When a historian becomes a plotter.

When I wrote my first novel, I didn’t know how to write a novel. I didn’t even know there was a method to it—a craft with structure and design.

What I did know was history.

I knew how to write historical essays. I was three years removed from my MA in history and had presented at conferences and published scholarly work. When I decided to write a novel, my goal was simple: to share the history of the U.S.–Dakota War of 1862 in a way more compelling and meaningful than existing histories.

So I approached fiction the only way I knew how. I told myself that if I wrote a series of essays, I could create a character to connect them and shape a narrative. History would provide the scaffolding. Historical events and real people would serve as tent poles upon which my narrative canvas would rest.

I wasn’t thinking about story.

In fiction circles, writers often identify as either plotters or pantsers. A plotter maps the story before drafting a single word—characters, motivations, research, scene outlines, structural turns. A pantser begins with little more than an idea, writing into the unknown and trusting the story to reveal itself.

I never considered myself either. I thought of myself as a historian using history to tell a story.

Now, after years of study, practice, and hard-earned humility, I’ve realized something unsettling:

I’m a plotter.

God help me, I’m a plotter.

The idea for my latest novel has lingered for years, but I was always too busy to pursue it. Eight or nine months ago, I discovered an 1887 letter written by a man central to the story. In it, he declared that he had a story to tell. That line stayed with me. It wasn’t until I quit my job and committed fully to my work that I allowed myself to pursue it seriously.

But this time, I cannot rely solely on history.

Nor do I want to.

Because I have finally come to understand what Steven Pressfield means when he says, “Fiction is the truth.” I first heard a version of that idea in my MFA program. One professor suggested that fiction reveals truth while nonfiction merely speculates toward it. As a historian, I was aghast.

Now, I understand.

History records events. Fiction reveals meaning.

History documents what happened. Fiction explores why it mattered.

So this time, I am relying fully on the tools of storytelling—not to distort history, but to illuminate its emotional truths.

I’ve laid out my characters. Divided the story into three acts. Defined the inciting incident and the climax. Identified the midpoint, the “all is lost” moment, and the resolution. I know who stands as hero and who stands as villain. I’ve written a chapter-by-chapter outline detailing what each character does, when they do it, and why.

I’ve built the architecture.

Now I must inhabit it.

I won’t share the full outline yet—I’d like to preserve some mystery—but I will share the dramatis personae: the principal characters, their roles, and the tensions they carry.

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Dramatis Personae

WILLIAM J. DRAKE (William J. Duley) — The Hangman
Former pioneer, soldier, scout, and self-styled patriot. A survivor of the Lake Shetek Massacre who publicly casts himself as hero, yet privately bears the shame of abandoning his family in 1862. Hollowed by poverty, failed land speculation, grasshopper plagues, and the erosion of the frontier myth, he clings to grievance as identity. Obsessed with securing a federal pension and historical recognition, he weaponizes memory to justify hatred of the Dakota and preserve a version of himself he cannot bear to lose. His trauma manifests as a nervous twitch eased only by drink.

Dramatic Function: Antagonist who dominates Act II. Embodies grievance curdled into moral corrosion. Represents what happens when survival is mistaken for courage.

WINNIE DRAKE (Laura Terry Duley) — The Silent Witness
William’s wife and the true survivor of Lake Shetek. Emotionally fractured by captivity, child loss, miscarriage, and abandonment, she moves through life in fragments of memory, often murmuring, “Come back.” Perceived as mad, she quietly carries the unvarnished truth of 1862.

Dramatic Function: Keeper of moral reality. Where William mythologizes, Winnie remembers.

ALVIN ARNOLD — The Correspondent
A twenty-four-year-old Chicago newspaperman educated at Northwestern—slender, sharp, often underestimated. Driven by ambition and recognition, he initially views Minnesota as assignment rather than moral terrain. As he uncovers the fracture between history and myth, he must choose between professional advancement and responsibility to truth.

Dramatic Function: Protagonist and moral mirror. Faces the same choice William faced in 1862—self-preservation or courage.

PEARL ARNOLD — The Anchor
Alvin’s wife. Intelligent and perceptive, once a student of literature. Her chronic “constitutional weakness” leaves her physically fragile but emotionally steady. Pregnant during Alvin’s journey, she embodies domestic responsibility and the future he risks neglecting.

Dramatic Function: Stakes made human. Grounds abstract truth in tangible consequence.

ANDREW GOOD THUNDER (Wakíŋyaŋ Wašté) — The Reconciler
A Dakota man baptized by Bishop Whipple and loyal to settlers during the war. He lost children to violence and internment and became alienated from many of his own people. Gentle and devout, he seeks neither revenge nor vindication—only rightful belonging.

Dramatic Function: Moral counterweight to William. Courage without recognition.

CHARLES LAWRENCE (Wahacankaruaza) — Iron Shield
A Dakota farmer who protected settlers during the war and endured hardship at Crow Creek. Carries chronic pain and quiet grief but masks both with warmth. Devoted to securing dignity for his son.

Dramatic Function: Generational bridge. Endurance without mythmaking.

JON LAWRENCE (Wahacankaruaza) — Inherited Consequence
Eighteen. Physically fragile from childhood malnutrition yet intellectually curious. Straddles two worlds without belonging fully to either.

Dramatic Function: Embodied future. His relationship with Nettie becomes the catalyst for William’s rage—and Alvin’s choice.

NETTIE MORGENTHALER — Person from the Morning Valley
Seventeen-year-old assistant to Henri Mohr. Nervous, quick-talking, yearning for independence beyond settler expectations. Her growing affection for Jon challenges racial and generational boundaries.

Dramatic Function: Social change made personal.

HENRI MOHR — The Healer
An aging former interpreter and physician who witnessed both the Dakota War and the execution of the Dakota 38. The hanging shattered his faith in God but not in humanity. He speaks rarely, observes deeply, and chooses repair over judgment.

Dramatic Function: Moral compass. Encourages truth without coercion. Courage expressed through steadiness.

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For those of you who write—or who simply care about how stories are told—I’m curious: Do you build the architecture first, or discover it as you go? Do you trust the record, or chase the emotional truth beneath it? This novel is teaching me that structure is not confinement but courage. And perhaps that’s what storytelling ultimately requires—not just research or imagination, but the willingness to decide what kind of truth we are brave enough to tell.

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Stories shape how we understand the past — and how we understand ourselves.

In Reclaiming Mni Sota, I sought to challenge inherited narratives of the U.S.–Dakota War and imagine how history might look from another vantage point. The novel was honored with the 34th Annual Midwest Book Award, and signed copies are available directly from me.

If you value historical fiction that wrestles with moral complexity, I hope you’ll consider adding it to your reading list.