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File under “The Relative Pleasures of Writing Historical Fiction”

The chilling moment when you realise you’ve just written a killer scene, like you’ll never be able to write again, but alas it’s set in 1936 and the events that you set up as the engine of the action only took place in 1940.




This post first appeared on Karavansara | East Of Constantinople, West Of Shan, please read the originial post: here

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File under “The Relative Pleasures of Writing Historical Fiction”

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