Writing Fiction from History: How a Historian Became a Novelist
Learning how to write is a long process with no real beginning or end. But there are certainly benchmarks that every writer can point to along their journey. My professional writing journey has its roots in my graduate degree in history—a degree that taught how to research history and then convey it through standard academic writing. One need look no further than my essay The Tobacco Controversy of 1857 published by the Hindsight Graduate History Journal in 2008 to get a good idea of my academic style. A few years later, I tried my hand at fiction, writing my first fiction novel, Thy Eternal Summer. I then continued writing fiction, publishing Grace at Spirit Lake in 2014 and Ceding Contempt in 2016. But in writing these novels, I became aware of the fact that I was relying too heavily on my academic background as a historian. My novels weren’t reaching a wide audience of fiction readers because the history was too overwhelming, disengaging readers from the fictional dream. That’s why, in 2017, I returned to school to study for an MFA in creative writing.
Today, I’d like to share with you the first lesson I received in my MFA program. I’m sharing it because this lesson is emblematic of who I was as a writer, and who I would become. This lesson is a benchmark; a tangible example of my growth as a writer of historical fiction.
I arrived at my first fiction writing workshop with a sample from my work-in-progress—chapter 1 of what would become my novel Resisting Removal. In this scene, my main character, Benjamin Armstrong, is reflecting upon his years living in La Pointe on Madeline Island, Wisconsin. My goal as a writer was to provide the reader with valuable and necessary historical context to understand the historical setting and backdrop of the novel. Below is the text of the original draft.
La Pointe had become my northern home, and it was a place I came to adore. Rich with history, culture, economic opportunity, and physical grandeur, not once did I regret my choice to move to the picturesque village. La Pointe was located on Madeline Island, one of the twelve Apostle Islands, just along Lake Superior’s southern shore and within the rocky Chequamegon Bay. The village was founded many centuries ago when the Anishinaabe, a native alliance of Ojibwe, Ottawa, and Potawatomi peoples migrated west from the great salt water sea (Warren, 45-46). These people migrated because their Creator had foretold of a place where the food grows on water (Loew, 56). They found this in the Lake Superior and Upper Mississippi region where they grew and harvested wild rice every fall to sustain their people. The island, which they called Mooningwanekaanig, became the capital of these native peoples, and was a spiritual, commercial, and political center. Though they lived semi-nomadically, moving from one place to another depending on the season, they always returned to their home.
After some years, however, they were visited by other peoples and other cultures. The most prominent of these visitors were the French. After several dealings with the French, the native peoples at Mooningwanekaanig decided that it was in their best interest to form an alliance with these strange but useful visitors. The French began calling the native peoples the Ojibwe and they brought them marvelous new tools such as metal axes, iron cooking kettles, bright-colored cloth, and glass beads (Loew, 55). In exchange the Ojibwe provided furs and pelts, a seemingly endless resource that abound in the wooded areas of the Upper Mississippi and Lake Superior regions. The alliance was mutually beneficial and would last for well over a century.
One of the first non-native residents to Mooningwanekaanig was a Catholic priest named Father Claude Allouez. Father Allouez built a mission near the southern edge of the island in the year 1665 and named it La Pointe du Saint Espirit. Over time the place took on the name of the mission and became known simply as La Pointe. Years later, in 1693, a French fur trader named Pierre-Charles Le Sueur established his presence on the island by building a fort. This greatly increased commercial traffic to Mooningwanekaanig which was otherwise far removed from the rest of the world.
For many years the Ojibwe lived with and traded among the French, making use of their alliance and expanding their influence and territory throughout the resource rich area. But things began to change as the eighteenth century came to a close and the nineteenth century began.
The British gained influence in the area after defeating the French in the Seven Years War in 1763. Though the French withdrew from Mooningwanekaanig, their influence among the Ojibwe never completely went away. Meanwhile, the Ojibwe established new alliances with their British counterparts. During this time the fur trade grew and expanded and as the Ojibwe enjoyed the results and impact of that growth, they never relinquished their traditional ways of living.
It was not until the British were defeated by the Americans in the War of 1812 that major changes began to take place for the Ojibwe at Mooningwanekaanig. The Americans had a steadfast grip on the notion of Manifest Destiny—the belief that it was the destiny of the United States and its settlers to march unopposed across the continent taking all land and resources in the process. The Ojibwe were unaware of the American’s unquenchable thirst for land when they entered into new alliances; alliances similar to those they had made with the French and British.
In 1825, the United States government invited the Ojibwe, Dakota, and several other native peoples in the region to a meeting at Prairie du Chien, a prosperous trading settlement located at the confluence of the Wisconsin and Mississippi Rivers. The stated purpose of the meeting was to negotiate a formal peace between the native peoples, but the underlying motivation of the United States was to establish boundaries for future land cession treaties.
