Colin Mustful introduces Alvin Arnold, the fictional reporter at the center of his sixth novel, and reflects on the challenge of creating a character who can carry history’s emotional weight. Part character sketch and part craft meditation, this post invites readers into the early shaping of a life, a voice, and a story.
In the summer of 2012, Colin Mustful found himself in an uncertain in-between season—disillusioned by work, discouraged by publishing, and doing manual labor on a farm in Spain. The manifesto he wrote then became more than a private outburst. It marked a turning point in the path that would shape everything that followed.
As I work on my sixth novel, I’ve been thinking about bonanza farming not as a separate agricultural story, but as part of the longer aftermath of the U.S.-Dakota War of 1862. The exile of the Dakota made possible a more complete transfer of land to white settlement, and bonanza farming reveals what that transformed world eventually became.
Colin Mustful shares a spring update on his sixth novel, explaining why manuscript progress has been slower than hoped while History Through Fiction grows and marathon training fills the early mornings. Reflecting on recovery, limits, and the value of difficult things, he argues that challenge does not only consume time—it also deepens life.
How do you turn research into a scene readers can actually feel? In this post, Colin Mustful shows how secondary and primary sources become compelling historical fiction.
When I first began writing historical fiction, I believed my primary responsibility was accuracy—building timelines, verifying events, and making sure the history lined up. But over time I’ve come to realize that history alone can’t carry a story. In this post, I reflect on how my approach to historical fiction has shifted and why, even after six novels, I’m still learning to let characters lead.
For years, I believed history itself could carry a novel. I trusted the record, the facts, the scaffolding of real events. But as I begin outlining my latest book, I’ve realized something unexpected: I’m not just a historian telling a story — I’m a plotter building one. In this post, I reflect on the shift from documenting events to shaping emotional truth — and what that means for the kind of novelist I’m becoming.
In the 1880s, the Dakota—exiled from Minnesota “forever” after the U.S.–Dakota War—began to return. Some had never left. Others rebuilt communities alongside settlers who still carried fear, grief, and anger from 1862. In this first writing update of 2026, I explore the overlooked aftermath of the war and ask what it meant for Minnesotans—Native and Euro-American alike—to live together again.
From Dakota to Dixie: George Buswell’s Civil War presents the diaries of Minnesota soldier George W. Buswell, chronicling his service from the U.S.–Dakota War of 1862 to the Western Theater of the Civil War and later as an officer in a United States Colored Troops regiment—a rare, firsthand window into Minnesota’s Civil War experience.
Born into slavery but destined to help build a city, James Thompson’s journey from bondage to freedom is one of resilience, skill, and courage. As a carpenter, interpreter, and early settler, he helped lay the literal and cultural foundations of St. Paul, Minnesota. His story reminds us that the roots of our cities are richer—and more diverse—than most history books tell.