Last year, William Morris announced on A Motley Vision that he would be putting together an anthology of Mormon alternate history stories. As William explained in his first post on the subject, Mormon writers seem to be turning to alternate history in the wake of the Mormon Moment for “more compelling ways of expressing our culture and help[ing] us think through both our past and future trajectories in interesting and fruitful ways.” As evidence, he cites D. J. Butler’s City of the Saints and several Mormon Lit Blitz entries. To this list you could add Steve Peck’s “A Strange Report from Church Archives,” published in the final issue of Irreantum, and a handful of stories and comics in Monsters and Mormons.
I’ve always preferred historical fiction to other genres, and alternate history has fascinated me since I was a kid playing Civil War video games that allowed me to change the outcomes of famous battles. In the last few years, I have thought much about the common ground between fiction and history, particularly in the writing of it. Aside from the academic work I’ve done in this area, which has dealt somewhat with alternate history, I’ve done some creative work as well. On Wilderness Interface Zone, for example, I published two works of historical fiction—“The Curse of Eve” and “The Mechanics of Creation.” Of the two, “The Mechanics of Creation” is more of an alternate history—if only because the main characters are actual historical figures engaged in a situation that, while possible, likely never happened.
In many ways, alternate history is fun because it allows us to explore the “What If” questions of history. (Steampunk, for example, lets us imagine what could have happened had technology developed differently in the nineteenth century.) It also recognizes that historical people and situations can function as overdetermined figures that, when played with, allow writers to say something meaningful about the past and present. We see this happen, for example, in the fiction of E. L. Doctorow, who frequently takes historical individuals and places them in wholly imaginative situations. The most famous example of this tendency occurs in Ragtime, when Doctorow has Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, two men who changed the way we think about sexuality and the mind, riding the Tunnel of Love together in Coney Island—something that did not happen when the two visited the United States in the early 1900s.
Of course, alternate history—especially the kind that plays with history only slightly—can confuses readers who are unfamiliar with the past. For example, a few years ago, my wife and I watched The Young Victoria, a fine film about the courtship of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert written by Downton Abbey’s Julian Fellowes. At the climax of the film, Albert takes an assassin’s bullet for Victoria, thus demonstrating his character and selfless love for her. The scene is very powerful and moving, but ultimately fictional. For viewers unfamiliar with British royal history, the scene has the potential to warp their misunderstanding of the past.
I think this happens a lot. A few weeks ago I posted a Mormon Shorts comic on Agnes Lloyd Pratt, the Bearded Bride of Mormonism. As recounted in the comic, Agnes was a bearded Mormon woman who rose to fame as a performer on the Salt Lake Theater stage, a plural wife of Elder Orson Pratt, and an attraction in Barnum’s Travelling Museum. The comic has since become the most popular comic on the Mormon Shorts Tumblr feed, having accrued (at the time of this writing) a modest 86 notes. (To further self-promote: You can also listen to me talk about creating the Agnes Lloyd Pratt comic here.)
The story, I’m sad to report, is not true. While a tiny fraction of it is based on true circumstances, the most interesting parts of it sprang from my imagination. Still, almost immediately after I posted it, I received messages from readers asking where they could go to learn more about Agnes. As a quirky, iconoclastic character, she seemed to represent a type that many people want to see in Mormons past and present. Alternate histories often work, after all, because they provide a version of the past that audiences want to believe in.
The promises and perils of historical fiction, including alternate history stories, give it an interesting place in Mormon literature. As far as Mormon historical fiction goes, Mormon writers have favored a kind of Walter Scott approach to the historical novel, inserting fictional main characters into the pageantry of Mormon history. Usually, these works are well documented with endnotes and other metahistorical devices to help the reader separate fact from fiction. As William pointed out, though, some Mormon writers are finding this approach an unsatisfactory way to respond to current events. Indeed, as I argued last year at the AML conference, the latest crop of alternate Mormon history stories seems to “call into question what we know about history and the act of constructing narratives and metanarratives” while also “show[ing] an indifference to historical fact or employ[ing] suspect narration” as a way to “[misdirect] readers with unreliable narrators and red herrings that foreground how little we know or think we know about the lives and motives of our forebears.”
