Finding the Soul of a Place: Bringing History to Life 

Guest Post by Pamela Pan —

A well-written historical novel makes us see, hear, and taste a bygone time and place. Shop signs, rickety carts, the aroma of soup being prepared—all come alive when an author grasps the soul of a setting. Here I share techniques I’ve found effective in achieving that goal. 

Know the Place Firsthand 

For historical fiction, the physical environment—landscape, climate, architecture—is often the most reliable witness. Traveling to the setting is one of the most useful ways to understand its essence. Firsthand knowledge not only makes our descriptions richer but also influences how we develop our characters.  

In my current project Goodbye Shanghai, a young man and woman from Shanghai answer Chairman Mao’s call to “go up to the mountains and down to the countryside” during the Cultural Revolution. They venture to Beidahuang, a remote northern region of China bordering the Soviet Union. There, they become farm workers, helping to produce desperately needed food after the country’s three-year famine. 

I had read many articles and books about the period and Beidahuang, yet none of that research prepared me for what I felt when I finally stood there. Before me stretched vast, ocean-like fields of red sorghum. Beneath my feet ran the dirt roads of the farm where some of the educated youths—the zhiqing—once labored. The one-story dormitories of mud and brick remained, their walls bearing the whitewashed slogans: Defend the borders. Cultivate the Land. Fight Against Imperialism. Battle Against Revisionism. 

My guides took me to the common room, a large indoor space where the zhiqing had created their own cultural life—performing stories and poems they wrote, rehearsing comedic skits, staging operas, and giving musical recitals with instruments brought from home or made by hand. At a nearby restaurant, I tasted some of their favorite foods: buns made with corn and yam flour, bean noodles with pickled cabbage, tree-ear mushrooms simmered with short ribs. 

The trip transformed how I perceived zhiqing. I had thought of their lives as defined by hardship, misery, and longing for home. True, but far from the whole truth. These young people—creative, energetic, resilient—led lives far fuller and richer than I had imagined. They created art in the wilderness. They took pride in the ditches they dug, roads they built, and countless tons of wheat and soybeans they produced to sustain the population. 

I had pictured them as having been swept there by forces beyond their control. My visit showed me they refused to see themselves as victims. They took control of their lives. Without traveling there, my understanding—and my story—would have been incomplete. 

Talk to People about Your Project 

Research breakthroughs often come through chance encounters. Talking about a project can open doors we never knew existed. My visit to Beidahuang was made possible through an unforeseen connection. 

I had long wanted to travel there, but the obstacles felt overwhelming. Beidahuang remains remote even today. Reaching it requires days of travel by plane, train, and bus. Compounding the difficulty, I knew no one on the farms where the zhiqing had worked. Even if I managed to get there, I feared I would see only fields and dilapidated buildings stripped of context, their meanings inaccessible. 

I often shared this desire and frustration with my husband. One day, during a phone call with a former professor in Shanghai, my husband mentioned my interest in Beidahuang. She said, “Your wife is interested in Beidahuang? My husband went there as a zhiqing.” 

Her husband, now in his seventies, was thrilled someone from my generation wanted to write about that experience. I interviewed him. He shared the notes and photos from those years and offered practical travel advice. He introduced me to an old friend, a former zhiqing who remained in Beidahuang. That man brought another former zhiqing who worked on the very farm we visited. He pointed out his old dormitory and the large drying yard where he labored. They told stories I could never have invented. 

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t shared my project.  

Use First-Person Accounts 

First-person accounts provide insights into experiences often invisible in historical records. By hearing individual voices, we understand how people feel, what they think, and what they value. Such accounts allow us to live inside history rather than looking back at it. 

In fact, my desire to write Goodbye Shanghai began with a firsthand story. A few years ago, at a gathering, I introduced myself to an older gentleman and mentioned I was a writer. Until then, I had read zhiqing narratives about life in Beidahuang but had never met anyone who had actually been there. 

“I have a story for you,” he said.  

I visited him with a recorder. He recounted how, under the 1968 “all red” policy, which sent large numbers of young people to the countryside, he and his wife spent ten years in Beidahuang. The first advice they received after arrival was, “If you’re walking and feel a paw touch your shoulder from behind, do not look back. Take out your knife and drive it into the creature’s belly.” 

The creature was almost always a hungry wolf. If you turned around, it could tear out your throat in seconds. 

He spoke of learning to spread manure, of dreading nighttime trips to the outhouse in temperatures thirty degrees below freezing, of moments when he nearly lost his life—details no book had ever taught me. 

That day, I decided Beidahuang’s history should not be forgotten. 

After my trip, I sought more first-person accounts. The professor’s husband recommended several books documenting individual zhiqing experiences there. Many included photographs, showing the exact hairstyles, clothing, and the interiors of the 1960s–70s Beidahuang. 

By visiting the place, talking to those who lived there, and using first-person accounts, I stepped into the lives of my characters and their world. For historical fiction writers, these methods transform settings from a backdrop into a living world—breathing, whispering, and shaping the joys, fears, and dreams of its people.