The Writing of Fever 1793

A historical detective searches for the truth

By Laurie Halse Anderson -- School Library Journal, 5/1/2001

The fever struck me in August of 1993. We were stuck in traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway on our way into Philadelphia. My husband groused about gridlock, but I didn't notice. I was sucked into the newspaper, reading about the yellow-fever epidemic that had devastated Philly 200 years earlier.

Zap! I was infected.

The story had strong elements of conflict: fear, ignorance, and death. The background was rich. Philadelphia was the capital of the United States in 1793, the cultural and political hub of the nation. The Federalist Period is an era rarely written about. And all this took place in my backyard.

The fever spread. I had to write this book.

Authors of historical fiction have two exciting challenges: to get the history right, and to tell a great story within the confines of the historical framework. In some ways, writing historical fiction is like writing outside of one's culture. The author must be scrupulous about detail and motivation, sensitive to cultural (and time) differences, wary of interpretation, and conscious of the reader's background and ability.

Erik Larson, author of Isaac's Storm (Crown, 1999), calls this kind of work "historical journalism." I take that notion one step further. Writing historical fiction for kids requires that the author become a historical detective.

Digging for Bones

Researching Fever 1793 was like digging at an archaeological site. I had written about women in the American Revolution, and thus had some knowledge of the world just before the epidemic. While the role of women shifted slightly from the Revolution to the Federalist Period, this background showed me where I had to dig. It also helped me understand the character of Mattie's mother, for whom the Revolution was a shaping experience.

I started with background research: reading up on the politics of the era, architecture, religion, food, class structure, the social roles of taverns and coffeehouses, education levels, and gardening. I visited museums, studied paintings and furniture, and pestered historical reenactors to explain how people got dressed and what held up their socks. I sharpened a goose quill and wrote with it. (This is when my family became nervous. The word "obsessive" was bandied about.)

Once I felt comfortable with the time period, I dug deeper. I needed to understand the impact of the epidemic on life in Philadelphia in the summer and fall of 1793. Using several period maps and annual city directories, I created my own map, which I tacked over my desk. Then I created a time line of the major events. Armed with these guides to my characters' universe, I dove into the juiciest research of all: primary-source documents.

(Note to readers: you know you're a serious history wonk when the phrase "primary-source documents" makes your eyes dilate, your mouth water, and your palms itch. Wipe that drool off your chin and continue.)

I wanted eyewitness accounts of the epidemic. I found them, thanks to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. They house a treasure trove of primary-source documents. I expected to find transcripts of government documents from 1793. Instead, I found gold—letters, diaries, and account books, all in their original state. A young man named John Welsh wrote twice a day to his employer, a merchant who fled to Delaware after the outbreak of disease. The letters relayed news of the business and rumors about the spread of the epidemic until he fell ill. He survived, I'm happy to report. His letters were invaluable in helping me portray the course and impact of the epidemic.

I worked very hard to understand the medical aspects of yellow fever and the bitter debate that raged between two camps of doctors who supported vastly different "cures." I read medical textbooks from Scotland, worked my way through treatment details, and noted home remedies that were published in the newspapers. I waded through the bureaucratic minutes of relief committee meetings, and an astounding chart of daily weather conditions, mortality rates, and locations where people had died and were buried.

These were real people. I shook with goose bumps time and time again in the Society's reading room. Real people scrawled these letters, these prayers, these remedies. I had to do my best to honor them.

All told, the research took nearly two years. It could have lasted a decade. I loved it, reveled in it—all those facts and details—yum! But the research was worth nothing unless a story came out of it. It was time to crawl out of the pit and piece together my findings.

Reconstructing the Bodies

My original vision of Mattie Cook, the main character in Fever 1793, was a 10-year-old orphan. Early drafts of the book opened months before the epidemic and dragged the waif through all sorts of interesting, but unnecessary, adventures in the city. I needed to speed up the pace. Time to cut and slash.

