Finding a Sense of Place for Your Story

As often happens with my blog posts, the topic I am writing about came to me as a result of ruminating on several different ideas. In this case, they converged in thoughts about the role that "place" plays in our stories, both as a writer and a reader.

Let me lead you down the rabbit hole of my thinking process. 

(I actually came at it backwards, so we're looking up through the rabbit hole)

Photo credit to Michal Ico from Unsplash)

  

Recently, I was listening to an author talk by Megan Miranda who was describing why she chose the Outer Banks as the setting for her most recent thriller. As she is an author known for the way her sense of place contributes to tension in her stories, it was intriguing to listen to her talk about how she chooses the setting. This is a paraphrase, but she was discussing how she looks for someplace evocative that has appeal, like the seashore. What is key though is that the same thing that makes it appealing can be flipped to make it threatening. So in her recent book, The Only Survivors, she used the Outer Banks as a refuge that also became a trap when a storm blew in and the roads were flooded out, leaving the "survivors" in that locked "room" setting so beloved of thriller/mystery writers.

Ms. Miranda also spoke of how she always travels to the setting of a book as she is preparing to write it, because that is important to developing the story.

That point resonated with me because of something else I've been thinking about. As many of you know, I spent most of my life living in the NYC Metro area. I was born in Queens, raised on Long Island, lived in Manhattan as a young married woman, and then spent 30+ years in what's known as Brownstone Brooklyn. I could easily write about the places I lived. The problem is, I never wanted to.

Which brings me to the next twist in this rabbit tale.

A popular writing adage tells us to "write what you know." The know always seems to me to imply personal experience. So writing about a place implies you need to know it intimately in order to create a strong sense of it for your reader. (Cue back to that not wanting to write about NYC problem.)

I'll admit, I'm a bit of a rebel when it comes to some writing advice, and write what you know was one piece that I always rebelled against. Maybe because I started out writing historical romance, and obviously I had no personal experience of the American colonies or Regency England or Famine-plagued Ireland. It seemed like I was set up to fail, right? Except that people do it all the time - that's what research books are for.

I always preferred the advice that suggested to "write what interests you."

That's much more... well... interesting and it opens up endless possibilities.

I still go with that mantra, but since I moved to Maine, I've experienced some revelations that have me rethinking the write what you know advice also. It all ties in with that sense of place.

What triggered that rethinking is the seasonal change here, and I want to discuss it in two ways. 

First there is the obvious seasonal change - from the bitter cold of winter to the warm and sunny days of summer and then the scarlet and gold splendor of autumn. 

But what has really piqued my interest is the slow emergence of spring. This is my second spring here, and I continue to be amazed at the daily changes, the oh so slow greening. At first there is just the slightest hint - something that was brown and dead yesterday suddenly has a touch of color. Slowly, as the April rains replace the mounds of snow, a haze of green emerges. 

Buds appear on trees. They may not blossom for a month, yet each day you see their tightness ease as tentatively they begin to unfurl. Any week now, we may see lilacs bloom. 

I could go on at length about the ferns that seem to almost magically sprout from the ground. I watched them so carefully last year because I was curious what was going to grow from the tender shoots. Or the buttercups that begin to line the roadway at the edge of the forest. Months from now, lupines will appear in the most unexpected of places - an abandoned field or a rocky slope along the highway.

 

But there is another seasonal change that I wanted to mention. That is the one that is man-made. I've come to love these rituals of change. There is that day at the end of October when suddenly the small boats are gone from the harbor almost overnight. The docks are pulled in and the rows of buoys disappear. The large ships that remain are wrapped tightly in white plastic to protect them against the winter elements. It's almost as if some invisible signal was sent - today is the day.

Fast forward to March and the process reverses. One day you're driving by the harbor and note that all of a sudden the buoys and docks are back. It's like clockwork, but also reflects the work life of the people who live by, and make a living on, the ocean.

Why does all this matter? 

Well each time I note it, I am doing it with a writer's eye and thinking how much that sort of knowledge contributes to the sense of place you are creating. These are the little details that make your story feel authentic. 

Which brings me around to my question for you - how do you create that sense of authenticity when you're writing about a place where you don't live? If you're lucky, you can visit, and if you're really lucky, you can even make that trip during the appropriate season. If you can't get there, Google Earth is great for getting you right down on ground level to help imagine your scene, the internet abounds with images people share, but that is static. How do you get to know the seasonal rhythms of a place or the small changes?

I'd love to hear your answers.