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- Herausgeber: WS
- Serie: Writers Helping Writers
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
The Urban Setting Thesaurus lists sensory descriptions for 120 urban locations that can be used to steer the plot, characterize the story’s cast, and even trigger the reader’s own emotional memories
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THE URBAN SETTING THESAURUS:
A Writer’s Guide to City Spaces
ANGELA ACKERMANBECCA PUGLISI
Copyright 2016 © by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi
All rights reserved: Writers Helping Writers®
First print edition, June 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9897725-8-7
No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in print or electronic form without prior permission of the authors. Please respect the hard work of the authors and do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials.
Edited by: C. S. Lakin and Michael Dunne
Book cover design by: Scarlett Rugers Design 2016
EBook formatting by: Polgarus Studio
THE WRITERS HELPING WRITERS® DESCRIPTIVE THESAURUS SERIES
Available in nine languages, sourced by universities, and recommended by editors and agents all over the world, this bestselling series is a writer’s favorite for brainstorming fresh, description and powering up storytelling.
The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression (Second Edition)
The Positive Trait Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Attributes
The Negative Trait Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Flaws
The Rural Setting Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Personal and Natural Places
The Emotional Wound Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Psychological Trauma
The Occupation Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Jobs, Vocations, and Careers
The Conflict Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Obstacles, Adversaries, and Inner Struggles (Vol. 1)
The Conflict Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Obstacles, Adversaries, and Inner Struggles (Vol. 2)
Emotion Amplifiers: A Companion Guide to The Emotion Thesaurus
DEDICATIONS
To every writer who ever dreamed, and then had the courage to follow that dream wherever it led.
And especially to Lee, for not using the ants.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE GIANT MISCONCEPTION: WHO CARES ABOUT THE SETTING?
When discussing the bones of structure for strong storytelling, certain elements always get top billing. Characters, for example, usually crest the food chain, and rightfully so—as they and their emotions are the beating heart of any story. The hero in particular is what draws a reader in, as his inner world is a complex landscape of needs, desire, fears, and the hope that some greater fulfillment might be his. Readers empathize with the protagonist’s journey of self-discovery as he conquers obstacles on the road to his goal. They also cheer at each achievement that gets the main character closer to that place where he feels satisfied and complete.
The red carpet is also rolled out for plot, because without outer events to shape the hero’s path (providing opposition and opportunity as he chases his goal), readers are left with a character who wanders aimlessly and without purpose.
Plot and characterization are the two titans of storytelling—there is no doubt. Other important elements often taught by editors and story coaches tie into these heavyweights: voice, pacing, conflict, theme, description, and dialogue.
But what about the setting? Where does it fit in on the importance scale?
That’s a good question. Newer writers sometimes make the mistake of assuming that the setting is no more than a backdrop for a story’s events; it’s a necessary part, but it’s not important enough to waste too many words describing, and it’s definitely not worth stressing over when it comes to choosing the right one for a scene.
Of course, this type of thinking is the downfall of many writers because, while it’s often overlooked, the setting is, in fact, a powerhouse of storytelling description that deepens every scene. Not only does it anchor the reader in events as they unfold, but, chosen carefully, the right setting can help characterize the story’s cast, deliver backstory in a way that enriches, convey emotion, supply tension, and accomplish a host of other things to give readers a one-of-a-kind experience. In fact, out of all the ingredients that make a compelling story, setting is one of the most versatile yet often underutilized.
Why is this? Simple: it’s due to a misconception that readers aren’t interested in the setting and will skip right over descriptive passages. Because of this, writers often don’t look beneath the surface to see what a setting can truly do; they miss out on all the ways it can shine a light on a character’s mind-set and add depth to the bigger story. Instead, they focus on giving only enough setting detail to provide context for the reader. And while context is important to provide a sense of place, it’s only a sliver of what the setting brings to the storytelling table.
Describing a setting does come with challenges. Finding the perfect balance of showing and telling that won’t slow the pace can be tricky. An avalanche of description may cause readers to skip ahead, but we also don’t want to provide so little that they have to work hard to visualize the scene. If mounting frustration over being unable to imagine the character’s world reaches a critical point, the book cover may close and never reopen.
There are no two ways about it—setting description is important. Perfecting the balancing act of “how much” is a skill all writers should master. This is why understanding the many functions of the setting and learning how to do more with less is key to keeping readers immersed in the fictional world.
There’s more to it than just plucking out a few details and slapping them together; it’s about selecting ones that create a sensory experience, since description that offers real texture often triggers memories for readers, making them feel emotionally part of the scene. In this book and its sister volume, The Rural Setting Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Personal and Natural Places, writers will learn exactly how to use settings to draw readers into the story and pave a pathway for empathy to form between them and the characters.
THE SETTING AS A VEHICLE FOR CHARACTERIZATION
In storytelling, our number-one job is to make readers care. We want to ensure that our fiction captivates them on many levels and that our characters seem like living, breathing people who continue to exist in readers’ minds long after the book closes. To create this level of realism, we must delve deep into our world and our characters so we can show who they are at every opportunity, drawing the reader in closer.
When it comes to characters, showing rather than telling is the most powerful means of providing insight into the personality of each member of a story’s cast, including the protagonist. Simply put, letting readers see for themselves who our characters are through their behavior is much more riveting than us explaining it through bloated chunks of information. A writer can use narrative to introduce a vengeful character, but it would be much more spellbinding to describe her actions as she traps a former abuser on his fishing boat, douses the decks in gasoline, and tosses on a flare. It is what a character does, thinks, and feels that readers find most compelling. The setting can play a vital role in drawing out new layers of our characters for readers to discover.