At the same time the United States was establishing control, the American Fur Company was making headway of its own throughout the region. The American Fur Company, founded in 1808 by John Jacob Astor, replaced the British operated Northwest Fur Company and set up forts and trading posts throughout the Lake Superior and Upper Mississippi regions. The American Fur Company traded with Ojibwe much like the traders of previous centuries, but eventually the furs declined in value and the fur trade diminished. This led traders and their companies to expand operations into fishing, land speculation, and milling. This had a growing impact on the Ojibwe and their way of life.
By 1837, the United States negotiated the first major land cession treaty with the Ojibwe and by 1842 they negotiated the second. These treaties did a number of things besides stripping the Ojibwe of their land. With the opening of the territory came profiteers in the form of lumbermen, fishermen, miners, and land speculators. As these businessmen moved into Ojibwe land it altered the Ojibwes’ natural way of life, even forcing many Ojibwe to work for these businesses. The treaties also ushered in contractors, missionaries and government agents. The goal of these groups was to civilize the native peoples. In other words, they wished the Ojibwe to live in permanent dwellings, to farm the land, to practice the Christian religion, and to speak the English language. It was a cultural genocide.
This was the context in 1850. In a few short years the Ojibwe were bombarded from all sides with the American presence, a presence that wished to completely overtake and destroy the Ojibwe people, home, and way of life; often times for profit. In 1842, when the Ojibwe reluctantly agreed to the terms of the treaty, they were promised that they would not have to move from their homes. Just six years later, in 1848, rumors swirled that they would be asked to move west into Minnesota Territory. But the Ojibwe were adamantly opposed and they were ready to fight for their homes.
The writing’s not bad, but it’s also not fiction. While it does provide the reader with the necessary historical context to understand the story, it doesn’t do so in a manner that is engaging for fiction readers. It’s an example of “telling” the reader rather than “showing” the reader.
When it was my turn to receive feedback from the group, my critique partners were very kind. They did not openly criticize my work, rather, they offered helpful suggestions. A specific critique stood out to me. One member of the workshop pointed at a sentence in my story and said, “You’re telling the reader that your character’s moccasins are worn out from walking. Why not show the reader the hole in your character’s moccasin instead?”
I went back to my temporary dorm room feeling frustrated. I had received the same criticism/feedback regarding my novels. As a historian, I didn’t understand why I was being asked to take out the history. Fueled by a sense of resentment, and wanting to at least try to do what was being asked of me, I sat down at the large wooden dorm-room desk and rewrote the excerpt. After two hours, this is what I came up with. This time, I used the main character’s friend, Giizhigoon, to filter the information.
Rumors had spread that removal was imminent. They had actually been spreading for years. Promises had been made to the Ojibwe that they would not be asked to remove from La Pointe for fifty to one hundred years, but already, just a few years later it seemed that promise was about to be broken. The United States Government, Benjamin concluded, was set on moving the Ojibwe west into the newly created Minnesota Territory. If that were true, it would mean heartbreak for the native Ojibwe. For Benjamin, La Pointe was not his homeland, not in the same manner it was for the Ojibwe, for Giizhigoon and for Charlotte. Its rocky shores did not welcome Benjamin’s ancestors, its abundant forests, vibrant streams, and the life-giving lake that surrounded it did not encompass Benjamin’s childhood, did not fill his memory, did not live in his bloodline.
“Do you know what this island represents to me? What it represents to the Ojibwe people?” Giizhigoon asked.
“I’m trying to understand. Having lived among you for five years, I know how important and valuable it is. I know it is sacred.”
Giizhigoon sighed, then began to explain to Benjamin the deep meaning behind his homeland. “This island is called Madeline Island. Named for the wife of a mixed-race fur trader named Michel Cadotte. But before then it had another name. Our ancestors called this place Moningwunakauning, the home of the golden-breasted wood pecker.”
“I have never been told this.”
“Very few white men know this,” Giizhigoon said as they continued their slow march. “Let me tell you a story, brother. Let me tell me our history.”
Giizhigoon took a deep breath, inhaling the natural beauty and essence of his homeland.
“A place where the food grows on water.” Giizhigoon began, his tone changing to that of storyteller, filled with deference. “That is what Gitche Manitou, the Great Spirit, said to our people. No one remembers how long ago. Ten, fifteen generations. The migration itself lasted nine hundred years. It began from the Great Salt Water Sea, known today as the Atlantic. Westward they forged, generation by generation, making just enough progress to distance themselves from the clans at their heels.
“Eventually they found the place, the place where the food grows on water, the place that would sustain them, the place they would call home. It was here, this island,” Giizhigoon pointed to the ground, “that became their central location. From here they expanded and prospered, spreading throughout the region, exploring its trees and lakes, its prairies and valleys, its ecosystems filled with life. Fish of all kinds, bear and mink, fox and wolf, deer and rabbit, beaver and muskrat, even the trees bled sugar to feed them. All things conspired in their favor.”
