I write historical novels. I admit I romanticize the past. I ignore the dreadful parts and dwell on the heroic parts.  I think I am justified in doing this because no matter what age or stage we are in there are universal things in our lives. We have to overcome challenges with the same skills and strengths. We enjoy the same pleasures and have similar dreams no matter the circumstances of setting.

For instance, last week we had a huge dump of snow. I think records were broken. We couldn’t get down the road for two days. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring.  We all took pictures and spent a lot of time looking out the window at the amount of snow.

In my mother’s photo album I find very similar pictures.

This is a record snowfall in 1951. Can’t you hear the people commenting and raving about it? Just like we did.

And snow brings out the play in childhood. Is there anything better than deep snow that is soft enough to roll into snowmen? Or banks of snow to climb, dig in and slide down?

Yes, the clothes are different, the cars and buildings obviously of another era but the smiles on the faces, the joy and amazement in the hearts is the same in the old and the new.

That’s why I can write historicals and not be deterred by the ‘reality’ of the setting or circumstances.