I’ve always been drawn to historical novels, but lately have been asking myself why.
Maybe it all started with an innate love of all things western. Do we read first the history of places we love, or does the reading foster love of place? Stories of covered wagon trains, the heartbreaks and triumphs of pioneers on the Oregon Trail captivated me. I remember long summer afternoons practically inhaling my grandpa’s Zane Grey and Louis L’amour paperbacks. In time I discovered Ole Rolvaag’s Giants in the Earth about North Dakota homesteaders, Willa Cather’s My Antonia, and the incomparable Wallace Stegner’s Big Rock Candy Mountain, and Angle of Repose.
Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove reawakened my love of reading historical novels set in the West. I’ve come full circle now, having moved back to my native Montana. Part of the experience of coming home has been reading nonfiction about Glacier National Park. Once, years ago, my mother remarked, “Someone should write a novel about the inholders.” Bang! Thanks, Mom. I’ve been obsessively researching and writing rough drafts of that novel off and on ever since. Inholders were the hearty souls who’d already settled in what became Glacier National Park in 1910. They were flawed, bigger-than-life human beings, who worked harder and played harder than most of us can ever imagine.
Maybe my love of reading and writing historical novels stems from both love of place and admiration for our courageous and independent forbears. They do spark to the imagination.
Why do you think historical novels have such appeal?