Research: A Quick Guide for Fiction Writers

Last time, I noted that I haven’t offered much in this blog about research, which is a vital part of most fiction. It inspires incidents, sets up surprises, and adds to authenticity. I’ll dig in a bit on research without turning this into a course in library science.

Note: I’m talking about research for fiction here. There are no quick guides for nonfiction research.

My first step in research is always to write down everything I "know" about the subject. This can be a lot or a little, and sometimes bits of it are inaccurate. This serves two purposes.

First, it often reminds me of interesting facts that could be useful in the story. Once I have my notes, I usually go through them right away, highlighting those sections that thrill me. (Often, my imagination will kick in and I'll end up free associating or speculating.

Second, I get a good sense of the holes in my knowledge. Both areas that are totally unexplored or unknown and items about which I only have superficial knowledge.

I respond to what's missing and what I'm curious about with questions. Usually, these come bubbling out of me without much effort. But even if I’ve filled pages with questions that I'm eager to trace down for answers, I step back for what I call a "360 view." (This is actually inaccurate, since I don't just look around, I also look up and down.) For something like exploring a real city, I have "go to" questions such as finding out about the weather or what the biggest industries are or the distinctive neighborhoods (especially ethnic sectors). People are shaped by the land, the politics, the history, the work they do, the hierarchy, and the places they come together.

A specific story may need detailed information about some elements and have very little to do with others. Not all questions are equal.The important thing is to focus on questions that can lead to other questions and might provide surprises.

Once upon a time, I'd take my questions into a library and get lost. Now I tend to search on the Web and get lost there. I usually set a timer. Sometimes, it stops the research (especially if I've strayed too far from material related to the project). Sometimes, the timer gets reset because I’ve found a rich store of information.

Anything that's worth noting is worth saving what the source is. This allows me to go back and check for something I might've missed.

Even though this work is for fiction, I'm careful about confirming what pops up. Urban legends are pervasive and can lead to trouble in two ways. First, because they often include a seed of bigotry or malice. Second, because they are likely to be widely known, reducing the impact for readers and audiences. Overall, I don't want to mislead people, even if it's good storytelling. So, in addition to checking what I've learned, I'll check what I "know." It is not unusual for me to have accepted false ideas that are common knowledge or to have attached an idea to the wrong subject.

It is the evocative and little-known facts that enliven a story. If they can be woven in (and not force fit), they can provide delightful surprises. Connections between ideas and facts, especially between people, can it provide even deeper value to storytelling.

I think we’re all curious about relationships and how both power and support are expressed in communities. These are subtle and require time and thought to uncover, but they often provide insights into our own lives. That makes research into relationships invaluable to bringing more to a story than emotional experiences. (Though, I always try to provide rich emotional experiences with stories. Bradbury said that was why people read fiction to begin with.)

Occasionally, the research will offer up themes or suggest problems (like drug addiction) that can be investigated in a variety of ways. These often point to incidents that might be included, ideas that people will expect to see in a story, and, perhaps, ways to structure stories.

Now, I have seen people become too enamored with what they discover in research. It's good to remember that this isn't an essay or a polemic (or shouldn't be). Most research, no matter how engaging, probably shouldn't be included in the story. The same thing goes for falling in love with a theme or a structure too early for most writers. I do know some who avoid the pitfalls and are able to make including what they've learned feel organic to the story, but usually the result is something that slows story pacing to a crawl or draws attention to itself.

Overall, it's great if research is playful and fun, but not at the sacrifice of failing to go deeply enough into the important subject areas. And, fundamentally, what's included from research must serve the story. In my case, this means cutting out a lot of stuff I think is cool in later drafts. Usually, the stories are better for this, and the research, no matter how carefully kept for later, is forgotten. But sometimes, the stuff that gets cut out is so compelling, my imagination holds onto it, embroiders it, and presents it back to me as a new story. And that’s a delight.

 

Getting Your Hero or Heroine into Trouble

Almost any external force that could make someone a victim can create a hero or heroine – provided the character fights back. Numerous stories have been written about protagonists faced with floods or disease or invasion or (unjust) arrest or many other disasters that can launch a story. Each of these (and gentler variations like being targeted by a bully or injured in a car accident are attacked by a dog, etc. etc.) can knock your main character out of regular life and into the need to make changes or seek answers.

Flaws, including the Seven Deadly Sins, can lead to consequences that push protagonist to change as well, and, in these cases, the character probably will need to deal with both the cravings that led to disruption and the unfortunate results of bad choices.