Getting Personal with Settings
In real life we see a lot of generic—food brands, medicine, cleaning supplies, bottled water, batteries, and other bits and bobs. There are even certain locations we spend time at that are fairly universal across the map, having the same look or feel. A place such as a lake, the stands at a sporting event, a movie theater, or the hallways of a high school will have similar features regardless of whether it is located in California or British Columbia. In fact, because of this commonality, authors often use these types of settings in novels, knowing readers will acclimate quickly and begin filling in the details on their own, leaving more word count flexibility for other things, such as describing the action.
While we do want to encourage readers to participate in the story by imagining the world to some degree, there is no room for “generic” in fiction beyond the occasional transitional scene. Using commonality as a crutch to avoid creating meaningful description shortchanges the reader and causes the writer to miss out on valuable opportunities to deepen bonds of empathy.
Transitional settings aside, if a location is important enough to be part of a scene, then it should also have a specific identity. How do we bring this about? Through personalizing the setting to our protagonist, sculpting it to reveal characterizing details about who he or she is.
Some settings are simpler to personalize than others. A character’s home or workspace is easy to fill with details that indicate her personality type, interests, and hobbies, as well as her values and beliefs. A work cubicle that comes with the standard office supplies but also has a calendar with vacation days exuberantly circled surrounded by a photo tornado of past trips tells us plenty about the character who works there. For starters, she likely isn’t in love with this job. She also has a strong sense of work-life balance and prizes travel. A closer look at the photos might reveal even more insight: that she loves to ski, that she has a young family, or maybe even that she drinks too much. This would be a much different character than someone whose workspace is antiseptic neat and bereft of decoration except for a single motivational poster to the tune of Fortune Favors the Bold. In this case, readers would see that the character works hard, is highly organized and opportunistic, and she sees this job as a stepping-stone to something greater.
Amazing, isn’t it? All that characterization through the simple placement of personal setting details, and without a whole lot of work.
When the setting isn’t a place that the character is particularly intimate with, we can still bring out personalization details that reveal the layers of who she is. What a character notices, feels, and interacts with in each location will show readers more about what is important to her.
Imagine a woman waiting for a cab outside a row of shops along a main street. It’s closing in on Christmas, so holiday music drifts from speakers outside the shops, colorful tinsel and glittery bows flutter as doors open and close, and a dusting of snow gives everything that clean feel. It’s the first time she’s been out in a week after a recent miscarriage and has just come from an appointment with her doctor. How could the author personalize this setting to show who she is and what she believes in while hinting at this sensitive situation?
Linda waited at the curb, scanning the oncoming traffic for the telltale yellow paint indicating a cab. Behind her, boots crunched through snow and shopping bags crinkled with cold as the bustling midafternoon shoppers hurried to finish off their Christmas lists. Cheerful holiday music floated out of store speakers and an unbearable tightness filled her throat. Christmas. One more bit of normalcy shoved in her face, one more thing rolling forward like a locomotive, ignoring her need to hide away and grieve.
The doctor’s visit had sapped her energy and she just wanted to get home, but each cab that passed seemed to already have a fare. Linda gave up and was heading for a nearby bus stop when she noticed a child standing alone in front of a toy store. Her breath caught at the perfection of the toddler, his cheeks lit with the glow of the winking lights on display, standing on tiptoe, his fragile breath fogging the glass. Shoppers walked past, paying him no mind, and something heavy settled in her gut. No one stopped; no one reached for his hand. Who was watching out for him? Where were his parents? Someone could come along and scoop him up, and only the ghost prints of his mittens on the snowy ledge would show that he’d been there at all.
She jolted toward the boy, heat flashing through her body. Just as she reached him, a woman’s voice called out in Spanish. The child spun and ran toward a parked car at the curb, where a mother was loading two other children into the vehicle. The boy jumped and wobbled, pointing back at the display, and his mother laughed as she lifted him into his car seat.
Linda trembled, watching the car drive off. She touched her forehead, running the scene through her mind, wondering how she’d missed the obvious, how she’d completely misread the situation. Thankfully, a cab pulled into the slot that the mother’s car had vacated, and she rushed to nab it before someone else could. She needed to get home now more than ever.
In this scene, we plant characterizing details within the setting. What is revealed about Linda? She’s still very much caught in the current of grief and is resentful of Christmas upstaging her loss. She’s also practical—looking for a bus stop when catching a cab becomes difficult. And then there’s the toddler, who becomes a focal point for her deeply embedded maternal instincts, and the interaction between mother and child shows readers what Linda wants most and yet cannot have. Through specific detail, this setting becomes personalized to the character; readers are carried along as she interacts with it, experiencing her churning emotions just as she does.
When it comes to painting a setting for readers, think beyond “window dressing” detail. Get personal, get inside your protagonist’s head, and show the world in a way that allows your audience to discover the deeper side of your hero or heroine.
