D. Vincent DeLorenzo and Clara Wren explore ethical storytelling by unpacking five pillars for adapting real history, practical tools for writers, and a real conflict from DeLorenzo's novel-in-progress, Unyielding. This episode offers clear guidelines and actionable advice for writers determined to honor the truth without exploiting those who lived it.
Chapter 1
D. Vincent Delorenzo
If I can't verify it twice, I write the silence and let the reader feel the gap.
Clara Wren
That sets the bar, doesn't it? Welcome back to The Writer’s Lantern, craft you can use today. I’m Clara Wren.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
And I’m D. Vincent DeLorenzo. We’re digging into adapting real events without, well, trampling on the people who actually lived them. Not always easy in the heat of a good story.
Clara Wren
Yeah, we’ll pull examples from your novel, Unyielding. Let’s keep this practical—not just vibes, right?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Right, so we should start with the ground rules. Five pillars for ethical adaptation—the things that keep you honest through the mess. First: Purpose. One clear sentence—what does this book promise, really? Who is it meant for, and honestly, who could it hurt if you’re careless? I keep my version of this literally taped above my desk. If I stray, it’s staring me down.
Clara Wren
That’s pretty... literal. Pillar two: Sources.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
I get a bit obsessive here. You gotta keep a live source log. Every claim—big or small—I slap it with a code: A if I’ve got two solid independent sources, B for a single primary you really trust, C if it’s wobbly or contested or, you know, just one odd letter in the back of an archive somewhere. And I always mark where I found it, page number, archive, timestamp, the whole kit.
Clara Wren
And then boundaries. This is where it gets sticky.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yup, what you keep, what you cut. As a rule—privacy for anyone still living, just as a default. And then, before letting any graphic detail through, I really stop and ask: does this show something important about the stakes or the system, or is it... just spectacle? If it’s the latter, out it goes. If it stays, I make myself say why, aloud. That’s not easy, honestly. Sometimes you realize, yeah, this isn’t helping anyone but my own sense of drama.
Clara Wren
Compression versus composite, next. I always mix this one up. Is compression—shrinking time, and composite—merging people?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
You got it. Compression, like, two weeks shrink into one chapter, but I’ll add a note so readers aren’t led astray. Composite is when you blur two or more real people into a single character. If you go that route—and I don’t do it all that often—be straight about it in your notes, and only if you’re sure you’re not harming anyone by flattening them into an archetype.
Clara Wren
Last one: Voice and Distance.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Let the real stuff do the heavy lifting. I’ll try to put objects first—ropes, logbooks, the heavy brass of a lantern, or the scraping of an oar. Keep adjectives at arm’s length, and for godsake, don’t add a modern moral. No hindsight sermons from the narrator. Let the reader do their own reckoning.
Clara Wren
You mentioned that promise taped to your desk—what did that actually say for Unyielding?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Oh, yeah—it just read: “Remember who gets hurt.” One line. No names, just a reminder that someone, somewhere, might be alive to see themselves in this book. Honestly, it’s easy to forget those tiny, private intentions once the plot heats up.
Clara Wren
Sort of like the silent things guiding the story. Readers never see them, but they shape everything else... That intention—it’s integrity under the hood, isn’t it?
Chapter 2
Clara Wren
Alright, practical time. What’s... in the kit? I mean, if you had to give someone five tools for writing real history without stepping on toes, what would you pick?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
First is Silence on the Page. If evidence is missing or sources fight each other—just say so. Don’t patch over it or invent a fix. I’ll literally write, “No record survives for this night,” or, “Reports differ, and the logbooks are lost.” That silence isn’t just a gap. It’s honest. It signals the reader, and—sometimes—that’s where they do their own thinking.
Clara Wren
So you don’t, like, varnish reality to look tidy. You let the mess sit there a bit?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Exactly. Second—Fact Cards. One claim, one card. I color code—A, B, C, just like the source log. Sometimes I’ll tack them up on a corkboard, scene by scene, to track what’s rock-solid and what’s foggy as hell.
