Massachusetts native Ann Fox Chandonnet lived and wrote in Alaska for thirty years before moving with her husband, writer Fernand Chandonnet, to the Piedmont of North Carolina. She has collaborated with Roberta Gibson Pevear on a fascinating edition of Civil War letters and diary, forthcoming in April from Winoca Press, titled “Write Quick”: War and a Woman’s Life in Letters, 1835–1867.
            A veteran author of more than a dozen books, both fiction and nonfiction, Ann shares some sage advice on the down-and-dirty details for weaving history into your writing.

ANN FOX CHANDONNET on writing the foodways of Alaska and the history of the Union Navy

Writing What You Don't Know

Many courses in how to write begin with this basic instruction: Write what you know.

If I’d followed that road, I would never have written some of my most creative poems, and many of my books. As a fan of historical fiction, I enjoy taking the road not so often recommended: that is, writing about what I don’t know.

For instance, the first children’s book I wrote, Chief Stephen’s Parky: A Year in the Life of an Athabascan Girl, is set in 1898. I chose that year because it was a time of transition; three thousand prospectors invaded Cook Inlet, Alaska, and began to compete with the resident Athabascans for game, fish, and firewood. The plot is a series of incidents connected by the plan of Olga, the chief’s wife, to make her husband a parky, or parka, worthy of his office. When Olga and her sister left the village to spend a couple of weeks in the Talkeetna Mountains, catching ground squirrels, I realized I was in over my head. I didn’t know enough about the habits of ground squirrels or about dyeing or sewing skins. So I began to read up on those subjects. I also walked into a grove of alders, scraped off some bark, and used the bark to dye a piece of white felt to see just what shade of red it would become. When I added Red Shirt Lake to the plot, I had to find out who Red Shirt was and how he got his name. Two dogs accompanied Olga to the mountains. What would she name the dogs?

Fortunately, I enjoy research, and it wasn’t difficult to build on what I already knew about the Tanaina (the Athabascans of Cook Inlet), an unusual group because they lived (and continue to live) on salt water rather than in Alaska’s interior.

When I was asked to write a cookbook about Alaska’s seafood, I wanted to weave together all the ethnic strands of the state’s history. The Russian, Eskimo, Aleut, Athabascan, and Tlingit cuisines had been largely ignored or marginalized in past cookbooks. I wanted them cheek by jowl with modern influences such as Filipino cannery workers and immigrants from India, plus chefs who used gingerroot and real estate brokers with a taste for wonton wrappers.

Learning what I didn’t know about the seafood industry was quite a task. (In the end, my editors decided to take all that out!) And there were so many questions. How long is a longnose skate? What is the average weight of a rockfish fillet?
 Simultaneously I needed to collect recipes from real people. I decided to tackle that by calling libraries or post offices in small towns around the state, requesting references for good local cooks. The method garnered some wonderful contacts. One even sent me a sample of her smoked salmon.

The Alaska Heritage Seafood Cookbook went into four editions, and received excellent reviews around the nation—despite the fact that it covers only Pacific species.

For the last several years I’ve been working on a new project based on Civil War letters. When I began this historical nonfiction, I was living in Alaska. But when I moved to North Carolina in 2006, suddenly I had the chance to visit historic battlefields, museums, and other relevant sites I’d only read about.

Having steeped myself in the art, history, and culture of the Pacific Northwest for three decades, I had a long row to hoe with research for Write Quick. Sure, I knew who Abraham Lincoln was, but I didn’t know how my ancestor, Gustavus Vasa Fox, fit into the picture. The letters mentioned battles at places I’d never heard of.  How were the infantry regiments of the two main correspondents involved? How far was Ship Island from New Orleans? Who lived in New Orleans in 1862? How did the residents react to the arrival of the Union Navy and Gen. Benjamin “Beast” Butler? How was Butler tied to my hometown, Lowell, Massachusetts? What mode of transportation linked Bethel, Maine, with Lowell in the 1850s? How many mill girls shared a room? What did they eat? What did Charles Dickens write about Lowell after visiting the textile mills?

As I struggled to summarize battles and identify people mentioned in the letters, I discovered that North and South casualty figures often disagree, that not until after 1850 did the U.S. Census bother with much more than head of household, and that regimental records can be incomplete and even incorrect. It’s been quite a journey, but often rewarding and surprising.

Currently I’m reading Edward Rutherfurd’s national bestseller The Forest. Rutherfurd expertly mixes fiction and fact to cover nine hundred years in the history of a 100,000-acre private woodland in southern England. The novel begins in A.D. 1099. The reader learns about not only the social and legal conflict between Norman newcomers and Saxon residents, but also, in subsequent sections dated 1294, 1635, and so forth, about the defensive tactics of Spanish navigators during the Armada, tunnels used by smugglers of brandy and tea, the growth and harvest of giant oaks, techniques of shipbuilding, the traditional duties of foresters, the practices of Cistercian monks, how new architecture is grafted onto old, and myriad other interesting facts. All the while, Rutherfurd successfully juggles several imaginary families (royal and common) and links them with real events and real historic figures.

The Forest is an excellent example of choosing a subject you know only bits and pieces about—and then filling in the blanks. It’s an enjoyable practice for authors. I recommend it highly.

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