Stories kicked off by outside forces depend upon research and good world building. Knowing how people respond in real life to similar situations, the options created, and the natural escalation of problems create outlines of your plots (which is why stories with similar circumstances often have expected turns in the stories). Stories kicked off by internal forces (flaws) depend upon characterization, the people around the character, community (including laws and traditions), and the traumas and fears that make change difficult.

The challenge for stories about outside forces is avoiding making the character too stupid to live and anything that makes them so much out of control they become victims. For stories about dealing with flaws, key challenges are making the character too stupid to live and creating a character who crosses the line into such foulness that it is difficult to empathize with him or her.

All stories risk disappointing audiences with anything that could be overly contrived or lead to a deus ex machina ending.

So… I've covered world building and flaws (many times) and empathizing with characters in previous posts. I haven't written a lot about research – the primary requirements there are asking good questions, knowing how to dig through references (or ask a librarian), and exploring in all directions to suitable depth of knowledge. Perhaps I'll cover research in a future post.

This post is about avoiding the "too stupid to live" problem. There is no failsafe for that. There's always the chance that a reader or audience member will be more knowledgeable than you are, smarter, or just ornery. Understanding that, the best defense is having a toolkit of excusable mistakes.

Betrayal. We like people to trust us, so, unless they are very naïve, we’re in their corner. If they confide in, believe, or count on another person they know or have a relationship with (friends, family, comrade), it'll feel like a good choice, not a foolish choice. That's true even if the story has included planted information that might have aroused suspicions. Added to this, is the emotional reaction to discovering a betrayal, which provides extra protection against concluding the character is stupid.

Assumptions. Most reasonable suppositions and expectations won't raise red flags. If a reader or audience shares the assumption, the character will be blamed. This can be manipulated in many ways. The most obvious is assuming that the world after the disruptive event is the same as it was before. So, for instance, the character might go on a journey thinking people in neighboring communities have the same norms and expectations. Assumptions can also be used for irony if, for instance, a character moves from a strange world to our own (or one we are familiar with).

This doesn't need to be all cultural. We fall for tricks that include what appear to be normal artifacts in magician’s kit box. And most people good shy away from a lighter built to look like a revolver.

Distractions. Once again, this depends on our common experiences. Everyone gets distracted., Confusing, threatening, beautiful, and big (loud, bright, etc.) experiences can make us lose track of our wallets, what we're talking about, and where our children are. Pickpockets work in teams successfully when they have one person bump the victim and another lift the money or jewelry at the same time.

Habits and coping mechanisms. We all have ways we react that are instantaneous and difficult to train ourselves away from. Even years after World War II was over, my uncle would hit the dirt whenever he heard a loud sound. If you get shot at enough, that reaction is automatic. I've known people who smiled at unpleasant and even tragic news (I suspect because inside they were screaming).

Many people respond to a raised open hand with a class but a handshake even when the person is gesturing for some other reason. Since we all have unthinking responses, we've all experienced moments of embarrassment and trouble because of them. We'll give the characters a pass. And, if you as the author are concerned, previewing the response in a situation where it is appropriate or benign before the scene where it leads to trouble can extend reader/audience acceptance.

Logic. For less simple mistakes, focusing on information that leads to the wrong conclusion (and trouble) will bring along most people with your character. Even when missed or misunderstood points might be seen in retrospect, a logic of the moment doesn't feel stupid.

This is not a comprehensive list, and some of these might be used in a story in combination. Just by imagining some scenes with these defenses against looking foolish, you should find that too stupid to live traps become more visible. In many cases, novel solutions will become obvious and save you from losing your readers and audiences. And that should give you more ways to get your characters into trouble and increase the worry and concern that holds their attention.

Upcoming Course

My A Task Approach to Efficient Writing runs May 1-31.

It provides a methodical approach to getting your writing done.

https://contemporaryromance.org/workshop/a-task-approach-to-efficient-writing/

 

 

Story Twists and Turns - Playing with expectations

Everyone has already seen everything, it seems. It would be hard to find a person over five who couldn't readily recognize hundreds of stories — whether they be from films, books, comics, games, or TV shows. How do you possibly write something that's fresh (or at least seems fresh) when readers and audiences have so much to compare your story to?

Chaplin recognized this problem. In fact, his advice was due this:

• Put a banana skin on the sidewalk.
• Keep the camera on it long enough for everyone to see and understand the peril it promises.
• Have your character (in this case the Tramp) walk down the sidewalk, and show that.
• Include a shot of the Tramp getting closer and closer to the banana peel.
• The audience fully expects him to slip on that peel and fall.
• So instead, he carefully and deliberately walks around it.
• Just as the audience heaves the sign of relief, the Tramp steps into a manhole.

