The great thing about language is that it changes. The bad thing about language is that it changes.
Most of us hardly notice our syntax and vocabulary until someone calls attention to it. A snicker, a raised brow, or an impassioned plea can force us to consider how we say what we say. Historical fiction writers face centuries of linguistic change, so they must attempt to capture the flavor of the time without driving readers crazy with thees and forsooths. It isn’t easy because… (See opening paragraph).
While it’s fun to use the unusual idioms, syntax, and vocabulary of the time, a writer has a story to tell, and language shouldn’t get in its way. I once read a book where the writer used the medieval word for blouse, bliaut, over and over, apparently thrilled with her discovery. I quickly tired of it. Over-use of obsolete terms bothers me, so I tell my readers only once in Her Highness; First Murder that Simon calls his trousers galligascons.
While words like trencher and petard aren’t used much at all anymore and must be clarified for readers, the connotation of words still in use changes as well. In a recent blog post I referred to my main character in the Simon and Elizabeth Mysteries as a cripple, and the blogger gently took me to task for it. In 1563, Simon and everyone around him would have said he was crippled, but I got her point. You may agree or disagree, but these days it’s advisable to use that word only when speaking of debt.
Linguists call this descent into negativity lowering. Other words that have sunk in repute are slut, wench, and villain, which once referred only to social status. If I write “the slut brought their dinner,” many will imagine a certain type of woman, though the character I’m describing could be an innocent ten-year-old.
Stench began with no connotation of unpleasantness, as did stink, but I wouldn’t write, “Simon awoke to the stench of baking bread,” no matter how authentic that might be. Today we use smell in its place, though it leans toward the negative if not modified by a word like good. The same is true for odor. Apparently it’s difficult to keep olfactory terms non-stinky.
Some words started as insults but over time became more positive, which linguists call elevation. Nice meant “foolish” (In Romeo and Juliet, Benvolio says how “nice” a street brawl was). Naughty once meant “evil,” and quell meant “to kill.” Obviously modern writers can’t use those terms the way Shakespeare did. These days one can be naughty and still somewhat nice, and hopefully no one resorts to murder to quell another’s remarks.
Widening happens when a word coined to describe a single person, place, or thing generalizes to include a much larger group. Guy began as a name, but Guy Fawkes’ actions made it into a term for a despicable or stupid man. The word eventually widened to include all males and in the process lost its negative connotation. “Are you guys hungry?” isn’t insulting today, nor does it apply only to the males in the room.
Place was originally the “plaza,” or center of town, and thing comes from the Nordic governing body, the Althing. Both widened to the point they hardly have a specific meaning at all. Try defining place or thing without saying “place” or “thing”!
Narrowing is when words become more specific over time. In Chaucer’s day deer was all wild game, starve meant to die by any method, and meat was just food. (What we call meat was flesh, but don’t linger on that image.) A parson and a person were the same thing. A wife was any woman no longer a girl. It will be interesting to see what the current use of wife and husband by same-sex couples will do to those words as time goes on.
How do readers want historical writers to handle changes in language? Some want everything spelled out. I had an irritated reader gripe because she had to look up the word kirk, though the story says they “went to services at the kirk” and mentions a priest and candles. I thought context gave that one away, but apparently not.
Another reader took me to task for using dollar in Her Highness’ First Murder, and while I would never argue with someone who paid money for my book, dollar was used as a slang term for money in Elizabethan times. Another wrote to ask if I’d made a mistake, mentioning tea in Poison, Your Grace. Yes, Chinese tea came to England later, but herbal drinks are often called “teas.” While tisane might have been a better term, it would have required explanation, slowing the story for an offhand remark that meant little to the plot.
In each of these instances, editors, beta readers, and most fans got the intended meaning without trouble, yet some are bothered by terminology that’s either strange to them or contrary to their perceptions. Readers enjoy learning interesting language quirks, but not many want lessons on Indo-European linguistic derivation. Writing historical fiction becomes a balancing act between inserting authenticity and maintaining comprehensibility.
Authors of historical fiction thrive on learning about the past, but not everyone who picks up a book is an expert on the time or wants to be. Changed connotations must be made clear. Antique terms must be defined. Conversations must convey the spirit of the time without obscuring the meaning. All that must be done without obvious “as you know, Bob” pedantry. Snippets of authentic language are fun for readers, but they shouldn’t become stumbling blocks that get in the way of the story.
Peg Herring, February 26, 2018
Peg Herring is the author of the Simon & Elizabeth Mysteries, set in the Tudor Era. She also writes contemporary mysteries as well as what she calls “vintage mysteries,” books set in the 1960s. Maggie Pill is Peg’s alter ego, author of the Sleuth Sisters cozy mysteries.