For some people, this sort of deliberate fact-fudging is dangerous business—especially when Mormon history is concerned. When there is already enough controversy over how many personages appeared at the First Vision, where the Book of Mormon or Book of Abraham came from, and whether or not Brigham Young was transfigured to look like Joseph Smith, our tendency is to try to get down to the facts and consider what actually happened. Alternate history stories—especially when they intentionally transgress the historical record—throw us off the trail of truth and make getting to the “what actually happened” even harder. Some people might even argue that there is something malicious about a story designed to look and sound like history. For them, there is no fine line between a work of fiction and a hoax.
I understand someone’s desire to get at the “truth” of what really happened in the past, especially when that “truth” seems inextricably tied to his or her commitment to greater eternal Truths. However, I also think such a person needs to be careful when he or she permits historical narratives, which evolve by nature, to serve as a cornerstone of faith. For me, faith is best served when it is grounded in transcendent personal encounters with the Divine (i.e. spiritual experience) and not a human record from someone else’s pen. (Sacred history, to be sure, can certainly have a role in faith—but that’s a subject for another post.)
For this reason, I think we need more Mormon historical fiction that plays with and willfully transgresses the historical record. Mormon alternate history stories, while potentially hazardous to the incurious who don’t google, have the potential to teach Mormon readers how to become better critical readers of Mormon history by encouraging them not only to chase historical sources, but also to reflect on the close (and often uncomfortable) relationship between fiction- and history-writing. Moreover, they foreground gaps that exist in the historical record that, while irretrievably lost, serve to remind us that history is never complete—that it is an ever-unfolding story, a patchwork always open to insightful additions as we come to understand our forebears and ourselves better.
Let’s not forget Lee Allred, whose “For the Strength of the Hills” reimagines the Utah War as an actual shooting battle, which was published in Irreantum (among other venues) and finalist for the Sideways Award for Alternate History. Among his many alternate history stories, Lee has also imagined Joseph Smith’s run for president as a success.
I mentioned “For the Strength of the Hills” in an earlier draft, but for some reason I left it out of the final. I think the reasoning was that I wanted to focus only on what’s been published in the last few years.
But the story would definitely be an example of the kind of work I’m writing about here.
“For the Strength of the Hills” is fantastic.
Great post, Scott. I’m especially interested in this: “It also recognizes that historical people and situations can function as overdetermined figures that, when played with, allow writers to say something meaningful about the past and present.”
I like to, and would like to cause others to, re-imagine Mormon history to help us better understand that our present is not the only present that could exist that thereby we can better imagine different futures.
And just in case anyone is curious, I do still plan on doing a mini, fiction anthology of alternate Mormon history, but I want to provide a token payment to authors and so am waiting until late spring/early summer to figure out timing because I need to see if I can pull together the funds to make it happen this year.
Good post. My favorite line: “I… think [we need] to be careful when [we permit] historical narratives, which evolve by nature, to serve as a cornerstone of faith.” I think that perhaps sometimes our history is *meant* to trouble us, meant to make us question what it means to be a believer. But I’m not sure exactly what I mean by that, so…
In our cataloging of alternate Mormon histories, let’s not forget Orson Scott Card’s Alvin Maker books, which represent an alternate and magical American history with the figure of Joseph Smith transposed (translated?) into a fantasy setting. Scott H, if you haven’t read them, you should definitely read at least the first two as they represent an importantly different way of reformulating Mormonness and Mormon identity in many of the ways you’re talking about.
And what is it, really, that alternate histories do? Certainly there’s often, perhaps usually, a spirit of playfulness involved. I also think, however, that there’s often a sense that by changing the particulars, one is in some sense freed to identify what is essential about identity (group or individual, even of a historical figure such as George Washington–still a hero in Card’s narrative, though the specifics of his actions are different).
All of which suggests to me that while alternate history can serve to problematize our awareness of history–pointing out the gaps in knowledge, as you state–it can and often does also serve less postmodern goals.
I’ve read the first two books about a decade ago, and I remember enjoying them. What’s really kept me from reading more of them, aside from the fact that I’m not a fan of Card’s writing, is that they aren’t more overtly Mormon.
I like how Card provides an alternate American universe, and I like how he takes the magical worldview Joseph Smith grew up in and makes it real, I just wish he had used Joseph Smith instead of Alvin Maker. That would’ve made it more interesting to me personally. I understand, though, that others might not feel the same way. And I also understand why Card wouldn’t take that route.
Jonathan, you state: “I also think, however, that there’s often a sense that by changing the particulars, one is in some sense freed to identify what is essential about identity” This is interesting, but I’m not sure I get entirely what you are saying. Can you clarify?