All the expectations readers and audiences bring to the story you're presenting don't make clichés inevitable. The trick is to reverse expectations.

At the beginning of the pilot for TV's Scandal, it looks like Olivia has been suckered into a blind date. A bar. A man recommended by her friend. His offer to buy her a drink. She doesn't want to be on a blind date. So she tries to get out of it. He tells her it's a job interview. She calls him on it. She has applied for any jobs. He throws out the name of the one person she'd most want to work for, and he's convincing enough so she doesn't let him go away. She lets him buy her a drink. Finally, he admits that this is not a job interview at all. She has the job. She's already hired.

Now, those aren't "Luke, I'm your father," twists, but they break up the rhythm of what could've been a boring first day on the job orientation laden with exposition into moments of charm, fun, conflict, and surprise. Along with exposition.

The movie The Untouchables reverses expectation often. Think of the dying Irish cop (played by Sean Connery), who seems to be reaching for a religious medal in his last moments, but really is offering a key that will lead to taking down his murderer. Or the moment when Scarface's hitman gives himself up, knowing he won't really pay for his crime. Eliot Ness, the ultimate straight arrow, must bring him in and sacrifice true justice (and, honestly, get revenge) because he does not break rules. But, in that moment, rules don't matter to him, and he shoves the villain off the top of the building so he falls to his death.

The Usual Suspects destroys expectations with everything coming clear too late, in the last few minutes -- because the protagonist (and we) haven't looked closely enough. We've fallen for the con.

Of course, we want to fall for the con. That’s one of the key statements in the opening of The Prestige cleverly shows how magic tricks surprise and delight (with winking cooperation fro the audience). Playing with expectations is not a cheat… unless you cheat. So don’t lie. It’s fine to distract, but not to
Provide the right plants. No deus machina.

So, how is it done?

Understand what’s expected. This, of course, is important to avoid rewarming old ideas. But it also is key to have a clear idea about what is in the the minds of readers and audience members.

Usually, just sorting through ideas that come to mind first tells you what people will expect in a scene. But, if you don’t have a mind that immediately comes up with common approaches to what happens next, see if you can remember similar situations in older shows. Chances are some will feel very tired, and those are the ones to hold as likely expectations.

I’ve asked people about less than original choices in drafts they’ve written. Why did you choose this? It felt right. It felt comfortable. That’s what the audience expects.

Once you know what’s expected, find something unexpected. Playing with opposites is good. People expect the villain to be a man? Or the club bouncer? Make that character a woman. Created a cowardly special forces operative. Include a tiny man with a basso profundo voice. Defy gravity like Buster Keaton or Jackie Chan. So find something uncomfortable that works.

A class exercise I use is having people list animals. At least one of these —dog, cat, tigers, pig, cow, etc. — makes everyone’s top ten list. Some people have all of them. Insects sometimes show up in the next ten. Go further and weird stuff happens for most people. And this list approach is pretty reliable for solving story problems, too. Clichés run out.

Without cheating, suggest the expected will happen. That’s like putting the banana peel in plain sight on the sidewalk the Tramp is ambling down. Anything you can do to make people feel smart about sussing out the predictable sets up the surprise of the unexpected.

You may also use other characters to provide reactions to what the scene seems to be building toward. And later, to the surprise.

Reactions can buttress what you’ve created so the reversal is clearer. They can also take a form that is fresh.

Let’s look at an example. In a movie I saw years ago, a kid tried a clever dance step and fell. Good enough for a small laugh (since he didn’t get hurt). The kid swore (the reaction) when it happened. And since this was years ago, I remember the audience gave it a big laugh. They weren’t expecting profanity then. They probably would today.

Unexpected fall. Unexpected profanity. But it wouldn’t work today. So, what if his nice grandma, watching it swore. Would that be unexpected? Especially if she fit the stereotype for grandmas? Maybe. Maybe not in our times. What if she hit the person next to her who laughed at the grandson falling and swearing? Or bit him? Or, for some class, dressed him down with Shakespearean insults.

See if you can push the reactions into an odd space (without violating your story world) even further than the unexpected choice. Make fresh fresher.

So the sequence is identify the expected. Prep for the expected (and the unexpected so you’re playing fair). Reverse the expectation with something novel (but credible). Build in reactions (including fresh reactions.)

A few more thoughts:

Be open to possibilities. Sometimes life gives you a gift. When Guys and Dolls was put on at my son’s high school, the casting was a challenge. Big Jule was supposed to be large and intimidating. The role went to a tiny freshman, and he got the biggest laugh of the show.