The Emotional Power of Point of View (POV) Filtering
Chances are, you’ve heard of deep point of view. Imagine a camera lens that zooms in for a close-up; deep POV is when the description filters directly through the point-of-view character (usually the protagonist) on a deep, emotional level. Readers see what he or she sees and feel what he or she feels. It allows for intimate characterization and creates a shared experience in which the story comes alive through the character’s senses, thoughts, beliefs, emotional focus, and judgments. Done well, lines between reality and fiction blur temporarily as readers are caught up in what the POV character experiences as events happen.
Not every story uses deep POV, but all writers work to create a level of closeness between the character and reader, which requires a deft hand to bring about. The setting is the story element that facilitates this, since conveying the hero’s emotion-driven viewpoint makes a scene come alive. Experiencing details from the setting through the protagonist’s emotions and senses makes the reader feel truly part of the story. This means that choosing the right setting for each scene is important to not only help events unfold but increase reader-character connection.
Taking advantage of a deeper POV means really understanding how crucial sensory description is to the story (which will be covered more in a later section) and how settings should include an emotional value. This is where the setting has a specific emotional tie to the protagonist and possibly other characters. It holds meaning in some way, or acts as a symbol, charging up the scene.
For example, it may be that the setting is symbolic of some past life event and serves as a reminder of what happened and the feelings associated with it. Imagine a character being asked to an important business lunch in the same restaurant where his girlfriend turned down his marriage proposal. Even though time has passed, maybe years, an echo of that hurt and rejection will affect him while he’s there and, in turn, will influence his behavior.
If the setting is someplace neutral to the protagonist and there is no emotional value based on past knowledge or experience, we can still bring one to the forefront by creating mood. This is done by choosing sensory descriptions that reinforce a specific emotion (fear, peacefulness, unease, pride, etc.) that we want the character (and the reader) to feel. Mood can also be created through the use of light and shadow, universal symbolism, weather, and other techniques, which are all covered in depth in TheRural Setting Thesaurus. Regardless of whether emotional values are intrinsic or are added via mood, choosing a setting that evokes an emotional response is important, since a character’s feelings about his environment add realism to the scene while drawing readers in.
So how do we go about creating this emotional value? The first step is to brainstorm the best setting match for a particular scene. This is achieved by looking at what will happen in the scene and which emotions are at play. First, identify your hero’s scene goal—what must he do, learn, or achieve? And what do you want him and the other characters involved to feel? Once you know the answers to these questions, imagine different types of settings where this scene might take place, ones that fit the story and are logical locations for your character to visit. Make a list if you like. Often the settings that pop immediately to mind are the most obvious, but with a bit of digging, some more creative and interesting choices can be unearthed too.
Once you have a few options, look at each potential setting in turn and think of how you can describe the location to evoke a specific mood that will make your character’s emotional reactions more potent. Tension can be a factor too. Depending on what is about to happen in the scene, you might want your character to feel off-balance. Or maybe you wish to lull him into a false sense of security so he doesn’t see what’s coming. Either way, the details you pick to describe the setting will help steer his emotions.
Finally, think about what the character will learn, decide, or do as a result of what happens in the scene. The setting can act as an amplifier for this end result simply by surrounding the character with emotional triggers that will lead him toward that decision or action.
Imagine a man who, at the urging of his business magnate parents, has worked his way up at a capital investment firm. Offered a powerful new position that will finally please his success-driven parents, he discovers that he will need to travel almost constantly, meaning he will have to sacrifice having a family. Maybe he is in a committed relationship, and he and his partner have been talking about adoption. This career move would end that dream.
As he wrestles with this choice, we want to place him in a location that we can stock with emotional triggers to help direct his thoughts. In this case, we could choose a park where his parents used to bring him as a child (supplying an emotional value), or place an urban playground right across the street from the high-rise where he works (symbolizing his two worlds in conflict).
Each location will provide excellent opportunities to place emotional triggers. Imagine our character noticing children climbing on a slide or kicking around a soccer ball in a field, or a young couple pushing a baby stroller along a concrete path. These triggers represent a future he might have if he rejects the offer and stays to build a family. Or perhaps we choose a different trigger in the setting, such as a father ruffling his son’s hair as he successfully flies a kite in the park, representing the yearning our character has for his own father’s approval. A third option might be to show an older man in a power suit going for a lunchtime walk, dominating a conversation via his cell phone. This trigger acts as a glimpse of who our hero could become if he sticks to the career path: rich, powerful, respected . . . and potentially alone.
Choosing a strong setting for the scene and then seeding it with these triggers creates a push-pull effect, one that amplifies a character’s internal struggle. Through the hero’s interaction with the setting, we can home in on the needs, desires, moral beliefs, fears, and personal biases that drive his behavior. How the protagonist reacts to these triggers will not only allow characterization to naturally seep through, it also alludes to past experiences that may still have power over him in the form of emotional wounds.
For a practical guide to evaluating a setting’s emotional value and possible triggers, see the Emotional Value Tool in Appendix A.
Using the Setting to Characterize the Rest of the Story’s Cast
Not only does the setting let us characterize the protagonist, it can also reveal the traits, attitudes, beliefs, and emotions of non-POV characters—something that is often difficult to do unless one is writing in omniscient POV.
Have you ever attended a reception or wake in a deceased person’s home? Few situations can bring together an eclectic mix of personalities like a funeral, and the aftermath in which family and friends socialize and pay their respects can become a painful bed of hot, bright coals. Gathering together people who may have chosen to remain apart is the perfect recipe for opening deep wounds. Stress and grief, not to mention alcohol, can fuel words that are better left unsaid. Conversations can also turn into confessionals in which secrets are let out of their boxes and arguments can resurrect old feuds or give birth to new ones.
