Here’s how I think about learning from past historiography: It’s like I’m standing on the shoulders of giants. Every time I write something, whether it’s a historical novel, a well-researched non-fiction book, or even just building a really detailed backstory for a character, I’m working with history. But it’s not enough to just read history. True mastery comes from learning from historiography – which means understanding not just what happened, but how our understanding of what happened has changed over time. It’s not about memorizing a bunch of dates; it’s about seeing the actual structure of historical thought, recognizing its biases, celebrating its breakthroughs, and ultimately, using all that knowledge to see further. It makes me a more discerning, insightful, and resonant storyteller.
Let me put it this way: If primary sources are my raw materials, and secondary sources are the finished products, then historiography is the blueprint for how those products were put together. It’s the manufacturing process itself, and even the evolving customer feedback that led to design changes over time. I see a lot of writers fall into the trap of just uncritically taking secondary sources at face value, presenting them as undisputed truth. My goal here is to help us break that habit and equip us with the tools to become truly sophisticated consumers and creators of historical narrative.
The Foundation: Deconstructing Historical Narratives
Before I can build something new, I need to understand what it is I’m building on. This means moving beyond just passively reading and into actively deconstructing what I’m seeing.
1. Beyond the “What”: Identifying the “Why” and the “How” of Historical Accounts
Most historical texts tell me “what happened.” But a great writer understands the “why” and “how” behind those particular accounts.
So, what I do: When I’m reading a historical work, I always ask myself:
* What was the general intellectual vibe when this was written? (For example, a Cold War history of the Russian Revolution is probably going to emphasize different things than one written after the Soviet Union fell apart).
* What was the author’s background, their training, and any potential political leanings they might have had? (A diplomat’s history of international relations will definitely be different from an economist’s).
* Which primary sources did they really focus on, and which ones did they leave out or downplay? (Did they rely heavily on official government documents, or did they seek out diaries and personal letters?)
* Who was this book for? (A popular history for general readers will simplify complex issues much more than an academic monograph).
* What was the main theory of history at play here? (A Marxist historian who really emphasizes economic determinism will frame events differently than someone who believes in the “Great Man” theory, focusing on individual leaders).
A concrete example I think about: I consider two histories of the American Civil War: James McPherson’s Battle Cry of Freedom (1988) and Ulrich B. Phillips’ American Negro Slavery (1918). McPherson meticulously details the complex causes, including slavery’s absolute centrality, drawing on a huge range of primary sources and benefiting from decades of civil rights scholarship. Phillips, a product of his era, emphasized economic justifications for slavery and presented enslaved people as largely content, reflecting the prevailing racist views and relying on planters’ records. When I look at both of these, I don’t just see contrasting narratives; I see the huge shift in historical methodology, ethical considerations, and how we access primary sources that happened between 1918 and 1988. Understanding why Phillips wrote what he did, and why McPherson’s account largely replaced it, is absolutely crucial for me.
2. Unmasking Bias: Subjectivity as a Historical Constant
I know that true objectivity in history is something we aspire to, but it’s not actually a reality. Every historian, whether they mean to or not, brings their own perspectives. Recognizing this isn’t being cynical; it’s being practical.
Here’s my approach for any historical work I read:
* I look for clear statements of purpose or argument. What is this author trying to prove?
* I watch out for loaded language or emotional appeals. Are certain groups consistently shown as good or bad without any real nuanced explanation?
* I analyze how they select and present evidence. Do they only show evidence that supports their point, or do they acknowledge things that go against it and explain why they still stand by their argument?
* I consider what information might be missing. Whose voices aren’t here? Which perspectives aren’t being explored?
Another concrete example: When I read an essay from the early 20th century about westward expansion in the U.S., I might notice terms like “taming the wilderness” or “manifest destiny” being used without question. The “bias” isn’t necessarily evil, but it clearly reflects a Eurocentric viewpoint that mostly ignores the displacement and genocide of Indigenous populations. When I recognize this, I’m not just seeing an outdated view; I’m understanding how societal narratives are built and how I can avoid repeating those same blind spots in my own work. I learn to actively seek out and include Indigenous perspectives that were historically pushed aside.
