Writing Historical Fiction

When I was writing my debut novel, Memorial Day, I spent hundreds of hours researching subjects for the story. You see, I am a “reformed” historian. That means, not fully-recovered. The story I had planned would bookend the life of the main character, Joe DaSilva, and his two best friends, Bill Crawley and Peggy Ferguson. Part I would span 1928-1949, and Part II, 1986-1996.

As a “reformed” but not fully-recovered historian, I still felt the need to do an exhaustive amount of research to provide evidence and argumentation for why the story had to be true. Every time I dove headfirst into a rabbit hole, I had to remind myself that the reason for researching a story is to make it authentic, to capture the reader, to provide enough details for them to believe that the story might have happened just as I’ve told it.

So, you might ask, “What are the kinds of things that side-track a reformed– but not fully-recovered– historian?” Well, when did Evinrude produce its first one-cylinder outboard motor? When did “Gone With the Wind” actually have its general release and is it plausible that Joe, Peggy, and Bill could have seen it before high school graduation? Is it possible for Joe to have retreated from Subic Bay to the Bataan peninsula? What kinds of mosquitos transmit what type of malaria along the Pantingan River in the Philippines? And could Joe possibly have survived quinine poisoning, malaria, and extreme physical abuse all at the same time?

And the craziest thing about writing historical fiction is that sometimes all of that research ends up being used to support something as simple as a throw-away line in a single story. At the same time, that’s what makes it authentic. 

When I was a historian, these are the kinds of questions that would have given me insomnia because I knew the lengths I might have to go to provide proof that almost certainly would put my readers to sleep. When I write historical fiction, however, these are the kinds of details that propel a character forward and make a reader think, “Yeah, I think it probably could have happened that way.”

This brings me to my last point (for this post at least) about why writing historical fiction is different from writing history. When you are writing history, the worst place to find your work is where sources disagree. That is, unless you are determined, intrepid, or simply fortunate enough to be in sole-possession of a new source that will open an entirely new field of scholarship. And you better believe, THAT is not an EASY place to be. Exhilarating? Yes. Easy? Definitely not!

If you are writing historical fiction, there is no BETTER place to be than where sources disagree. I like to call that the “Gray Matter.” This gray area is where meaning has yet to be made, and it is possible to tell a story that otherwise might not have been told– a story that sticks in readers’ memories and grows over time.

A friend of mine asked me why I chose to place my main character, Joe DaSilva, at the Bataan Death March and the Cabanatuan Prison Camp. He is an unreformed historian– a very good one!- and he had watched every newsreel of the Pacific Campaign, and had read every historical account of the “Great Raid” at Cabanatuan. There are countless documentaries, reams of Congressional testimony, and Hollywood films about World War II in the Pacific. And yet, as far as I could tell while I was re-writing my book, there was only one other novel that dealt with the Bataan Death March, and that was from a little known author named John Grisham, who published The Reckoning in 2018.

What did that represent for me? An opening. “Gray Matter.”

Still, I was so intimidated by the idea of adding to the “historical record” that I did not write a single word about Joe’s experience as a prisoner of war until I had finished writing the rest of his story. I did that because I did not want to write a war novel. I was writing about how the war changed the life of a boy named Joe DaSilva. And I had this gnawing fear that placing him in Cabanatuan– a place so thoroughly chronicled and cataloged– was like inserting an alien into the painting “The Last Supper” and hoping that no one would notice the forgery. Then, I slowed myself down.

I considered the structure of the rest of my book, and the longest story at the time lasted only three chapters. That was it. Joe could spend no more than three chapters at Cabanatuan. That meant I would have to resist the urge to churn out a running chronicle of the camp. I would have to focus entirely on Joe’s experience, and Joe’s experience ONLY.

You may say, “Well, there IS a list of every prisoner of war who survived the Cabanatuan prison.” True, there are many such lists, but my research never turned up a list of every code name used in the camp. Suddenly, I had found an opening to tell Joe’s story.

“Gray matter!”

I would love to hear your thoughts, especially if you write or love to read historical fiction.

Check out Memorial Day at brendanwalshbooks.com, available now through all major booksellers.