Take the following estranged family coming together to mourn the passing of their mother—brothers and sisters, in-laws and cousins, who are close and distant, some of whom don’t always get along. As they gather to halfheartedly pick at a meal and catch up during the wake, each person will have a different viewpoint as events unfold. While it can be a challenge to show all of this through the POV character’s perspective, the setting is once again the vehicle that gives us a way to do so:
To Laura, the parlor was always the coldest room. The pale-green paint and sheer lace curtains reinforced the chill, framing her mother’s pristine couch and the Oriental rug no one was allowed to step on. Someone had lit the fireplace, likely in hopes it might brighten the cheerless room, but the crackling heat didn’t seem to get far. This probably had less to do with the January snowfall spiralling outside the window and more with the people in the room with her.
Tammy and Rick had claimed the two suede wingbacks in the corner, regally waiting for the procession to arrive. Their hushed voices and sharp glances at Laura made it clear she featured in their conversation. Clearly her siblings were put out over Mother leaving the house to her, something they likely believed she had orchestrated while caring for her this last year. The truth was, Laura was as surprised as anyone. If anything, she expected the house to go to Charlie, the baby of the family and, she suspected, Mother’s secret favorite.
Laura took a sip of hot tea from a china cup, her gaze going to where Charlie stood at the bookcase pretending to browse. But the stoop of his shoulders told her that he’d spotted the framed picture she’d recently put there. It was one of Allan, his twin, who’d died of meningitis at age four. Laura had rescued the tipped-over picture from the back of the mantel, where it had been hidden by a cluster of Tammy’s family photos that she’d obviously moved to the center. Laura had dusted often enough to know that their mother had given everyone’s pictures equal billing, but equality was something Tammy never quite understood.
Laura crossed to Charlie, taking careful steps over the wooden floor to avoid clacking, as Tammy had done when she’d made her entrance in high heels and a too-short skirt.
“You okay?” She placed her hand on Charlie’s back.
“Remember when this was taken?” Her brother brushed his thumb over the smooth gold frame.
In the faded photo, Allan dangled by his arms from a low branch on the maple tree out back. Barely a sapling then, it now towered over the house. Laura gave a soft laugh. “How could I forget? Five minutes after Allan did something, you had to do it too.”
“Only, he didn’t manage to break his arm like I did.” Charlie smiled, his eyes wet, and replaced the picture on the shelf. She could only imagine what Mother’s death had dragged up for him; he’d hardly been old enough to really know what it was to be a twin before the specialness of it was stolen away.
The doorbell chimed, but Laura didn’t move to answer it. Marissa would get it. Charlie’s wife loved people and was a born hostess and child wrangler, and when she’d offered to take on those duties, Laura had been more than happy to let her.
Voices drifted from the hall as mourners stamped off the snow and shucked off coats. Odors of garlic and sage wafted from the foil-covered casserole dishes they carried. Laura’s chest tightened at the small talk and niceties that would have to take place before she’d be allowed to privately grieve. How long did these things go on for?
Her cup rattled ever so slightly against the saucer, and Charlie pulled something from his jacket. He tipped a pewter flask over the gold china rim, first hers, then his. The burn of scotch drifted up between them, and they shared a grin, youngest to oldest.
In this small scene, not only do setting details anchor the reader in this moment, they become a conduit for characterization and emotional showing. As each separate character interacts with the setting, we gain a sense of who they are and what they feel, despite remaining steadfastly in Laura’s point of view. Symbols are incorporated, helping to form an image of what’s being felt. The décor chosen for the room—pale mint, lace curtains, the rug everyone was forced to walk around and not on, even the weather outside—these all help show the mood in this scene and reinforce the idea that distance exists between family members. By the placement of photos on the mantel we see that Mother was fair, yet her choices for this room suggest she was fussy and perhaps a bit unfeeling herself, which may have factored into the current family dynamic. The picture of Allan, in particular, becomes a symbol of loss and allows a tiny snippet of the past to shine through.
The interaction over the picture, and then later the flask, shows readers that Laura and Charlie are close. The gossipy nature between Tammy and Rick and their choice of seats implies that they hold a view of self-importance. Tammy’s altering the arrangement of family photos to place hers at the center speaks volumes. And even if we did not know that Laura cared for her mother this past year, her rescuing Allan’s picture conveys her role as caretaker in this family.
As you can see, done well, descriptive choices and the setting itself can actively convey so much to readers, especially when it comes to characterization and mood building.
SETTING MATTERS: THE IMPORTANCE OF WHERE
The choice of where to set one’s story can affect the tone of the entire book, and often genre will help dictate the scope of locations to be used throughout the story. Let’s say you’ve written a contemporary young-adult novel. Most likely, high school is the obvious overall setting choice for your YA story.
But the whole thing can’t take place at school. Important events in the life of your main character will happen elsewhere: at home, at work, hanging out with friends, on dates, and while getting from one place to another. Settings need to be chosen for each individual scene, and the key to making these choices is knowing the important events in your story. The right setting is like a musical score, giving each scene a deeper emotional intensity through mood, symbolism, and personalization.
Your protagonist will also help narrow down the choices. Is she popular? An epiphany might occur at a house party or on a school trip. Is she shy or introverted? A confrontation could likely happen on the way home from school, at the family ice cream parlor where she’s forced to work, or in her backyard.
