History is not a shortage of remarkable women. It is a shortage of historians willing to look. For more than a decade, I have been looking — in the shipping ledgers of Plymouth and Brest, in the log books of the East India Company, in the testimony transcripts of admiralty courts where names appear once and then vanish entirely. The fiction I write is built on what those documents actually say.
My next novel, The Last Daughter of the Sea, begins with a different set of documents: the Linear B tablets of Knossos, where women appear by name, holding authority over grain, textiles and provisioning, and then stop appearing when the palaces fall. I am not interested in the mythology that replaced them. I am interested in who kept the records anyway.
The same principle governs every book I write. When a ship sails a particular course, that course is charted. When a character caulks a seam in a particular manner, that is how seams were caulked on that class of vessel in that decade. Specificity is not pedantry — it is respect for the people who actually lived these lives and were subsequently told, in a thousand polite ways, that their lives were not worth remembering.
I write in the morning, research in the afternoon, and on most evenings I am reading something published before 1850. I live near enough to the water that I can hear it when the wind is right. This is not incidental.