Pleasures and Pitfalls of Writing a Fictional Sequel

by | A New Post, WRITING CHALLENGES

Published February 26, 2018

Five years after the 2009 debut of my first historical novel, Rubies of the Viper, I began work on its sequel, The Viper Amulet, which was published in 2017. When that second book’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, is finished in 2019, it will complete the sprawling first-century family saga that I call The Ruby-Viper Trilogy.

I did not set out to produce a trio of novels. The idea only entered my head after growing numbers of readers and reviewers commented that they had enjoyed Rubies of the Viper and wanted to know what happened later to its protagonists.

That suggestion was both flattering and intimidating. The learning curve for writing a sequel so many years after finishing its predecessor would be steep. Since my heroine was young, it would take two more books to do her story justice. And I realized that if the second book wasn’t at least as good as the first, and preferably better, few people would read the third. At last, fully aware of the challenges awaiting me, I decided to plunge ahead.

This post reflects my experience of writing three extensive novels in a chronological series. I hope you’ll enjoy learning a bit about the pleasures I savor and the pitfalls I try to avoid.

PLEASURES TO SAVOR

People: Reconnecting with my ongoing fictional and historical characters while also introducing new ones of both types is just plain fun.

The fictional co-protagonists in Rubies of the Viper are a nineteen-year-old Roman heiress named Theodosia Varro and her older, newly inherited Greek slave, Alexander. The tale is told exclusively through their alternating points of view. Both of them continue as major players in The Viper Amulet, where Theodosia’s point of view goes on while a younger relative’s perspective replaces Alexander’s. Theodosia’s point of view also extends through The Ruby Ring, and the other perspective moves to an even younger member of the family. It’s an unusual way to present a multi-generational story, but as I now work my way through the third book of the series, I’m happy with the way it’s turning out.

The historical male characters in Rubies of the Viper are Emperor Nero and four others—Otho, Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian—each of whom will take his turn as emperor before my trilogy ends. There’s also a real-life female, a sultry courtesan named Poppaea Sabina who keeps things hopping (and men drooling) in Nero’s palace.

Poppaea Sabina

To further complicate the plot, a new-and-intriguing historical man enters the mix in The Viper Amulet. Another equally fascinating historical woman is poised to do the same in The Ruby Ring. More pleasures lie ahead!

Places: Most of Rubies of the Viper is set in or near Rome, although three characters travel to Greece and one ventures on to gritty Antioch and its leafy suburb, Daphne, in what was then a part of Syria and these days is a part of Turkey.

In that book’s sequel, The Viper Amulet, and now the sequel’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, the novelty of introducing additional lands, cities, towns, and cultures from around the Mediterranean keeps me interested… and the reader, too, I trust. Ferreting out exactly the right physical details and atmospheric touches, which are essential to bringing today’s archaeological sites to life as the vibrant places that my characters would have experienced two thousand years ago, amuses me as much as researching a dynamic historical figure or coming up with a game-changing plot twist.

Events: Since my trilogy covers thirty tumultuous years (AD 53-83) and involves a host of ambitious real-life individuals, I take full advantage of the actual events that kept them busy. Wars. Assassinations. Conspiracies. Seductions. Skullduggery.

But what does the writer of a decades-spanning tale do in the inevitable lulls between history-making events?

One approach is to let the ordinary characters live their lives. This doesn’t mean, of course, that nothing happens. Conflicts still take place. Old hatreds still boil over. Men and women still make love, have babies, argue, gossip, steal, cheat, lie, bully, murder, and commit other atrocities. Invented people do just what real people have done throughout history. It’s up to me, as the author, to infuse their activities with the tension and uncertainty that keeps readers turning pages. I work hard to fill my stories with conflict and suspense, so I’m delighted that many reviewers report staying well engaged with them.

A second approach is simply to skip the slow parts. At one point in writing The Viper Amulet, there was little I could do to juice up Theodosia’s child-raising routine, which had no bearing on the plot anyway and threatened to smother it if I didn’t do something dramatic. So I planted one of those game-changing plot twists at the end of that section and then jumped seven and a half years forward into an energetic new section. The ploy works, the story moves along, and the suspense continues unabated to the end of the novel. Fun!