When it comes to finding a location for a scene, some writers might feel limited by the range of typical settings within their genre, but this doesn’t have to be the case. Creativity is one place where all writers shine, and we owe it to our readers to find the perfect locales for each scene, ones that can enhance events so they have the biggest impact. This doesn’t always mean choosing a big, splashy location that readers might not often see in novels. Sometimes settings with the greatest traction can be rather mundane.
In Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak, the main character, Melinda, spends most of her time at school, but due to a recent traumatic event, she is utterly disconnected to everything. So Anderson creates an unexpected haven for Melinda: the custodian’s closet. Suffering from PTSD, she goes there repeatedly when she needs to regroup. This unlikely location provides a welcome respite not only for Melinda but for the reader too.
When a setting has an emotional tie to the protagonist, even if at first glance it seems boring or one-note, it can be reinvented, surprising readers and offering them something new to experience. If you are struggling with a choice, try a bit of exploration; test out various places in your mind to see which provides the best opportunities for emotional values and triggers.
Getting the Biggest Emotional Bang for Your Setting Buck
As you can see, choosing the right setting for each scene greatly affects a writer’s ability to characterize the story’s cast and make readers feel part of the action. However, in the throes of plotting, it can be tempting to use a convenient setting that fits with where the characters happen to be—especially when the main action is low-key, like a conversation that needs to take place. Don’t be fooled—to pack the biggest storytelling punch, the setting should earn the right to be chosen, even if the interaction between your characters is nothing more than a simple dialogue exchange.
To illustrate this, let’s look at another example. Say our main character Mary has returned to her childhood home on the advice of her therapist, with plans to confront her aging father about the physical abuse she suffered at his hand as a child. Her goal is to face him and make him know how much it hurt her so she can achieve closure and move past this emotional wound. The nature of this dialogue scene is such that it will contain powerful emotional turmoil regardless of where it takes place, but that’s no excuse for us not to squeeze out even more raw tension by getting specific with the setting choice.
This scene could take place in myriad locations, such as in the car as Mary’s father picks her up at the airport, in his workshop as he sands down his latest hand-built canoe, or at the kitchen table over a meal.
Of all these places, which will hold the most emotional triggers for Mary? For example, if the family zealously followed spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child beliefs due to a skewed view of religious tenets, and this was the excuse for the beatings Mary endured, could this religious symbolism be shown through a cross displayed over the kitchen door? Or perhaps a cross-stitched verse could sit prominently above the family’s kitchen table—a place where Mary was punished if she spoke before finishing her food, even if it was just to ask for water. This might make for a strong setting because the kitchen is drenched with negative memories.
But let’s explore our other options. The scene could also take place in her father’s workshop, where Mary was often dragged to be violently punished, weeping and begging for mercy. This location would certainly put Mary on edge, which would result in amplifying tension for the reader too. The events that took place in this room chain her to the abuse, yet her standing up to her father in this setting would be a strong declaration that she will move into a future that is untainted by past violence.
The third option, a discussion in a car, means Mary has a captive audience. Her father cannot get away from her accusations; he cannot escape responsibility for destroying her childhood. In the car, he must face what he’s done. However, unlike the other two settings, there’s no emotional connection to Mary, which is a missed opportunity to bring a deeper intensity to the confrontation through triggers. But choose the kitchen where she feels the yoke of religion bearing down on her—this is powerful, and will force her to fight feelings of unworthiness caused by her past emotional abuse. Likewise, taking her to the workshop will challenge her resolve as memories from the past bombard her. Both settings are stronger options than the two being conveniently trapped during a vehicle commute.
Choosing a setting that has specific meaning to the characters and provides strong context for the events taking place allows the author to charge the scene with emotion, creating opportunities for the characters to reveal more of themselves in an active and natural way.
THE SETTING AS A VEHICLE FOR DELIVERING BACKSTORY
To achieve a deeper level of characterization and provide insight into the hero’s motivation, writers occasionally need to introduce backstory. Backstory, which is a character’s defining experiences and interactions that occurred before the novel begins, is a difficult element to wield, simply because this necessary information also provides a minefield of problems if not handled correctly. There are two types of backstory: visible backstory for readers and hidden backstory for authors.
Hidden backstory is the information authors need to know about a character: likes and dislikes, how hobbies and pastimes developed, the bases for his greatest fears, the sources of his deepest wounds. It will also contain information about who and what influenced the character in the past (both good and bad) and how different events helped to shape his personality. This type of backstory is usually done in the brainstorming phase of a novel, and its purpose is to allow writers to know their characters on an intimate level so they can seat themselves inside the characters’ heads and write each of their actions and behaviors authentically.
Visible backstory is what readers will need to know to better understand the character’s motives—why he does what he does. Certain behaviors only make sense when the reader can peek behind the curtain. A glimpse at the past will help lend shape to what the character desires and why, and what he fears, hopes for, and is obsessed with.
When it comes to visible and hidden backstory and how much of each should be revealed, imagine a cold tankard of beer. Hidden backstory is the gold liquid that takes up most of the real estate, yet it is not exposed. The foamy top of visible backstory is the creamy froth rising to be tasted first. Make this your formula when choosing how much backstory to introduce. Only a small amount of what the author knows about the character’s history should make it into the novel, so what does go in really needs to count.
