Finding Unn: Writing Historical Fiction

I was browsing a bookstore in Reykjavik when I picked up the Laxdala Saga. In its opening pages, I met Unn the Deep-Minded — and I was thunderstruck. Here was a woman who did extraordinary, courageous things to bring her family to safety in Iceland. A woman married to the founder of Dublin. What a life.

I couldn't let go of her. That brief description hinted at someone remarkable, and within a week I had decided to tell her story. A plot took shape quickly in my mind, but the question that stayed with me was how to do Unn Ketilsdottir justice.

I set a few rules for myself. First, the story had to be as culturally and historically accurate as possible — and this is where the character Dr. Snorri Grimmson became crucial. Second, I wanted Unn to be a woman of her own time and place, not a modern one. I knew this might make her seem distant or even unlikeable to some readers, but I wanted to give her my best representation of a ninth-century Viking woman of status. Her world, her values, and her choices stand in deliberate contrast to those of the modern therapist and her patient who frame the novel.

My third rule: the story had to be genuinely gripping. Writers are often told to write the book they most want to read — and I knew exactly what kind of story I wanted. The problem was that I knew very little about writing fiction. I'll come back to that.

The first two rules sent me deep into research. I sought out sources and read for months, taking careful notes. Working only in English — I know perhaps fifty words of Norwegian and almost no Icelandic or Old Norse — I turned to the sagas, the Prose and Poetic Edda, the Heimskringla, the Landnámabók, and cultural histories of ninth-century life. I explored the roles of Norse women and the folktales of possession in old Iceland. My husband and I traveled the North Atlantic many times, seeking out the sense of place that Unn's story demanded.

As the research came together, I plunged into the writing. At a writers' workshop, I met Mary Sojourner. She read some of my pages and asked — with good humor — "You want to learn to write fiction?" Her guidance and editorial eye were invaluable. Through her, I learned what it truly means to tell a story.

In that process, Unn and the other characters began to speak to me, each in their own voice. Snorri Grimmson, for instance, serves as historian, giving the reader the cultural and historical context that Unn herself cannot provide. But he is also a puckish, curious man, eager to know both Ina and Unn on his own terms.

Unn herself speaks in the manner of the sagas. She is sparing with humor and never boastful — bragging is unseemly in the saga tradition. Triumph and tragedy alike are treated lightly; praise comes from others, never from oneself. Her long partnership with Vilfil is clear in the telling, but never explicitly sexual. All of this is true to the Icelandic tradition she comes from.

In other ways, Unn is deeply foreign to modern sensibilities. She has little patience for sympathy or emotion. She can be arrogant, harsh, and calculating. She speaks of killing without remorse. She lived the life expected of her — until her son was murdered. Her rise to leadership was not a story of personal liberation, but of necessity: the fierce, practical care of her family.

And yet, in her toughness and resourcefulness, Unn speaks across the centuries. She reminds us to live fully and to fight for those we love most. She is not easy company — but she is unforgettable.