Authors of fiction should wear their learning lightly, I feel. Research should subtly inform their writing, not dominate it, and the reader should never, ever feel as if they’re being lectured. After all, they picked up the book to be entertained and transported into another world, not sat down and told to pay attention, because there’s a quiz later.

It’s a widely-held view that fantasy as a genre is one in which the writer can pretty much dispense with research. It’s all made up, so as long as you make sure there are certain natural laws by which your world functions and you stick to them, you can do what you like. It’s your sandpit. You make the rules.

Except it’s not that simple. Even in fantasy, there are some elements where a little research will prevent your reader frowning and thinking “That’s not right.” I mean, they might write to you and complain.

For example, there’s likely to be horses in the book somewhere, so it pays to know the hairy end from the end with the teeth. How to get on and off. How far you can ride one in a day.

If the blokes on the horses are knights, you’d better know your hauberk from your pauldron, and where to find the vamplate (it’s the bit which guards your hand as you grip your lance, in case you didn’t know).

So I was sitting at my desk, putting the finishing touches to the second book of The Wild Hunt series, and I had a sudden thought. An epiphany, even. One of those moments of realisation which is often—nay, almost inevitably—followed by “Oh, shit.”

What I realised was that I have spent mumblety-mumble years thinking, dreaming and writing about folk for whom a sword is a part of everyday life, and I’ve never laid hands on one. Seen a few in museums and so on, but never actually wrapped my hand round a hilt.

My imagination’s done the work up to this point. I knew not to pick it up by the pointy end, for instance, and was fairly confident I could score at least 6/10 on a naming-of-the-parts pop quiz. I also knew that they don’t weigh nearly as much as people imagine, but even three pounds is going to feel like it’s ripping your arm out of its socket after half an hour’s earnest use.

What I didn’t know, and had to rely on my imagination for, was the specifics. Which muscles does it pull on as you start to tire? Where do you get the calluses, and what does it feel like in your hand when the sweat—and worse—begins to run? What does it feel like in your hand, full stop?

So I bought one. A replica of a 15th century longsword (also called a hand-and-a-half, or a bastard sword, depending on your era of origin and local preference). Not a lightweight copy of Andúril that comes with a fancy plaque to hang on the wall, but a traditionally-made, full tang, edge-ready, functional sword. And it’s sharp.

Well, I’m not going to know what a real sword feels like in my hand unless I’m holding a real sword, am I?

Apologies for the crummy pics–it’s pouring with rain and even with the lights on I can barely see what I’m doing. Click to make them bigger.

I had a crisis of confidence today.  These things happen from time to time, so I’m used to them.  Happened with the last book, and it’s a good bet that it’ll happen with the next one, too.  But it’s never pretty.

I work myself into a right old state.  I can’t seem to focus on the solution and go round and round the problem in ever decreasing circles until my ability to write anything from a shopping list upwards  just freezes.  Copious amounts of tea sometimes helps.  Copious amounts of chocolate, too–except I’m not allowed to eat that at the minute.

So there I was this lunchtime, teetering on the precipice of a full-on hissy-fit of frustration, when my Darling Beloved texts me a cheery message to see how I’m getting on.  Thirty seconds later I’m bawling my eyes out on the phone to him, snots bubbling, voice gone all high-pitched and wobbly, the works.  The last four chapters were utter crap <sniffle> they’d have to be rewritten again <sob> I’d never get this book finished in time <honk, blurt, wipe, wipe>… You get the picture.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m a different person.  I looked again at the offending four chapters and discovered that 75% of the problems were all in my head, and fixed them in less than 500 words, total.  Suddenly I’m on a roll, and everything’s clear.  Motivations are credible, bad guys are suitably chilling, and the dialogue I’d sweated over for days is clean and crisp and rapier-sharp.  All for the price of a few Kleenex.  Hurrah!

So you see, you should never underestimate the therapeutic value of a really good blub.  Sometimes it really does make you feel better.