PITFALLS TO AVOID

Too much repetition: The writer of fictional sequels must produce notably different novels each time. While in most cases the main and supporting characters can and should continue into a second book and even a third or more, the typical reader won’t be thrilled to find all the same people with all the same quirks doing all the same things in all the same places with only minor variations throughout.

So I shake up my sequels with brash new players, even-more-epic conflicts, greater suspense, higher stakes, unique settings, and fresh plots and subplots.

Flawed assumptions: It’s never safe to assume that the reader of a sequel knows or cares that another book or several books came before it. Even a trilogy like mine, which explores a specific chronological sequence of events (as opposed to, say, one with a detective who investigates isolated, unrelated cases during a shorter time frame), may have readers starting with the second or third volume.

I believe that my novels are most enjoyable and impactful when read in order, so I titled the second one The Viper Amulet: The Sequel to Rubies of the Viper. That doesn’t guarantee that people will approach them the way I wish, although it does seem likely to increase the odds. But still, since I can’t force anyone to read them that way, I carefully buried in The Viper Amulet—and now am doing the same in The Ruby Ring—just enough brief, spaced-out, logically introduced trickles of information that will allow a late-coming reader to grasp the essentials needed from the previous book(s) without having to suffer through long, annoying info dumps. And if it’s been a while since a reader actually did read the previous book(s), he or she may appreciate those minimal reminders of what happened earlier in the series.

Unsatisfying conclusions: Since sequels follow both of my first two novels, I leave an opening at the end of each one that gives the main characters a smooth transition into the next. At the conclusion of Rubies of the Viper, they walk—literally and symbolically—through a door into the next phase of their lives. At the conclusion of The Viper Amulet, an emotional parting marks the passage. If readers want to stop at those two points, they can do so knowing that the story they’ve just finished is complete.

Personally, I dislike cliffhangers that require an additional purchase to find out what happens in a book I’ve just read. So I make sure that my novels come to their natural conclusions with all key characters accounted for and all plot and subplot issues resolved. Loose ends are always tied up unless they’re essential hooks on which the sequel hangs. And, of course, the third novel will wrap up the entire family saga with no dangling plot threads remaining at all.

That said, however, I don’t mind teasing readers with just a bit of ambiguity about the main characters’ futures, especially if a sequel is to follow. A reader’s curiosity is a writer’s best friend, after all.

Now, I’d love to hear from readers about the pleasures and pitfalls that you’ve noted in historical novels and their sequels.

Real People in Historical Fiction

by | HISTORICAL CHARACTERS, WRITING CHALLENGES

Otho coinHistorical fiction is exciting to write because it offers opportunities to explore a different world from the one we live in. Inventing characters to fit into distant places and times is mostly fun, but mixing fictional characters with people who actually lived in another era ups the ante, not only with creative challenges but with a responsibility to abide by the historical reality.

Invented characters must be true to the times in which they are placed. A fifteenth-century damsel can’t go off to her job as a news broadcaster. But as long as we avoid anachronisms and don’t engage our characters in activities that couldn’t or wouldn’t have happened in the time and place we’re writing about, we’re free to have them say, do, and be whatever we please.

Not so when bringing real people to life in fiction. They’ve been written about already in contemporary records, history texts, or earlier works of fiction. Their existence was noted at the time they lived, with some degree of accuracy, if not always objectivity. Their lives, deeds, personalities, and manner of death (place, time, cause, etc) are often well known. We cannot tamper with those things.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t use our creative vision to flesh them out. In fact, if we choose to include them in our fiction, we must flesh them out. Cardboard characters, real or invented, are of no interest to anybody. So we pour over the history books in search of the living people we seek to portray, then exercise our best talents to make them seem as “real” as they were in life.

In Rubies of the Viper, the protagonist, Theodosia, and most of the supporting cast are invented, but six historical people also play important roles.

