I've often thought that writers and readers of historical novels have the best of both worlds. Historical fiction, when it's done well, gives us a deep view of historical events and people--not a deep, dry view, as in a history book, but a lively dramatic view that draws us in, makes us want to explore further.
I've been writing historical novels for twenty years, beginning with the Robin Paige mysteries that Bill and I wrote from 1993-2005, then my Beatrix Potter Cottage Tales series (2003-2011), and more recently, the Darling Dahlias. Several of the China Bayles mysteries have historical backstories, as well: Bloodroot, Wormwood, and Widow's Tears, for example. If you're guessing that I love to dig around in the past, you've guessed right.
It might be that my love of historical fiction began with the Little House series, which I read to tatters when I was a child. And then, in the 1980s, as an adult, I bumped into The First Four Years, a short novel set after These Happy Golden Years. I was surprised and dismayed: the book was not the same as the eight books in the series.The story was clumsy, the writing was clunky. What had happened to my favorite author to make her write as if she'd never written a book before?
I began searching for a possible explanation. I discovered that Laura's daughter was a well-known bestselling author in the 1920s and 30s: Rose Wilder Lane, named for the wild roses on the Dakota prairies. Suspicions aroused (did Rose give her mother a hand with those first eight books, but not with the ninth?), I began to dig. My explorations took me to Rocky Ridge Farm, then to the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library, where I found Rose's diaries, journals, and letters--and Laura's letters to her, as well.
I also began to read the work of scholars who were writing about the Little House books, particularly Rosa Ann Moore and William Anderson. About that time (1993) William Holtz published The Ghost in the Little House, and I could see the writing of the Little House books in the Depression-era context of Rose's and Laura's lives. I went back to the Hoover Library for more of Rose's unpublished work, and began a concentrated search through the primary materials Holtz had used for his biography.
It might be that my love of historical fiction began with the Little House series, which I read to tatters when I was a child. And then, in the 1980s, as an adult, I bumped into The First Four Years, a short novel set after These Happy Golden Years. I was surprised and dismayed: the book was not the same as the eight books in the series.The story was clumsy, the writing was clunky. What had happened to my favorite author to make her write as if she'd never written a book before?
I began searching for a possible explanation. I discovered that Laura's daughter was a well-known bestselling author in the 1920s and 30s: Rose Wilder Lane, named for the wild roses on the Dakota prairies. Suspicions aroused (did Rose give her mother a hand with those first eight books, but not with the ninth?), I began to dig. My explorations took me to Rocky Ridge Farm, then to the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library, where I found Rose's diaries, journals, and letters--and Laura's letters to her, as well.
I also began to read the work of scholars who were writing about the Little House books, particularly Rosa Ann Moore and William Anderson. About that time (1993) William Holtz published The Ghost in the Little House, and I could see the writing of the Little House books in the Depression-era context of Rose's and Laura's lives. I went back to the Hoover Library for more of Rose's unpublished work, and began a concentrated search through the primary materials Holtz had used for his biography.
But in those years, I was just getting started with the China Bayles series, and then Bill suggested that we write the Robin Paige mysteries, which led to the Beatrix Potter series, and . . . well, you get the picture. It wasn't until I had finished with the eight Cottage Tales that I had the time to go back to my boxes and stacks and shelves of Rose Wilder Lane (RWL) materials, and especially to her diaries and journals--and start thinking about the kind of book I might like to write. A scholarly, academic book? A narrative nonfiction for a general audience? After trying out several approaches, I finally decided to write a novel. I have, after all, been writing novels for nearly three decades now. An easy decision, right?
Maybe. But it would have to be a fact-based novel--tightly fact-based. All of us who grew up loving the Little Houses deserve to know the real story behind the books. And I do mean real: a story that details the way the books were actually written, based on the real, day-to-day record that Rose kept, as well as on the letters her mother wrote when they were working on Plum Creek and Silver Lake. I want readers to see and understand why the two women kept their collaboration a secret and how the books changed both their lives, in the short run and the long run.
The novel is nearly finished now, and will be published in October (the current plan). To satisfy those readers (like myself) who always want to know more, there will also be a Companion, which documents the fiction and connects it with the research: the facts, references, and sources (published and unpublished) from which I've created the story. I hope that both the novel and the Companion will help readers see through the long-standing myth that Laura wrote the books by herself, with just a little editorial touch-up and some promotional boosts from her daughter Rose. That literary legend does a disservice to Rose, who deserves credit for her real contributions to the Little House books. It also does a disservice to Laura, who deserves to be known and respected for the brave, resourceful woman she was, not the literary miracle we imagine her to be. And I believe it does a disservice to us as readers, for we deserve to know the real, collaborative story behind the books we love: how they were written, and why, and by whom.
Reading Note. It rains. Slowly and moistly and indefatigibly. Little crystal drops are strung all along the wet-dark branches of the walnut and the elm outside these windows . . . The trees remain obstinately bare and uncolored all up the flint-gray slope of the hill, but the old oak on the edge of the gorge is creamy with blossoms. Yesterday afternoon Troub [Helen Boylston] and I walked to the top of the hill, and saw on the southern slope the blue of violets, like a reflection of the sky in water. We gathered two handkerchiefs full, and they are now a great mass in a bowl on my table. I do so wish that I could send you some, for it seems to me there are no violets like those that grow on Rocky Ridge.--RWL to Guy Moyston, April 8, 1925.