The Writing Jobs

Most fiction writing has a touch or two of fact mixed in: Perhaps a real city, state, or locale is used; a real person/celebrity may be mentioned; facts about a family or from history may be woven into the work. However facts or non-fiction may become part of a work of fiction, the author must be sure his/her facts are correct.

I read a book three years ago that caused me not to want to read any more of that writer's books. She had a town in Oklahoma that was a day's wagon ride from Woodward, Oklahoma (which is almost in the Oklahoma Panhandle and maybe an hour's ride from Lawton, which is roughly in the southwest part of the state. She had Lawton almost on the Red River, which it isn't. She had the non-fiction part of the story so wrong that the whole book was ruined for me.

Any facts must be researched. The author mentioned above only had to look a map to discover how wrong she was, and she was too lazy to do so.

Use facts realistically and in a believable manner. If the plot involves the Civil War, for example, having a car, even an antique one, in the story is not realistic or believable.

Be careful if using real people. Any plot or story line that involves real people must not sully their reputations unless the information can be documented. Otherwise, an author can be sued, and probably will be.

The story I'm writing uses some of my husband's stories about being a cowboy and breaking horses. To be sure that no one living can think they are in the book, I'm setting the time of the story over forty years before my husband was born. I'm then adapting his stories to match the time frame from 1899 until about 1915 and to characters who are completely figments of my imagination.

Weaving facts, history, or other non-fiction information into a fiction work can enhance the story or plot, even the characters. Just use the information carefully.

Here's a sample of my writing a short story based on history:

Once Upon a Christmas

by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

The bitter, damp, biting cold eats its way into the bone and through. The brisk breeze off the river carries the scent of fish and ice. As we sit around in small groups, huddling together in our rags, trying to share a little warmth, we wish for a fire, a small fire, even a tiny one. My feet feel as if they belong to someone else; I wish my hands did belong to someone else. Oh, the pain of the cold as it gnaws away at our bodies this December night.

The tall man walks from group to group, not saying much, for voices carry, but a hand on a shoulder here, a clasp there gives much comfort to us. Just seeing his broad form reassures all camped beside the river. We know that he is with us. His tiredness is as much a part of him as ours is of us. The ice on his cloak glitters in the early evening light.

Time passes slowly when one aches with misery. The agony wipes out everything in my mind except this mass of anguish I call my body. Will the time never come? Is this torture worth the slim chance we have? My mind freezes with the rest of me. Oh, God, please, I don't want to die! I'm young yet. I do want to live a while longer. I wanted just a mite of adventure, not this, oh, God, not this. Suddenly I'm being shaken. A soft voice calls me.

"Boy, come walk with me. Come now, walk with me for awhile."

I open my weary eyes slowly. Leaving them shut would be so easy, so easy to blot out all this torture forever. But he insists until obeying is easier than fighting his will any longer. I pry my freezing body from the ball into which it has curled. A strong hand helps me to my feet. We walk for a short way -- rather, he walks, I hobble. He turns to me, such a look of pity in his eyes, even more than pity, a look as if he too feels the torment I do.

"Come with me. We must do something to warm you even if we dare not light a fire."

He leads me to his tent, has me lie upon his cot, and even helps remove my tattered boots. I try to protest, but he hushes me, saying if I am to do my part, I must be able to do so. He then wraps me in his own blankets. He hands me a flask and has me drink. My breath is whipped from my very throat with the strong flavor. I sputter and cough: Then a warmth spreads through me. I lie back, and my eyes grow heavy. Though 'tis not anything for a grown man of sixteen to be proud of, I feel tears on my face. How far away the world seems.

A hand shakes my shoulder. I awake with a start. I can't remember for a minute where I am. Then looking into his face, I know. I arise, force my feet into my boots, and follow him from the tent into the deep darkness of a winter night. I feel I can face whatever comes.

"It is time." The word passes around to all. Aching bodies stir. We go to the open boats at the bank. We cross the river. How much colder it is on the water!

Our leader stands in the first boat to show that he still guides us. We follow. Whatever comes, we follow. Our general gives us our chance for victory.

After teaching composition for over twenty-five years and becoming an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ a site for Poetry, Vivian Gilbert Zabel created Hidden Lies and Other Stores , Walking the Earth:, The Base Stealers Club, and Case of the Missing Coach, which can be found on Amazon.com.

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