The Evolution: Tracing Methodological and Interpretive Shifts
Historiography isn’t just static. It’s a lively, often argumentative intellectual space where new evidence, new theories, and new ethical considerations are always reshaping how we understand things.
3. Periodization of Thought: Understanding “Schools” and Paradigms
Just like history itself has different periods, so does historical interpretation. Recognizing these “schools of thought” really helps me put individual works into context.
What I do to understand this: I familiarize myself with the major historical schools and what they’re generally about:
* Whig History: It’s progressive, linear, and basically says everything leads inevitably to the present. (Often portrays history as a march towards freedom or progress).
* Annales School: This one focuses on long-term structures, mentalities, everyday life, challenging the focus on “great men” and political events.
* Marxist History: It emphasizes economic forces, class struggle, and ideas like dialectical materialism.
* Cultural History: This explores symbols, rituals, beliefs, and people’s lived experiences.
* Post-Colonial History: It critiques Eurocentric narratives and puts the experiences of colonized peoples front and center.
* Gender History/Women’s History: This examines the role of gender and challenges history that’s been dominated by male narratives.
A concrete example: If I’m researching the French Revolution, I might first find an early 19th-century text that portrays it primarily as a struggle for individual liberty (that’s Whig history). Later, I’d find a Marxist interpretation that really focuses on economic inequality and the bourgeois revolution. Then, maybe a cultural history exploring how the symbolism of the tricolor cockade changed. And finally, a gender history might highlight the role of women in the Revolution, which was often overlooked in earlier accounts. By understanding these shifts, I get a multi-dimensional view. I see the Revolution not as a fixed event, but as a complex phenomenon that’s reinterpreted through new lenses over time. I learn that my own work can actually contribute to an evolving understanding, rather than just repeating what’s already been said.
4. The Impact of New Evidence and Technologies
History isn’t just about reinterpreting things; it’s about making new discoveries. New primary sources, archaeological finds, and technological advancements can totally change what we understand.
What I consider here:
* For any period I’m studying, I try to research significant archival discoveries. What new documents came to light, and when?
* I think about the impact of forensic science, carbon dating, or DNA analysis on historical understanding.
* I ask: When was this information available to the historian I’m reading? Could new evidence have come out since their book was published?
Another concrete example: The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls completely reshaped our understanding of early Judaism and the origins of Christianity. Before that, scholars relied on later, often biased, accounts. Similarly, DNA analysis of skeletons from the Black Death helped confirm the prevalence of Yersinia pestis, settling long-standing debates about the disease’s pathogen. If I’m writing about the ancient Middle East or medieval plagues and I don’t account for these developments, I’m basically working with an outdated map. Understanding when certain information became available and its impact helps me create more accurate and compelling narratives.
5. Critiquing the Consensus: Identifying and Challenging Orthodoxy
Historians often build a consensus around a particular interpretation. Learning from historiography means understanding why that consensus formed, and where it might be weak or incomplete.
Here’s how I approach this:
* I identify the prevailing narrative on my topic. What’s the “standard” story taught in textbooks?
* I actively seek out revisionist historians. Who is challenging the accepted view, and on what basis are they doing it?
* I evaluate the strength of the evidence presented by both the consensus and the revisionists. Is the revisionist argument just being contrarian, or is it based on compelling new data or a more robust way of thinking?
A real-world example: For decades, the conventional wisdom about the “Dark Ages” in Europe was one of intellectual stagnation and decline after the fall of Rome. Later historiography, though, championed by scholars like John S. Mbiti and Patrick Wormald, started to highlight the vibrant intellectual and cultural developments during this period, especially in monastic communities and early Islamic empires, and the continued flow of classical knowledge. When I encounter this shift, I’m not just learning new facts about the “Dark Ages”; I’m learning how a powerful, long-standing, and largely negative label was carefully dismantled and replaced with a much more nuanced understanding. I learn the power of questioning assumptions and looking beneath the surface.
The Application: Standing on Shoulders
Now that I’ve broken down and understood how historical thought has evolved, it’s time to use that knowledge in my own writing.
6. Informing My Research Strategy: Beyond Serendipity
My understanding of historiography directly guides how I search for primary and secondary sources.