Four of those are future emperors at the start of the novel: Nero, Otho, Vespasian, and Vespasian’s elder son, Titus. Their lives, personalities, and characteristics are well documented in historical records. (Vespasian’s younger son, the future Emperor Domitian, appears in one of my scenes as a small child. Even though he doesn’t speak, I did my best to suggest the man he would become.)

I saw my role as recreating these future emperors as fully as possible without altering their true stories and essential natures. It was a challenge to start with the historical facts about each one and imagine how—on his rise to the pinnacle of power—he might have acted, talked, and related to Theodosia.

Nero actually was a pampered, self-indulgent prince, but he might by turns be bored, charming, treacherous, and (as emperor) merciless to Theodosia.

Otho actually was a blue-blooded patrician, but his ambition, ego, and boorish behavior might cause trouble for Theodosia.

Vespasian actually was a low-born soldier with an irreverent tongue, but he became a general, a national hero, and a well-respected emperor through organizational skills that might serve Theodosia in time of need.

Titus actually was “mankind’s darling” (according to one Roman historian), but he might seek to use Theodosia as a stepping-stone on his way to the top.

With the two real women in my novel, Poppaea and Flavia, it was great fun to be creative.

Poppaea actually did manage to marry both Otho and Nero, and her life as Nero’s empress is well documented. I was able to build her character to suit my needs, based on her historical reputation as a beautiful, manipulative, and ambitious woman.

Vespasian’s daughter plays a pivotal role in the book, but since she—the historical Flavia—was barely noticed in her time and died young, I had almost nothing to go by. So I was free to create an impish, bubbly, and clever teenager who adores her father and brother and becomes Theodosia’s best friend.

Could another author portray these six “real people” in a different way? Of course. Many already have, and many more will do so in the future. But no author can deviate from their essential natures (by turning Otho into a sweet, lovable man, for example) or the basic facts of their lives. And that remains one of an historical fiction writer’s greatest challenges: creating well-developed characters who function nicely in the context of a novel while remaining true to their historical selves.

—text copyright © Martha Marks—

The Dreadful Carcer

by | Cities, Rome

Carcer TullianusOf all the settings portrayed in Rubies of the Viper, none was more painful—and paradoxically more exciting and challenging—to envision than the Carcer Tullianus, Rome’s notorious underground death chamber. I can’t be specific about the scenes set there, because that would reveal key elements of the plot, but the place is fascinating enough on its own to be worth a post.

Located in a swampy area near the River Tiber, a spot ultimately drained by the Cloaca Maxima (great sewer) to become the Roman Forum, the two-level Carcer Tullianus was begun by Ancus Marcius, the fourth king of Rome (reigned 640-616 BC), and expanded by Servius Tullius, the sixth king (reigned 578-535 BC). Marcius built the upper chamber (the carcer) as a holding pen for state prisoners. Tullius added the lower portion (the tullianum), where prisoners were either killed outright or buried alive and left to die. Bodies of those unfortunates were usually dumped into the Cloaca.

The Carcer (pronounced kar-ker, the root of the English incarcerate) wasn’t built for long-term confinement, much less as a “penitentiary” per our modern thinking. Roman kings and emperors didn’t grant common criminals or political enemies the luxury of contemplating their sins and reforming their ways. Rather, political foes were unceremoniously stabbed or poisoned, either in public or in their homes. Mere criminals were dispatched in the arena, which served the dual purpose of ridding society of undesirables and providing public amusement.

The Carcer Tullianus was a combination holding pen and human disposal system, but seldom were both uses applied to the same individual. Captured enemies or rebel chieftains were kept there for a limited time until their day came to be paraded through the streets and strangled as part of the festivities associated with some victorious general’s “triumph.” Slaves whose testimony was required by the Roman system of justice were routinely tortured in the Carcer; many undoubtedly made their exit via the vile waters of the Cloaca Maxima. And anybody the emperor wanted to see disappear without a trace could do so in the infamous lower level of the Carcer Tullianus.