Visible backstory gives a reader context when it’s important. For example, you could read about a character who avoids everything red: tomatoes, pomegranates, holiday sweaters—he even grows ill at the sight of blood. If the author shows him refusing to buy a couch because it is red or even throwing away a gift basket of beautiful red apples, it stands out as odd, unreasonable, and may even put readers off because they don’t get it. However, with a subtly added touch of backstory, suddenly there is context for this behavior.
Lucas traded his paint roller for a blue-smudged cloth, wiped his hands, and then pressed his knuckles into his hips to stretch. His back resisted the move to straighten, but stiffness couldn’t steal his grin. This was the third coat and hopefully the last, but it was worth doing. To give both himself and the house a fresh start, he needed to do this with his own hands. And now, midday light streamed through the window and glimmered off the blue paint, an expansive wall stretching across the room like his own private sky.
His gaze found a thin slash of old crimson paint at the top of the wall, and his lips flat-lined. Why the previous owners would choose such a hue, he couldn’t fathom, but he wouldn’t live in this house until all of it was covered. Twenty years had gone by, but the sight of that shade never failed to put him back in Gramma Jean’s pantry, with the damp rot and moldering fruit and rats scrabbling behind red-lacquered walls. Lucas could not look at the color without remembering the screams wrenching from his throat and the pain of his tiny fingers clawing at the door until they bled. Gramma Jean might have been long dead, but the memory of what she’d done, over and over, remained.
The doorbell chimed, and Lucas jolted his gaze from the red strip. Some time on a ladder with a small brush and it would be as if the red never was. If only the past could be so easily erased. He swallowed down the bitterness coating his mouth and threw on his best “friendly new neighbor” smile on his way to the door.
Now, with the addition of backstory, we see Lucas’ behavior for what it is: echoes of fear from a past trauma. Not only does this give readers clarity regarding his actions, it pulls them in through this personal doorway to an old wound that still pains him.
The problem with backstory is that it easily slows or stops the pace. We writers get so caught up in showing this past moment that we drop a giant chunk of unnecessary information on the reader. The trick to writing backstory well is to weave it into the current scene in a meaningful way and only give what readers need to understand the action. The fact that Lucas is painting the wall has real meaning, rather than it being just a chore to complete in a new house. Using the red paint as a trigger effectively allows us to dip into the past for context, provide a deeply disturbing sensory image of abuse, and then return to the present as someone rings the doorbell. In this case of meaningful backstory delivery, the setting comes to the rescue.
Backstory and setting also partner up well when authors need to show how someone in the story has grown or changed. Having a character revisit a location after an internal shift has taken place allows us to show him making a mental comparison with what he knew before to what he thinks and feels now.
Imagine the memories that might be churned up for a protagonist when he stands in the alley where he was cornered and beaten as a teen for being a different ethnicity than his attackers. The sights, smells, and sounds become a portal to the past as he relives the moment. However, now as an adult and a police officer, these past phantoms do not hold the power they once did; rather than feel fear, the burning light of determination fuels him. His mission is to protect the people in his world so they won’t suffer as he did, something the author will be able to show authentically because the protagonist was exposed to this particular setting.
Settings can also facilitate backstory revelations on a larger scale, such as when the world itself has undergone a change. One example might be a protagonist who revisits the prosperous village where he raised his family—only, now it is war-ravaged and bearing the mark of poverty. This scene will reveal a lot about the events that took place in his absence.
This also works in situations in which readers need to imagine a past that belonged to someone other than the POV character. Consider a protagonist searching for his birth father; he finally tracks him down, only to learn that he died in a car accident just a week earlier. As the next of kin, our character is let into his father’s apartment, and the well-chosen description provides clues of his father’s lonely, solitary life: cluttered rooms with drapes sealed in dust, “Dear Occupant” junk mail piling up on the table, a lack of family photos and keepsakes. Not only will these setting details provide insight into how this man lived, they will also organically create an opportunity for the protagonist to share his thoughts about discovering his father too late, and the pain of being so close to filling a void, only to discover it can now never be filled.
With Backstory, Character Interaction Is Key
As the author, your decisions on what to describe will have direct bearing on how backstory is delivered. The most important aspect is ensuring that the character is interacting with the setting, either on a micro or macro level. For example, a micro interaction might include you having the character single out something within the setting and use it as a backstory focal point, such as Charlie holding the photo of his dead twin, in the earlier example. A macro-level interaction might include showing your character returning to the dairy farm where he grew up and allowing some backstory to seep in as he completes farm chores or tours the property.
Another creative option is to use character interaction with a setting to only imply backstory. Withholding information—the right information—creates tension by delaying gratification, priming readers for a bigger reveal later in the story.
Consider a female character who was mugged after seeing her mother off at the train station for an early departure. Placed in the similar setting at a later date, her behavior will reflect discomfort, especially if many of the same factors are in place: the sun brightening the sky, chasing off the last oranges and pinks of sunrise; a lack of people around the station, and wind pushing at dead leaves and litter along the track, causing them to tick and scrape against the cement.
In this setting, the character will naturally be on high alert, and we can show her edginess through actions, such as her constantly glancing about for sketchy people, slipping a canister of pepper spray into her pocket, being sensitive to noise, and consciously trying to control her breathing. A mix of these behaviors will alert the reader that she’s expecting something negative, or at least trying to be prepared if something bad does happen. Without a drop of backstory, naturally inquisitive readers will immediately start asking questions. Why is the character nervous? Why do certain sounds or smells seem to grate at her nerves? Did something bad happen to her long ago?