My steps for this:
* I use historiographical essays or the introductions to academic works as a kind of roadmap. These often discuss the existing scholarship and point out any gaps.
* I prioritize sources that engage with recent scholarship. I don’t just grab the first book I see on a topic; I check its publication date and its bibliography.
* I actively seek out diverse perspectives. If there’s a common narrative, I specifically look for dissenting voices or viewpoints that have been marginalized. If I find a gap (like no accounts from women of a certain period), that might be a rich area for my own creative exploration.
* I don’t just read bibliographies; I analyze them. What kinds of sources do different historians use? Why?
A concrete example: Let’s say I want to write about the experience of marginalized groups in Victorian London. Instead of just picking up the most popular biography of Queen Victoria, I’d actively look for historiographical analyses of social history, labor history, and the history of poverty. I’d look for works that specifically mention sources like parliamentary reports on working conditions, police records, or the memoirs of impoverished individuals, rather than just official court documents. This targeted approach, informed by understanding what kinds of histories have already been written and what perspectives are still underrepresented, saves me a huge amount of time and leads to much richer material.
7. Crafting Nuance: Avoiding Presentism and Anachronism
Historiography teaches me empathy for people in the past and intellectual humility about my own modern judgments. If I ignore it, my narratives will be simplistic and often anachronistic.
What I actively work on:
* I try to recognize the “mentalités” of different eras. How did people then understand the world? What were their values, beliefs, and limitations?
* I avoid judging historical figures solely by modern standards. While I don’t excuse moral failings, I try to understand the context in which they happened.
* I’m very aware of anachronistic language or concepts. A medieval peasant wouldn’t have understood “social mobility” in the same way I do.
A real-world illustration: When I’m writing about the early abolitionist movement, with my understanding of historiography, I wouldn’t portray all figures as uniformly enlightened. I’d recognize the complex and often contradictory motivations involved, the gradual shift in moral understanding, and the presence of paternalistic attitudes even among those fighting against slavery. I’d avoid putting modern concepts of intersectionality into an 18th-century mind, instead showing the evolution of such ideas, or the seeds from which they grew. This keeps my characters from feeling like cardboard cutouts dressed up in old clothes.
8. Developing My Unique Voice and Contribution
I’m not just repeating history; I’m interpreting it, synthesizing it, and presenting it in my own unique voice. This is where standing on those shoulders really allows me to see further.
My process for this:
* After thoroughly understanding the existing scholarship, I try to identify the “gap” I want to address. Is there an overlooked perspective? A new angle on a familiar story? A way to combine different pieces of research?
* I consider how my chosen genre (fiction, non-fiction, a memoir mixed with history) interacts with the historical record. How can I translate the complexities of historiography into a compelling story?
* I articulate my own thesis or main argument. Even in historical fiction, my underlying interpretation of events shapes the narrative. What new insight am I bringing?
* I decide whether I want to be explicit or implicit about my engagement with past scholarship. In non-fiction, that means footnotes. In fiction, it means the depth of my characters’ motivations, the accuracy of my world-building, and the thematic resonance of my story.
A concrete example: Imagine I’m working on a historical novel about a marginalized community, and I know that previous histories have either ignored this group or just stereotyped them. Through deep historiographical research, I’ve found primary sources from within that community (like oral histories or really rare personal papers). My novel doesn’t just present these new facts; it uses them to challenge the stereotypes, explore the community’s inner workings, and give a voice to perspectives that were previously silenced. I’m not merely retelling history; I am actively reshaping its popular understanding, building upon the foundational work that made these sources accessible while diverging from the dominant narrative. This is what I mean by standing on shoulders, and then confidently striding forward.
The Power of Informed Storytelling
Learning from past historiography transforms me from someone who just writes down facts into an informed, critical, and responsible storyteller. It gives my writing depth, nuance, and a truly authentic understanding of the human experience across time. I learn not just what has been said, but why it was said, what was left unsaid, and what still needs to be explored. This critical lens helps me avoid common mistakes, develop more compelling narratives, and ultimately, contribute meaningfully to the ongoing conversation of history. By diligently engaging with the evolution of historical thought, I gain the intellectual framework to build narratives that resonate, challenge, and endure. Only by truly understanding the path that has been walked can I choose my own with purpose and confidence.