’ve had. For instance, the other day, I wanted to know if a phrase I’d written about big broodmares needed to be hyphenated. I innocently typed in, “larger than average size.”
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Do not do it. You are going to, aren’t you?
Remember, I warned you.
Another time, I wanted to know how flat Scottish oatcakes were, so I did a quick search for images. A picture of a very, very large naked man sitting at a computer popped up. After recovering, from the shock, I discovered Scottish oat cakes are very flat. I may never get that man’s image out of my mind, however.
I still don’t understand the connection between that man and oatcakes either.
Then there’s the dilemma of how to describe money in my historicals which are set in the early 1800s. Blunt, full of juice, deep pockets, pockets to let, gingerbread, never a feather to fly with, and rolled-up all pertain to money.
Will the average reader know that, though?
I could just use the word money, couldn’t I?
Uh, maybe not.
According to the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, money is, “A girl’s private parts.”
That will never do, because out there in the immense universe of romance readers, someone is going to know that bit of trivia, and they’ll line their sites up on that bright target on my back and fire away.
That being said, I dear author friend of mind pointed out that the term money dates way, way back before the Regency era’s rather odd definition. So, I’ll take my chances in the future and use the word.
So, what ismy greatest nightmare?
That the fourth graders I taught the word snoodle to (the act of snuggling, like snoodling a puppy) actually went home and told their parents they learned a new word, like I told them to.
Let’s just say the 1816 meaning of snoodle, and the modern meaning are vastlydifferent.
And . . . you’re going to look that up, too.
You’ll be sorry.
What funny or awkward inaccuracies have you come across as a reader or author? I’d love to know.