It’s rather obvious that I love history.
It’s rather obvious that I love books.
Sometimes, these two loves blend together. I love the stories behind the history, which I suppose explains my career plan (tour guiding, not becoming a princess). Take the Futch brothers it Ginnie Wade at Gettysburg. Take the princes in the tower or Henry’s six wives (check out an amazing video on the latter here!). They have a certain indescribable appeal, in narrative form. These are the stories to which even those people who aren’t intrigued by the “boring” parts of the past can relate.
But that narrative value can be disastrous. These stories can start to become one with Uncle Tom and Huck Finn.
Sometimes, this is a bad thing. Fiction has it’s own place in history, but morphing it with fact can be dangerous. Historical fiction, despite its flaws, is one of my favorite genres.
The fantasy of it all, though, takes away from the intense reality. It makes it easy to forget that real people did these very real things. Returning to reality is essential every once and a while.
I live in one of the country’s most historic locations, where I study the events of 152 years ago. I’m guilty nonetheless of becoming blind to the truth.
It hits at the strangest times. Usually, it’s wandering the battlefields. Most recently, it was as I walked through town along the tourists.