Thanks to my research for the upcoming Sea Beyond duology, I became aware of something called the "Alexander Romance." Like Arthuriana, this is less a text than a genre, an assortment of tales about how Alexander quested for the Water of Life, slew a dragon, journeyed to the bottom of the ocean, and so forth.

Yes, that Alexander. The Great.

How the heck did we wind up with an entire genre of stories about a Macedonian conquerer who died young that bear so little resemblance to the historical reality?

The answer is that history is much easier to forget than we think nowadays, with our easily mass-produced books. However much you want to lament "those who do not remember the past" etc., we know vastly more about it than any prior age could even aspire to. The legendary tales about Alexander arose quite soon after his death, but by the medieval period, his actual life was largely forgotten; more factual texts were not rediscovered and disseminated until the Renaissance. So for quite a while there, the legends were basically all we had.

Historians tend to not like the phrase "the Dark Ages" anymore, and for good reason. It creates assumptions about what life was like -- nasty, brutish, and short -- that turn out to not really match the reality. But while plenty of people have indeed used that term to contrast with the "light" brought by the Renaissance, one of the men responsible for popularizing it (Cardinal Cesare Baronio, in the sixteenth century) meant it as a statement on the lack of records: to him, the Middle Ages were "dark" because we could not see into them. The massive drop in surviving records had cast that era into shadow.

How do those records get lost? Year Two went into the perils that different writing materials and formats are vulnerable to; those in turn affect the preservation of historical knowledge. Papyrus texts have to be recopied regularly if they're to survive in most environments, so anything that disrupts the supply of materials or the labor available to do that recopying means that dozens, hundreds, even thousands of texts will just . . . go away. Parchment is vastly more durable, but it's also very expensive, and so it tended to get recycled: scrape off the existing text, write on it again, and unless you were lazy enough in your scraping that the old words can still be read -- think of a poorly erased blackboard or whiteboard -- later people will need chemical assistance (very destructive) or high-tech photography to see what you got rid of.

And when your supply of written texts shrinks, it tends to go hand in hand with the literacy rate dropping. So even if you have a record of some historical event, how many people have read it? Just because a thing gets preserved doesn't mean the information it contains will be widely disseminated. That is likely to be the domain of specialists -- if them! Maybe it just sits on a shelf or in a box, completely untouched.

Mind you, written records are not the only way of remembering the past. Oral accounts can be astonishingly precise, even over a period of hundreds or thousands of years! But that tends to be true mostly in societies that are wholly oral, without any tradition of books. On an individual level, we have abundant research showing that parts of the brain which don't see intensive use tend to atrophy; if you don't exercise your memory on a daily basis, you will have a poorer memory than someone who lives without writing, let alone a smartphone. On a societal level, you need training and support for the lorekeepers, so they act as a verification check on each other's accurate recitation. Without that, the stories will drift over time, much like the Alexander Romance has done.

And regardless of whether history is preserved orally or on the page, cultural factors are going to shape what history gets preserved. When the fall of the Western Roman Empire changed the landscape of European letters, the Church was left as the main champion of written records. Were they going to invest their limited time and resources into salvaging the personal letters of ordinary Greeks and Romans? Definitely not. Some plays and other literary works got recopied; others were lost forever. The same was true of histories and works of philosophy. A thousand judgment calls got made, and anything which supported the needs and values of the society of the time was more likely to make the cut, while anything deemed wrong-headed or shocking was more likely to fall by the wayside.

The result is that before the advent of the printing press -- and even for some time after it -- the average person would be astoundingly ignorant of any history outside living memory. They might know some names or events, but can they accurately link those up with dates? Their knowledge would be equivalent to my understanding of the American Civil War amounting to "there was a Great Rebellion in the days of Good President Abe, who was most treacherously murdered by . . . I dunno, somebody."

In fact, there might be several different "somebodies" depending on who's telling the tale. John Wilkes Booth might live on as a byword for an assassin -- imagine if "booth" became the general term for a murderer -- but it's equally possible that some people would tell a tale where Lincoln was murdered by an actor, others where a soldier was responsible, and did that happen at a theatre or at his house? (Booth originally planned to kidnap Lincoln from the latter; that detail might get interpolated into the memory of the assassination.) Or it gets mixed up somehow with Gettysburg, and Lincoln is shot right after giving his famous speech, because all the famous bits have been collapsed together.