Legend says the Emperor Nero ordered Saint Peter held in the Carcer before sending him on to execution in the arena. There’s a church atop the site now, and modern-day visitors see a highly Christianized restoration of the prison (see the cutaway illustration above). But long before the rise of Christianity, the Carcer Tullianus occupied a gruesome, greatly feared role in Roman society.

In Chapter 15 of Rubies of the Viper, during a visit to Rome in A.D. 53, Theodosia’s slaves discuss the place:

“What’s that?” Stefan pointed to an oddly shaped building on the north side of the Forum.
“The Carcer Tullianus,” said Alexander.
“The famous prison? So small?”
“It’s mostly underground.”
“They say you go in alive through a hole in the floor,” Lucilla said, “and come out dead in the sewer below.”
“What happens in the meantime is anybody’s guess,” added Marcipor. “But if they want to keep you alive for a while, they stick you in some underground cave where the Cloaca Maxima enters the Tiber.”
Alexander chuckled without mirth.
“And then they allow you the luxury of dying of fever and starvation, instead of torturing you to death.”
“A place to stay away from,” Lucilla whispered. “They say it’s easy enough to wind up there without trying.”

—text copyright © Martha Marks—

Daphne, Sumptuous Suburb

by | Antioch, Syria

The hamlet of Daphne was the place to live for wealthy Romans posted to Antioch, Syria, a far corner of their empire in the first century A.D.

A lovely place by all reports, Daphne boasted a heavily forested mountain setting, rippling streams, lush gardens, luxurious villas, a centuries-old Temple of Apollo, and a fine view of the Orontes Valley.

It was quite a logical—albeit ironical—thing for the Greeks to name the site of this temple “Daphne,” given that their mythology has the god Apollo chase the chaste virgin Daphne with lewd, lascivious intentions. She escaped by turning herself into a laurel tree, which forever after would be associated with Apollo.

I could find no first-century image of Daphne to work with, only the sixteenth-century rendition shown here, which was created by a Flemish cartographer, Abraham Ortelius, 15 centuries after the Romans took it as their residential paradise in Syria. While the buildings that Ortelius portrayed are not Roman or Greek, the rustic setting makes it plain what attracted the Roman masters of the world to this particular spot.

Even with little more than this anachronistic image to wrap my imagination around, I enjoyed setting a small but important part of Rubies of the Viper in Daphne. (Note: I’m hiding the identity of the character here, so as not to create a spoiler.)

It was to pray, too, that he walked once a week up to woodsy Daphne, to the temple of Apollo, Greek god of music, medicine, and prophecy. “Better be a worm and feed on the mulberries of Daphne than a king’s guest,” the locals said. [He] quickly decided they were right.

The temple—with its sacred cypress grove and the ever-flowing springs channeled around it—was a reminder that Antioch owed its founding to Seleucus, the restless Greek who had conquered Syria four hundred years before the Romans arrived.

Going “up to Daphne” was a trek on foot, but he refused to waste precious coins renting a horse from Levi. That would be too dangerous, anyway. Galloping up the mountain was for Romans; the lords of the earth ignored the trudging pedestrians, who were mostly slaves.

Besides, the walk was pleasant. Antioch sprawled along the valley like an old dog in the sun. The Orontes bent at the marketplace and split—like a sinuous dancer’s upraised arms around her head—to form an island. The wharves jutted into the river like fingers against glass. The walls and bridges and buildings constructed by Seleucus, Herod, and Tiberius gleamed… polished by the years. The governor’s gray palace lorded it over the city.

A fine metaphor for Rome’s view of the world.

It was especially fun to envision the experience of visiting a classic Greek Temple.

Behind the bloody sacrificial altar, a fire crackled in a gigantic golden urn, wafting its plume of smoke to the peak of the rotunda and filling the vast space with the aroma of roasting goat. Having brought nothing to sacrifice, [he] deposited a silver coin in the altar box and turned his attention to the temple’s divine resident… a massive figure standing directly under the gilded dome.