Mattie was a Daughter of Liberty, that first generation of American women who grew up in an independent nation. As befitted a young girl of her age and class, she had some education and knew how to work very hard. She was in conflict with her mother, at odds with her own body, and wondering about her future. The concept of a "teenager" may be a 20th-century construct, but the transition between childhood and adulthood was real for girls like Mattie. Diaries from the time period prove it. When I turned Mattie into an adolescent, the pieces of her struggle fell into place.

I also experimented with Lucinda, her mother. In several drafts, she was Mattie's aunt. But again, I realized that Mattie's journey was meant to be a hard one, and the stakes had to be high. In the course of the changes I made, Mattie's mother contracted yellow fever. I felt like an executioner.

Eliza walked into the story early on. Eliza and Lucinda had a peer relationship, one that both women valued. As I learned more about the Free African Society's heroic volunteer work during the epidemic, it became clear that a woman of Eliza's integrity would have been in the thick of the action.

There is a point in writing a novel when the act of writing fades away and the author finds herself transported to that other world. For me that happened when Mattie's grandfather died. He was a Revolutionary War veteran, the raconteur of the coffeehouse, who spent his days playing cards and swapping stories with old friends. Like Mattie, I was quite fond of the old gentleman. I cried while I typed his last scene. For the first time, I slipped into Mattie's skin, felt her heart beat. When she closed Grandfather's eyes and looked up from his body, she was a different person, and I was a different writer.

Uncovering the Truth

By now I had the elements of a novelmy plot and my characters. I knew the setting, I had a notebook of historical facts, and thematic elements were rising to the surface. But I continued to revise, cutting out extraneous historical details in search of historical truth. The last thing I wanted to do was to insert a 21st-century character into a book about the late 18th century.

I talked to social historians and read letters of women and girls from the time period (but not during the epidemic) to understand their dreams and how far they felt they could reach. I tried to create characters that were true to their world, not time travelers.

Early drafts of Fever 1793 were written in the third-person point of view. I thought it would be arrogant to assume that I could speak authentically in the voice of a character two centuries removed from my perspective. As I continued to read and write, however, my opinion changed. Unless I knew my characters and their world intimately enough to write in the first person, I had no business trying to tell their story. Time for another draft.

Dialogue was a mucky compromise between my readers' ability and my need for authenticity. After much anguish, I chose in favor of readability. Kids were not going to enjoy the book if they had to fight through the language. I tried to give a sense of 1793 with speech patterns and period slang.

I also decided not to include historical figures. Before the epidemic hits, Thomas Jefferson is the subject of arguments in the coffeehouse, but he never turns up in the book. Dr. Benjamin Rush, a central figure in the epidemic (who left voluminous correspondence) is referred to, but not seen. President George Washington rides by at the end of the book, but he is silent, just as he rode back into town in real life. I did not want to confuse readers by having historical and fictional characters interact. I was overjoyed when my editor suggested I write factual back matter where I could clear up questions I knew readers would have, and treat them to a few tidbits that wouldn't fit in the story.

People often ask whether I prefer writing historicals like Fever 1793 or contemporary novels like Speak (Farrar, 1999). That's like asking which one of my daughters I prefer. Both types of writing frustrate me, but for different reasons. I enjoy each for its unique challenges and rewards. I consider myself very fortunate to try my hand at both.

It takes longer to find the truth in historical fiction. It requires meticulous observation, broad knowledge, and patience. Patience with the writing. Patience with layers of interpretation. Patience to listen for the quiet beat of a character's heart under the dust of time. You dig deeper, you dig slower, and the rewards are delightful. I can't wait to do it again.

For a review of Fever 1793 (S & S, 2000 ), SEE SLJ Aug 2000, p. 177. For a teacher's guide, visit Anderson's Web site—www.writerlady.com

Laurie Halse Anderson is the writer of 14 books for children and young adults. This piece is based on a speech given at the New York Public Library BookFest, October 2000.

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