Benjamin tussled with the heavy fish hanging over his shoulder, switching from right to left, trying not to lose focus on the story.
“But a threat was on the horizon. New tribes, new clans. Not those with native skin, but those with much paler skin. Not those with bows and arrows. The new clans, the new tribes, they came with exploding fire sticks. But they sought not war. They sought not land nor water, nor food, nor anything useful. They sought pelts. They did not want the beaver, they wanted the skin of the beaver. They did not want the bear, they wanted the skin of the bear. In exchange they offered tools and weapons unlike any ever created before. The fire stick that could kill an animal at distance no man could ever hope to run. A knife that cut through wood as if it were water. A thing they called metal that never broke, never chipped, never changed its shape, never melted over hot fire. Soon an alliance was made with these pale faces. They called themselves the French. And after the French came another tribe of pale faces called the British. Our ancestors decided it was logical to take things of use from the French and British and to give nothing useful in return, just the scraps of a hunt. It was the beginning of a new age.
“Before long, the foreign talkers wanted more. They wanted more than pelts. They wanted more than an alliance. They wanted the hearts and souls of men. They wanted tradition. They came wearing robes and hats and crosses. They spoke of a man named Jesus and a God named the Great I am. But they did not stop there, these men in robes. They brought with them their language, their manner of dress, and their way of life. They cut furrows into the land and dropped seeds into the soil. They hurt the mother earth by plowing her fields and cutting her timber. They put up shelters that could not be moved and they built schools where they spoke their language and taught their knowledge of the world. They never asked, they only did.
“But these white men did not change the world. They did not destroy the place where the food grows on water. AMERICANS,” Giizhigoon emphasized the word. “That is what arrived next. That is what they were called. They arrived as friends, not as foes. Trade, prosperity, friendship; this is what they offered. But they did not shake hands or smoke the peace pipe like the strangers before them—like the French, like the British. They came with words on paper. Letters that combined to make sounds that combined to make meaning. Symbols. They gave out names to the people. They assigned positions. Some they called chiefs, some they called warriors. They spoke to the chiefs and made them sign their papers. They talked about the promises of the Great Father who lived in a place called Washington City. They promised gifts and money and power. They wanted only a little, not much, but only a little.”
Only an Ojibwe, Benjamin thought as he listened intently, could give such an eloquent oral account.
“The Americans, however, they wanted more—more than what they said. They wanted more than pelts. They wanted more than the hearts of men. They wanted more than an alliance. They wanted the land and everything in the land and everything on the land. They wanted the lifeblood of the earth itself.
“They came slowly. First, it was men in uniform. Then more men in robes with books in their hands and crosses hanging from their necks. Then came the men with fire water. Alcohol.” Giizhigoon raised his voice in anger. “Putrid, noxious liquid that made men and women stupid and lazy and caused them to throw away their earnings. Then—then came the farmer and his family. The men who built permanent log dwellings and cleared the earth of its natural growth. Move west they said, we want only a little. Move west again, they said, we want only a little. They sectioned and parceled the land. They assigned ownership. They promised that the sections were in place forever. We want only this section, they said. But forever, was not forever. Their words had no meaning. Their promises had no value. They wanted bigger sections. They wanted all the sections.
“Get out of the way, they said.
“The place where the food grows on water, where our animal brothers live, where all trees and plants, grasses and flowers grow, was gone, was taken, was destroyed. Razed to build roads and homes, to harvest metal and wood, to grow corn and wheat. All at the hands of the so-called Great Father. All at the Pleasure of the President.
“So you see, my friend. I am very anxious today. Very sad. I know why the agent is here and I know what he wishes to take from us.”
Benjamin was silent, his heart beating just a little harder, a little louder for his friend. There were no words for the sympathy he felt. Instead he remained silent and the two marched on, slow but steady, snow crunching loudly beneath their feet, their steady breathing visible in the crisp winter air.
My workshop partners were impressed. I did what they asked, and I accomplished the goal of a historical fiction writer—I provided the history while keeping the reader engaged in a story. By comparing these two excerpts, you can see that the first provides the reader with direct information while the second provides the reader with a scene for their imagination. While the revision doesn’t give specific historical facts, it does provide the necessary historical context while deepening the reader’s engagement in the story and its characters.
This was a hard lesson for me, but it was instrumental in my transition from academic historian to historical fiction novelist…editor…and publisher. All writers experience breakthrough moments in their journeys to becoming better writers. I’m glad to be able to look back on mine and share it with others. I will continue learning how to be a better writer, and I will use what I’ve learned to be a better storyteller and mentor of those who aren’t as far along in their journey.