Apollo’s arms, legs, and head were brown-veined marble. Amethyst eyes stared out under a laurel crown of gleaming gold. His wooden torso was draped with a silver fabric that glinted in the sunlight reflected off the marble floor. In one hand, Apollo held a golden lyre. His mouth was open. Clearly, he was singing.

This fine temple was destroyed by fire in A.D. 362.

—text copyright © Martha Marks—

Antioch-near-Daphne

by | Antioch, Cities

Two chapters out of thirty in Rubies of the Viper take place in the city of Antioch, which—as part of Syria (in Asia Minor) in the first century A.D.—lived under the thumb of the Roman legions. This so-called “Queen of the East” was a fascinating place to set a pivotal part of my novel. I enjoyed researching that very different culture and want to share some of my discoveries, including a few that didn’t make it into the book.

Centuries before the birth of Christ, two major cities arose on the eastern edge of the Mediterranean. Alexandria was founded by Alexander the Great, while one of his generals, Seleucus, established Antioch. After Alexander’s death in B.C. 312, as Seleucus I, the general ruled Syria, built towns all across the land, and established a dynasty (called the Seleucidae) lasted until the Romans arrived in B.C. 64.

Antioch lay 20 miles from the seaport of Seleucia Pieria, between Mount Silpius and the Orontes River. As happened with start-up towns throughout history, the winding river gave Antioch both a beneficial location (fertile land with easy access to the sea) and a unique physical layout. By A.D. 54, the time of its appearance in Rubies of the Viper, Antioch was a large and impressive city. Eventually, it would grow to be the third largest city in the world, boasting a population of about 1 million people; only Rome and Alexandria were larger.

The Catholic Encyclopedia has an excellent article that describes Antioch this way:

The Seleucidæ as well as the Roman rulers vied with one another in adorning and enriching the city with statues, theatres, temples, aqueducts, public baths, gardens, fountains, and cascades; a broad avenue with four rows of columns, forming covered porticoes on each side, traversed the city from east to west, to the length of several miles. Its most attractive pleasure resort was the beautiful grove of laurels and cypresses called Daphne, some four or five miles to the west of the city. It was renowned for its park-like appearance, for its magnificent temple of Apollo…

The population included a great variety of races. There were Macedonians and Greeks, native Syrians and Phænecians, Jews and Romans, besides a contingent from further Asia; many flocked there because Seleucus had given to all the right of citizenship. Nevertheless, it remained always predominantly a Greek city.

This Syrian/Greek/Roman city was known as Antioch-on-the-Orontes (its official name) and Antioch-near-Daphne (an informal moniker given to it by the Romans who had carved out their own exclusive residential enclave in nearby Daphne). I intend to follow this post with a separate one on Daphne, because that lush-and-luxurious area was quite unlike the teeming, polyglot metropolis nearby.

Here’s a portion of Rubies of the Viper’s presentation of a newcomer’s first day in the gritty underbelly of that sprawling metropolis:

It was much too early for that miraculous afternoon wind to bring relief from the Antiochian furnace. Heat radiating from the paving stones blurred the corners of buildings and tents that sprawled along the river.

Despite the torrid air, Antioch was beginning to stir. An aroma of goats and lambs grilling in street-side cook shops had begun to engulf the old city. Boys with lamps jostled with men selling camels, donkeys, tents, and other merchandise…

He turned into the warren of alleyways, elbowing his way into the throng… The market was a mass of multicolored burnooses; never in his life had he felt so out of place.

Both moved and repulsed by the open sores and empty eye socket of a beggar who plucked at his sleeve, he slipped a couple of coins into the man’s grimy, four-fingered hand.

Immediately, he saw his mistake. Out of the crowd came a dozen more—lame, blind, diseased, unwashed, and lice-infested—who clung to his arms and tugged at his tunic… a smelly cloud that pursued him down the street, pleading in loud, incomprehensible whines.

—except as credited above to The Catholic Encyclopedia, text copyright © Martha Marks—