Would Abigail have wanted her baby?

Not, I try to make clear, in the world to which she has been returned, which is, according to Abigail Buwell and because of what she experienced in it, no world to be born into and one which Abigail Buwell will refuse to belong to.

How did you balance the terrible weight of the story with the small periods of joy, as seen in Abigail’s memories during captivity?

Tragedy without the counterpart of joy is always lessened; poignancy demands an underside to tragedy that reveals what was possible, what was hoped—what might have been—and what was fulfilled. Because the narrative arc is structured in such a way that its conclusion is foretold—the novel looks back on what fate has made familiar—Abigail Buwell’s joyous memories were made to balance, at least in part, what you call the story’s “terrible weight”; added to that balancing act are Cutter’s letters to his wife. Abigail’s memories and Cutter’s contemplations are somewhat like epiphanies: both allow a glimpse of human dignity, a depth of feeling, that circumstance and history do not.

Underneath all the suffering, isn’t there a small love story?

There are several very small love stories, as there always are, given the human condition. The journalist Reed Gabriel becomes smitten by Abigail Buwell, who is more considerate of him than he ever knows; Abigail’s relationship with Eugene Buwell touches upon the fringes of love; her love for the man who is the father of her children is a given. Her relationship with Major Robert Cutter has a great basis for love—trust—while Cutter’s undying love for his wife is something utterly heartrending.

What do you consider Major Cutter’s most redeeming qualities? His faults?

Cutter’s most redeeming qualities are his capacity for reflection and his deep sense of loyalty. An officer who no longer believes in his mission, Cutter sees that circumstances are beyond his control, knows that he should abandon the outpost, and yet awaits orders. He’s a man of conscience who is at odds with his times, and he desperately tries to balance his bitter realization of this with reason. If he has a fault, it is his insularity, which mirrors Abigail Buwell’s.

Could Cole, also an outcast, have protected Abigail? Or did her ferocity offer all the protection she needed?

Cole knows things; he’s the most prescient character in the novel. Because he’s also an outcast, except in Cutter’s eyes, Cole understands Abigail Buwell’s plight and protects her the only way he can—which also saves Cutter and the outpost from a possible mutiny—but he also understands that, no matter what, her fate is sealed. Only Abigail Buwell’s dignity, which is ferocious, affords her the courage to refuse her redemption; that refusal both saves her from the society to which she is returned and dooms her.

Did you intend the female characters to make a statement about their roles in that particular society? For all their differences, what did these women have in common?

What I’ve tried to make evident (in lieu of any statement) is the obvious: that under harsh conditions, for complex reasons, women (and, by extension, children) tend to suffer differently than, and frequently at the hands of, men. The three women on the outpost in this novel (Abigail Buwell, her fellow captive Constance Smith, and the outpost’s washerwoman, Maria) react each in a unique way to their lot; they have varying capacities for resilience and dissimilar ways of struggling against a very bleak existence.

The reporter, Reed Gabriel, is as familiar a figure today as he was in the novel. Was his curiosity a disguise for self-aggrandizement?

Reed Gabriel is after a story, and his impulse to get to the bottom of things is as admirable as his desire for success is relentless. He’s a man of feeling, and a man who is hard; his contradictions give him a fragility and an edge that make him all too human.

I found Abigail’s strength of character and ability to survive fascinating. Did you have a favorite character when writing the book?

Abigail Buwell and Major Robert Cutter, who came to reflect one another in curious, apposite ways as they evolved, were—and remain—my favorite characters.

How did you research your novel?

I read, in a very haphazard manner, captivity narratives (of boys, girls, and women), Civil War fiction and history, frontier histories and pioneer accounts, some Native American history and folklore, military journals and diaries from the post-Civil War period, books on fort architecture, emigrant trail stories, and the occasional book on 19th-century psychiatry and asylums. What stayed with me when writing the novel, however, was the strangeness of the past.

What did you find the most challenging aspect of writing Blue Horse Dreaming?

Translating what I call the strangeness of the past into something coherent was the greatest challenge. The label “historical fiction” is a frightening one, precisely because in any re-creation of history the fantastic creeps in; giving in to that reality was critical.

Have you already started another novel? If so, is the process easier or more difficult this time?

I’m almost finished with Freefall, a book about life in the agrarian village on southern Evia (in Greece) where I’ve lived the last few years; it’s also a book about the past, and about identity, memory, language, Otherness, and the nature of return—concerns central to Blue Horse Dreaming. I’d say the process of writing Freefall has been more problematic, as nonfiction does not allow for the fantastic; the book is also, in part, a personal account, which creates its own difficulties because I’m an intensely private person.

Your publisher, MacAdam/Cage, offers a unique opportunity for new authors of quality fiction. Considering the competition in the market, has MacAdam/Cage been a good fit for an author like you, with a particular vision?

MacAdam/Cage has been a perfect fit: David Poindexter and his staff are dedicated to a kind of literary fiction that deserves an audience, despite and because of its unconventionality; the fact that MacAdam/Cage is there allows writers to write outside of certain narrative restrictions and (perceived popular) contexts, and still stand a chance. That chance is all we need, for we all write for those who don't, or who can't, and we write to be read: MacAdam/Cage provides us that, as well as unqualified support, deft - and extraordinarily attuned - editors, and a dedicated promotions staff.

Any tips to pass along to would-be writers?

Keep writing.