Are you suggesting that alternate histories allow us to give emphasis to past individuals or events 1) to underscore their role in developments that have shaped how we understand ourselves as individuals or groups, and 2) to show what remains constant (essential) about ourselves (our character, values, beliefs, etc.) despite the effects of an alternate course of events?
Hi Scott,
Your #2, I think, comes closest to capturing what I meant. Let me illustrate:
In the case I mentioned (George Washington), hearing about his self-sacrifice in Card’s alternate version–refusing the attack Tom Jefferson’s band of rebels, with the words “My American sword will never shed American blood,” and then going back to his superior officers knowing that he would be executed as a result–gives us a different version of the George Washington we knew, but one who is nonetheless both noble and altruistic in ways that reinforce our mythic stories about him as America’s founder. Even though we as readers know that our George Washington didn’t do this, we still get an (illogical but nonetheless real) sense that we have come to know our own George Washington a little bit better, and thus American history better. And I can’t help but think that a desire to do this (conscious or not) was part of what was operating in Card as he included that detail.
More specifically with regard to Mormon history… because we as Mormon readers can’t help (after a certain point) but read Alvin Miller (now Alvin Smith, by the way, as of the later books) as a version of Joseph Smith, we can’t help but look at his actions of community-building in the later books in light of what we know about Nauvoo et al., and see and be reinforced in their commonalities. Or to take an example from the earlier books: Alvin’s dream in Eight-Face Mound reinforces elements of our understanding of Lehi’s vision, just as the slaughter of the innocents powerfully powerfully dramatizes the similar incident in the Book of Mormon featuring the anti-Nephi-Lehies. Though I suppose those last two aren’t “alternate history” per se, since they’ve been yanked out of their historical context before being plugged into Card’s narrative.
All these examples are from Card’s works, though I think the same thing happens anytime you create an alternate history–or any kind of fiction that features fictionalized but recognizable elements from real life (as we think of it) that already have an important meaning to us. That is to say, regardless of the changes involved — or perhaps *because of* those changes — any areas of commonality will tend to work powerfully on us as readers to reinforce what we already believed about those events, patterns, and people. Thus, the Eliza Roxey (sp?) from City of the Saints, radically different though she is from the historical Eliza R. Snow, nonetheless reinforces our sense of Snow’s deep intelligence and competence (something we already know/believe about the historical Snow), even though it manifests itself in radically different ways.
There’s a paper in all this, one I was actually planning to write before my academic career derailed. Maybe I should brush that off sometime that I don’t have too many other projects in the works… Anyway, I hope this clarifies at least to some extent what I was trying to say, although I feel like I’m still stumbling around the idea somewhat.
Thanks! That clarifies things.
And you should write that paper.
Jonathan, you should totally write that paper. Sounds excellent and timely.
I read about five of them, and yes, the first two are the important ones. It’s downhill from there, and I like Card’s writing for the most part. The latter ones are novels in length but short stories in scope. Maybe that’s the virtue of them, I don’t know.
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I wish I read this post yesterday. I was undecided whether to post my Benchley post or an althistory one. Apparently, I chose wrong.
Personally, I find althistory simply pleasurable, mixing the known (history) with the unknown (fiction). I find similar pleasure in, say, reading The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (new fiction featuring intersections from the work of Verne, Wells, Stoker, Stephenson, etc) or a radical reimagining of Sherlock Holmes. Like the historical versions discussed, these works help me understand what it is about older works of fiction that makes them matter to me.
“Lee has also imagined Joseph Smith’s run for president as a success.”
Dang it! I’ve been kicking this idea around for years. Back to the drawing board, it looks like.
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I imagine we’ve room for two.
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Thinking more about this, it seems to me that althistory as discussed can fall into the same liminal space as, say, autobiographical fiction or Steve Peck’s Gilda Trillim or the authorship of Enid or the identity of Mormon X or a too-convincing newly discovered work by Jane Austen: the same aspects of these works that might make people believe particaularly in these fictions also draw stark attention to the fact that they are all foma—and some people are very uncomfortable with the idea of a “harmless” untruth. Moving from the former understanding to the latter can feel like a betrayal. A similar betrayal, say, to the waves that may accompany a twenty-five-year-old’s discovery that Joseph Smith was a polygamist.
Which, I suppose, is both the danger and the usefulness.
I agree.
Thanks for feeding my brain this morning, Scott. Lots here to unpack and ruminate on.