Even today, there are plenty of Americans who would probably be hard-pressed to correctly name the start and end dates of our Civil War; I'm not trying to claim that the availability of historical information means we all know it in accurate detail. But at least the information is there, and characters who need to know it can find it. Furthermore, our knowledge is expanding all the time, thanks to archaeology and the recovery of forgotten or erased documents. Now and in the future, the challenge tends to lie more in the ability to sift through a mountain of data to find what you need, and in the arguments over how that data should be interpreted.

But in any story modeled on an earlier kind of society, I roll my eyes when characters are easily able to learn what happened six hundred years ago, and moreover the story they get is one hundred percent correct. That just ain't how it goes. The past is dark, and when you shine a light into its depths, you might get twelve different reflections bouncing back at you, as competing narratives each remember those events in variable ways.

For a writer, though, I don't think that's a bug. It's a feature. Let your characters struggle with this challenge! Muddy the waters with contradictory accounts! If you want your readers to know the "real" story, write that as a bonus for your website or a standalone piece of related fiction. Then you get to have your cake and eat it, too.



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/Tnyzpz)

I suppose it's fitting that a poem about language should attract some attention from translators after it wins the Hugo Award, but I didn't see it coming.

Cuentos para Algernon has published my work once before, a translation of "Waiting for Beauty" as "Esperando a que Bella . . .". A little while ago, Marcheto came back to ask if she could also translate "A War of Words" -- a query that left me staring in a bit of surprise at my computer screen, because I'd legit never thought anybody would be interested in translating my poetry. The result went live today, as "Pillaje de palabras."

Nor will that be the only one! There's also a Romanian translation in the works!

But this one is a little special, because as you may recall, I spent 2024 bludgeoning myself up to something like reading proficiency in Spanish so I could do broader research for the Sea Beyond. When Marcheto asked to translate "Waiting for Beauty," I could kinda read the result, but mostly because I already knew what it said. This time around, I was actually in a position to collaborate more actively with her: the translation is Marcheto's, but I read a draft and gave feedback, suggesting some slight alterations to bring it more in line with my original intent.

This was a fascinating process. Every translator knows there are always choices to make -- and they're not right or wrong choices, just questions of priority and style. For example: if you were to translate the title for its literal meaning, it would be "Una guerra de palabras," and that's what Marcheto originally went with. She proposed "Pillaje de palabras" as an alternative, though, because I had mentioned at the outset that I wanted to preserve the elements of alliteration within the poem if it could be done naturally in Spanish. It's a less direct translation, but one that emphasizes the poetic quality of the title.

Or take the places where languages can't quite re-create each other's effects. Marcheto originally translated "raid" as "incursión," which is of course completely reasonable. In reading the Spanish draft, though, I became aware of something I'd done entirely on reflex when writing the poem: the text leans heavily toward short, simple, Germanic-derived words, rather than Latinate ones, because the former tend to sound more direct and harsh than the latter. What do you do, though, when the language of the translation is Latinate through and through? I suggested, and Marcheto agreed with, "ataque" instead, which sounds a little sharper (and assonates with "arrebatada" to boot). The same happened with "existe una palabra" becoming "hay una palabra": she said, and I believe her, that "existe" doesn't sound at all high-flown to Spanish speakers, the way that "a word exists" sounds fancier in English than "there's a word" . . . but "hay una" flows off the tongue a little more smoothly, so that's what we went with.

All told, my suggested alterations were few and minor. (There were also a couple she stood her ground on -- which was entirely fair; she's the native speaker!) But it was a really intriguing process, the first time I've been able to meaningfully contribute to the translation of my own work. It makes you think a lot about what you did and why you did it, and if you have to choose between two different priorities, which one matters to you more.

If you read Spanish, I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts on the translation!

(I have finished a draft of The Worst Monk in Omnu, just in time to kick back for the holidays!)