Sometimes it’s better to not share backstory and instead keep readers asking questions. Their desire to get answers will keep them turning pages, and the setting is a great vehicle for alluding to a past event without giving everything away. Just be sure that your backstory is compelling enough so that when you do finally reveal it, readers are left feeling satisfied, not disappointed.
THE CROWN JEWEL OF SETTINGS: SENSORY DETAILS
To draw readers fully into a scene, we want to create a sensory feast for their imagination. This means using different senses to keep the description fresh and vivid so each location we describe comes alive. We want to help them forget that they’re reading about fictional events, instead making them feel as if they’re right in the scene sampling the same sights, smells, tastes, textures, and sounds as the POV character or narrator.
Have you ever read a book so well drawn you wished you could visit? One that stuck with you long after the story was over, and your mind kept imagining that place, dreaming up ideas of what might be happening now and what the people there might be doing? I’m sure you have; settings that have real texture tend to send the imagination into a synaptic-firing frenzy. One that stands out to many is Hobbiton from The Lord of the Rings. The fields of lush grass, the dome-shaped homes filled with the promise of cozy comforts and lavish meals, the drifting smoke trails of Gandalf’s pipe—these things place readers in a world they long to visit, where one can almost smell the sharp cheeses waiting on a platter and feel that silky grass beneath one’s bare feet.
Drawing on multiple senses as we describe the setting creates a layered landscape, one that feels incredibly real. The deeper we can connect readers to each setting we draw, the more we create that longing to be part of the world we have built. Each detail should be chosen not only to bring readers into the scene but to send a message, one that evokes an emotional response. That message is entirely up to the author, but at the heart of it should be the intent to make the reader feel something powerful.
Sights That Give Life to Fiction
It’s no surprise that out of all the senses, sight is the one writers rely on the most, since describing what the character sees helps readers visualize it too. But to create truly compelling description using sight, we want to filter everything described through the POV character or narrator’s emotions first.
Perhaps you’ve heard this popular saying: “There are two sides to every story—what you saw and what actually happened.” It contains a truth that can carry forward into fiction, because characters interpret what they see depending on how they are feeling. Consider this small example in which a father returns home after a weekend business trip:
Leroy closed the door to the apartment, squinting in the midday murk. His eyes adjusted and the handle of his suitcase slipped from his grasp. In the kitchen, the shadows pooling across the counter became tangible shapes—an apocalypse of broken eggshells and omelette fixings alongside two frying pans rimmed with dry scrapings. Stacks of plates and cutlery filled the sink, and the refrigerator door stood ajar. His pulse shot up. All this after two frigging days on the road? Old enough to be left on their own, my ass. He’d wring their necks when they got home from school.
But look at how the same scene appears to change when it’s viewed from a different emotional perspective:
Leroy closed the door and fell against it, a pent-up breath sawing out of his lips. His legs trembled, barely holding him. That logging truck . . . if I hadn’t changed lanes when I did . . . Numb, he stared into the dark apartment, gathering his wits, waiting for the heaviness of his near-death experience to lift. His vision adjusted to the gloom, and a kitchen wreck greeted him: cartons of juice on the counter, a pan of scorched eggs on the stove, a mountain of dishes ringing the sink. Good God, even the fridge door hung open a crack. A short laugh burst out of him. Those two, so sure they were ready to be on their own. He grinned, shaking his head. At least they managed to cook something while I was away.
The same scene, yet two totally different descriptions, both filtered through Leroy’s emotions. In the first, anger causes him to notice every minute detail. In the second, relief allows him see the humorous side of the messy kitchen and feel gratitude that he’s even there to see it.
As you can see, filtering a description through the POV character’s emotions will alter how the reader experiences the setting, so take the time to think about what your character or the narrator is feeling in each scene and how certain details might be highlighted to reinforce it.
Smells That Trigger Emotional Memory
Have you ever smelled something that immediately brought back a moment from your past? It’s likely you have, since the part of the brain responsible for smell lies in close proximity to receptors that help store memories. This means that, of all the senses, smell is the one most likely to evoke emotional memories from readers’ pasts, which brings about that all-important sense of “shared experience” that will draw them deeper into the story.
Ironically, smells are often forgotten in fiction, which is why turning a critical eye to your description and adding a few odors is important. The beauty of this sense is that the smells we choose to include can become symbols for something deeper, helping to reinforce mood and elicit emotion. If your character’s car has just broken down in a parking lot and she’s waiting for a tow truck, the smell of yeasty bread and savory spices wafting from the bakery next door might pull her out of a foul mood (and likely cause a spike in hunger). But change that to the queasy scent of sun-baked asphalt and the reek of sour beer from the nearby bottle return depot, and the character’s mood will likely only get worse.
Specific scents tied to locations also add realism. In fact, if smells are left out in these cases, the reader might sense a void in your description. Consider the briny scent of algae down at the harbor or fresh popcorn and salt at a theater. These iconic smells help place the reader in the scene. If your setting contains a smell that is hard to forget in real life, make sure you don’t forget it in your fiction.
