A Pair Of Shoes...

There is a pair of shoes in my wardrobe that I bought on a whim. One of those moments that I got sucked into an advertiser’s con and thought to myself, “I could be THAT woman”. But of course I wasn’t and they have been resigned to the depths of my wardrobe ever since. On occasion they venture out of that dusty realm as I strut across my room, do an admiring twirl in the mirror, before tottering straight back and putting them safely into the box that is their home. Were they worth the expense? Probably not. But for those odd five minutes their vertiginous heels and colourful beading allow me to pretend to be a different woman.
     What’s any of this got to do with medieval history or fictional writing? Well when I sit to down to write I often find myself assuming a character depending on the style of the words I'm putting on paper. Just like I might assume a character according to my footwear. Comfy slippers are a bit like a character’s internal monologue, black shoes with a shiny buckle are a little like formal essays, and red stilettos are definitely perfect for murder.
     History is without doubt my first love, but there are so many different genres of historical fiction to choose from nowadays. You could go for a ‘swords and sandals’ historical adventure like this...

His blood coursed through his body, as his grip tightened on the hard unyielding metal of his broadsword. The sun glinted off the blade as it swung in a great arc at his opponent. Blood gushed from the wound he had opened and splashed bright scarlet onto his surcoat. With a roar that rumbled through his chest he viciously hacked at the men that surrounded him. His muscles burned from the constant exertion, and sweat blurred his vision, but he was driven onwards by instinct and by fear.

     Of course there is on the other end of the fictional scale the good old historical ‘bodice-ripper’ as it were...

     "You can’t go.” Her voice quivered with emotion as she looked up at him, vulnerability sketched across her features. He reached out tucking an errant curl behind her ear, before trailing a hand down her cheekbone. His dark solemn gaze swept across her face before he replied,
     "I have to.” She bit her lip and looked away from his penetrating study. His hand moved to her hip guiding her closer to the warmth of his body. Her breath jilted as their bodies collided and her eyes flew to his. “I’ll be back in the winter. The Earl wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk an attack then.” He lent forward, his lips brushing hers in a gentle caress. “Wait for me.” She sighed softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she leant forward allowing him to deepen the kiss. His hand moved to her neck, tilting her head and drawing her closer.

     Alternatively my own current favourite book of choice is the historical crime novel...

Death had certainly not come easy to him. His face was frozen in a mask of panic, eyes staring in a desperate plea for help and mouth open to emit his last struggles for breath. His nails had scoured deeply into the wood of the table as he had thrashed around in his death throes. A metal goblet lay overturned beside him, the russet colour of the wine staining the wooden surface. The stranger surveyed the scene with cold unfeeling eyes before announcing to the room in a deep accented voice,
     "It seems that this man was poisoned.”

     Where is all this going you might be asking yourself. Well it is by way of excusing myself from my current storyline and opening up the opportunity for variation and experimentation. After all writing is a bit like buying a pair of shoes. You’ve got to try different styles on before you find a comfortable fit.