Maybe I don't write historical fiction,

but folktales are also true.

“[A] folktale can never be forgotten because it wriggles and rearranges until it sits neatly on the heart. It is fluid and changing, able to adapt to whatever setting it finds itself in. It shifts in the mouth of every teller and adapts to the shape of each listener's ear. The facts can change (place names, the color of a character's woolen coat, the particular flowers in a small, circular garden), but the core remains the same. So the folktale survives. Assimilates. And with it--so survives the memory.”

From Thistlefoot by GennaRose Nethercott

I’ve considered that perhaps I write folktales more than I write historical fiction.

My interest in writing began because I wanted to preserve my family’s stories, not their history, necessarily. My mom is doing the hard work of genealogy, which requires documentation, verifiable sources, even specific formatting conventions. I’m grateful that she’s giving us all the gift of her time and keeping the records for us.

As for me, I’m less concerned with whether my sources are reliable. In fact, I know that they’re not. My primary source is family stories, mostly handed down through oral tradition. Even without trauma, dementia, and decades of time gone by, memories are unreliable. Repetition changes stories. In each remembrance or retelling, we shift the focus, recall new details, and forget others.

Add to that the fact that I’m intentionally crafting a plot. I’m interested in narrative devices, not straightforward records. In service of my story, I’ve left out family members and changed characters’ birthdays. In service of my readers, I’ve consolidated towns, changed spellings, and simplified timelines. In service of myself, I’ve made my great-grandma a strong, determined woman that’s easy to cheer for.

In the end, I want the stories to survive. The details surrounding them may change (goodness knows they changed before I ever heard them) but the broad strokes remain.

My great-grandparents loved each other. They told stories, ate well, and read good books. They built a life in a community of imperfect people trying to survive difficult times. They made mistakes, learned from some of them, and repeated others.

I’ll do my best to keep the stories going, so that their memories, however altered, survive.