Sounds That Infuse the World with Realism
Another sense that adds rich dimension to a setting is sound. None of us lives in a noiseless vacuum, and our characters should not either. Layering the character’s world with sounds also helps readers ease into a setting; like important puzzle pieces, they aid readers in forming a mental picture. Sounds are much more than realistic stage dressing, however. Like the other senses, they can be used in a variety of ways.
Because of our instinctual human need to protect ourselves and the automatic response of fight or flight, we tend to be hyperaware of sound, especially any that shift suddenly or do not seem to belong to the environment. If we mirror this premise in the story world, sounds become an excellent technique to alert the reader that something is afoot, foreshadowing change to come, either good or bad. Not all sounds have to be loud to evoke a response either. A door hinge slowly creaking at the wrong time can have the exact same effect as a rapid barrage of gunshots.
If you are purposefully reinforcing a specific mood in your setting, think about the circumstances of the scene and what emotions are at play. Then use sounds to either heighten these emotions, adding tension, or diminish them. For example, if your character is walking home after a late night babysitting and has felt watched each step of the way, heading into her driveway and hearing the pinging of her brother’s truck engine as it cools will likely put her at ease. That sound represents safety, the knowledge that someone is close by if she needs help. Likewise, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind her or a lightbulb smashing on the porch ahead will only heighten her fear.
To do more with less when it comes to sensory description, try to include sounds that have a greater purpose than just adding realism. The more you get into the habit of making deliberate choices with your setting descriptions, the tighter your writing will become, ensuring that your storytelling skills will provide the audience with an unforgettable reading experience.
Tastes That Bring Readers into the Story World
Of all the senses, taste is the least used, mostly because food and drink rarely have direct bearing on a scene. After all, watching a character eat isn’t exactly the most riveting action unless his taste experience ties in with the plot line (usually through high stakes), such as trying to detect poison in his drink, judging entries at a high-profile culinary event, or knowing that if he doesn’t nail the meal, his own head may end up on the plate.
Eating is often a necessary physical function or a social activity, so to use this sense properly in our description, we should make sure it adds meaning beyond the actual taste experience. This sense can be a challenge, but it’s also an inventive way to help readers experience a scene. The three elements to help steer writers when using this sense are context, comparison, and contrast.
Context is all about helping to tie together the who, where, when, and why. Is the character eating in someone’s home, in a restaurant, around the campfire, or standing at a food vendor’s cart? Why is the meal happening in this space? What does the quality of the food and location say about the people in this scene? Context that involves taste is a unique way to provide answers to unasked yet pertinent questions. Then to add to the mental picture, comparison and contrast between the character and what she’s sampling can hint at personality, show relationships, and even help to infuse emotion and mood. For example, does your volatile, outspoken character prefer spicy, sweat-inducing foods (comparison)? Or is your character at a charity gala sipping some of the most exquisite champagne she’s ever tasted at the very moment she discovers her husband is having an affair (contrast)? Both these techniques use taste to show character details in a way that is both unexpected and memorable.
Taste also allows writers a way of bringing the everyday into the fictional world. In real life, people need sustenance, so why should it be different in a story? In fact, characters who never seem to eat or drink will likely be noticed, and the reader’s trust in the author’s storytelling skills may waiver. Even if taste isn’t helping to characterize and has no direct bearing on the plot, it should still be included once in a while to add realism and build reader trust.
Textures That Encourage Setting Interaction
Of all the senses, textures allow the most interaction with the setting, not only supplying movement and helping the pacing flow smoothly but also creating an inner path to the character’s mind-set. Texture is all about exploration, both for the character and, through him, the reader. Because textures are universal, they can help the setting seem more real, and describing how something feels will remind the reader of his own past experiences with that same texture.
Imagine a character who is at the vet clinic to have her beloved pet put down. With each stroke of the soft fur, the character struggles to let go. As they live this moment, readers will likely be taken to a point in their pasts where they too experienced a strong connection with an animal; either they will remember the horrible turmoil they felt at a similar incident, or it will open a door to imagining what it is like to be in the character’s shoes. Either way, done well, the silky texture of the dog’s fur will cause empathy to bloom, tightening the reader’s connection to the character.
An important thing to remember when it comes to textures is to make each one count. After all, a character must act to come in contact with something, and all actions should further the story. Having a character touch or pick up something without reason is a waste of words. But if the texture is included to reinforce a mood, reveal an emotion, or show readers something deeper about the character, then it is pulling its storytelling weight.
Another way the sense of touch elevates description is when it is used to foreshadow or symbolize. For example, a stinging cut incurred while running past a rusted dumpster may foreshadow danger to come. Or if the character is already in danger, perhaps fleeing from a pursuer, the pain becomes a symbol of the cost of being caught and a reminder that some risks are worth taking.
Finding Balance When Using the Senses
While a large portion of sensory description tends to focus on what is seen, nonvisual sensory details add the layering that can take descriptive writing from good to great. Don’t feel pressured to use all the senses all the time; by mixing just a few, the image created is so much more interesting than if a single sense is used. Sometimes, experimenting is a good way to create a multisensory effect. For example, while metaphors and similes often tend to be visual, using other senses instead can lead to fresh writing. Consider these descriptions from the classics:
The bells ceased as they had begun: together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. (Sound, from A Christmas Carol)
Never in his life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. (Sound and texture, from The Wind in the Willows)
There was a smell of saddle soap, mixed with the unmistakeable, personal smell of armor—as individual a smell as that which you get in the professional’s shop on a golf course . . . (Smell, from The Once and Future King)