Clara Wren
Kind of like sequencing with index cards, like we talked about last time for poetry, except the stakes are facts now, not feelings.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yep! Third, the Harm Heat Map. Every scene, I score on a one-to-five scale—how likely am I to cause real harm if it’s read by someone who lived it or their people? If any scene comes in at a four or five, that’s my signal: pause, run a “dignity check,” and put it in front of a second, trusted reader before it ever sees print.
Clara Wren
What’s a dignity check actually look like?
Chapter 3
Clara Wren
Let’s put this in the field. Give us a real example—the messiest research knot you hit for Unyielding.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Alright—weather, of all things. For a key scene late in the book, different reports argued about which way the wind actually blew during the evacuation. Logbooks said one thing, eyewitness letters another. I spent way too many hours—felt like entire nights—flipping through old river charts and newspapers, just hoping for that perfect answer. Never got it. My gut said: silence was safer than speculation. In the final draft, I just showed what could be proved. The lamp covers clattered, the mooring lines snapped, flares went up at a certain time. But I never pinned down the wind’s direction—just wrote the uncertainty into the end notes for the reader to see.
Clara Wren
So you trusted the objects again, yeah? The action lives through what you could actually confirm, and then you left a signpost in the end matter for anyone who wants to peek behind the curtain.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Exactly. I think that’s the best deal you can offer: you’re honest about the gaps. Readers don’t need you to play God; they want you to walk the tightrope with them. I mean, I learned that the hard way. I remember one night—three cups of coffee in, desk covered in old logbooks—when I finally let myself admit: not knowing is sometimes the most honest thing you can write.
Clara Wren
There's a weird trust in ambiguity, isn’t there? The reader senses it when you don’t overpromise. And—I guess, just like we talked about in our “Ashes in the Rain” episode, restraint can sometimes be its own kind of mercy.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah, mercy for the story, the history, and yourself. Quiet on the page isn’t a cop out—it’s an invitation. And hey—if any of you listening try these ideas out, or get stuck in the gray zones, let us know. We’re still learning too.
About the podcast
Authors, readers, and dreamers—gather round the lantern. Each episode, novelist D. Vincent DeLorenzo and co-host Clara Wren, a curious Australian storyteller, unpack the journeys behind great books, the discipline of writing them, and the meanings they leave behind. Through rotating segments—Behind the Book, For Writers, and For Readers—they offer cinematic readings, actionable craft advice, and heartfelt discussions that remind us why stories matter. Subscribe for weekly conversations that illuminate both page and soul. For more information visit the Authors website www.dvincentdelorenzo.com
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Could be as blunt as sitting down with someone who knows the history, or as careful as re-reading just to spot where a character’s pain gets made for drama’s sake, rather than truth. It’s not a science—more like an alarm bell. “Stop. Double-check.”
Clara Wren
And then disclosure lines?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Always. One at the start of the book—just a single sentence on how I handled things like compression or composite characters. Same again in the end matter. It’s less about shielding myself, more so readers know where the boundaries are fuzzy, and why.
Clara Wren
Alright, last one—the object test?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
If I claim something happened, can I show you the actual object in the scene—a diary, burnt spoon, a flare gun—or is it only ever someone’s word? If it’s just narration, I go back and look for something concrete, something that roots the moment in reality. That was a lifesaver for Unyielding, actually.
Clara Wren
Writers, this must get tangled sometimes though. What do you do about, say, a conflict between the right to truth and the need to protect someone—dead or alive?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
It is messy, yeah. I lean heavy on the fact cards. Sometimes a detail’s technically “true,” but it lands raw. So, I pair it with the object test—does something in the scene speak for itself without piling on? For Unyielding, that meant letting the right object—say, a battered river lamp—quietly carry the weight of a lost friend, rather than spelling out every wound. It’s dignity through indirection.
Clara Wren
Absolutely. That’s what keeps the lantern lit. Shall we wrap it there, Vincent?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Let’s do it. Thanks for listening, folks. We’ll be back next week with something new by the fire.
Clara Wren
Thanks, Vincent. And thanks to everyone for joining us in this little circle—we hope you found something to take with you in your own writing. Keep the lantern lit, everyone. Goodnight!