Over the top can equal reversal. It might not be surprising if road rage led to a character tearing the windshield wipers off  another driver’s car. Or even slashing the tires. Murder happens, yes, so that would be an expected choice. But what if the raging person sets that other drivers car on fire. (Perhaps after apologizing and getting the other driver to step out to shake hands.)

Explore relationships. Even though we all act as part of communities, this is often neglected. At the extreme, good people are goaded into very bad behaviors by friends or in a mob. But this can be simple and elegant. The pilot of Hill Street Blues is standard in many ways, and the conflict between the police captain and the defense attorney was gloves off and unrelenting. In the last scene, the captain is cooling down from a hard day, getting into bed. With the defense attorney. Outside their day jobs, like many of us, they were different. And so was their relationship.

Surprise readers/audiences with who has the power. If we assume someone is the boss, and we’re wrong, it can be a big shock and force a reevaluation of the scene(s).

Make the familiar unfamiliar (and vice versa). SF revels in this. “The door dilated.” (Heinlein’s story Beyond the Horizon)

There are many more ways to play with expectations. Beyond feeling fresh, it can break the spell of thinking we already know and see everything. It can make a moment, a scene, and even a story memorable. It can be revealing, helping people observe life more closely or empathetically. And it can just be fun.

John Ritter starred in a short-lived series called Hooperman. The character was beset with everyday problems, and the first scene has him in a shower, his face full of shampoo… when the water stops. He’s stuck. Maybe he can get away with toweling most of it away. Instead, he steps out of the shower, pulls the lid off the toiled tank, and dunks his head in. Problem solved.

Creating Vulnerabilities in Powerful Characters

Last time, I concluded with a mention about making powerful characters vulnerable. If showing a character's vulnerabilities engages readers (and it does), it's worth exploring how to bring a character with talent or wealth or fame or position down-to-earth. Undermining a hero has a tradition that stretches back well beyond the creation of kryptonite to subdue Superman. Think of mythology’s gods or the knights, princesses, and princesses of folktales or the kings and nobles of Shakespeare's plays.

The classic (and perhaps best) way to make a powerful character vulnerable is to give him or her a serious flaw. We want them to overcome that flaw and, even if they don't succeed in achieving their goals, heal. I think of Walter White in Breaking Bad, and astoundingly powerful character, but highly flawed. I worried about him both when he was a doormat at the beginning and when he was supremely dangerous.

Another approach is to make a powerful character vulnerable through love of and connection to people with less power. Girlfriends, boyfriends, children, and neighbors are among the usual suspects.

Before going further, I'll offer some questions that might be useful in exploring a character’s vulnerabilities:

• Is his or her health/safety compromised or life in danger?
• Is his or her position, job, role, status, or reputation at risk?
• Are some important relationships less than secure?
• Is access to life's essentials (food, water, shelter, air) in jeopardy?
• Can their authority/power be undermined?
• Are his/her dreams, aspirations, peace of mind at risk of being destroyed?
• Could the character lose his/her freedom or have rights compromised?
• Are major supports (advisors, mentors, defenders, advocates) in harm's way?
• Are there threats to the characters integrity, morals, values, dignity, autonomy, or sanity?

Though (I hope) this list is helpful, it's incomplete. Really thinking about how people might be brought down and exploring human needs (see Maslow) can lead to fresh concerns about a character. And, of course, these get more interesting if they come in bunches and/or are connected in some way. It's especially interesting when pursuing a goal opens up a new vulnerability.

Back to the idea of piercing the armor of a powerful character, one place to look is narrowing options – especially those the character is apt to choose first. (And ignorance that that option has gone away, say through a betrayal, can lead to nasty surprises.) Sometimes a shadow can fall the character because a more competent or powerful character arrives on the scene, even if the new character isn't malicious.

One thing I like to do is change the risk calculation. Increase the price for an action that could benefit the protagonist, either by increasing the number of negative consequences or making one matter more. Position for all it is valued, can make life harder. A deacon in my church hit a common bump in mid-life when his marriage fell apart. A tough situation for most people became unbearable for him. He resigned and left town.

A character who is used to having it all to himself or herself can be challenge by something that forces sharing (of a friendship, a home, a job, etc.). This is common in comedy (e.g., The Odd Couple), but it can be used in other genres as well.

Powerful people also may be presented with difficulties we can empathize with if they have family, friends, or allies who suffer a loss a reputation (earned or not) and bring scandal to them.

Sometimes powerful protagonists can be hurt deeply by experiences that others would brushoff. If a wound or a trauma is part of the character's back story, they might be derailed or overreact to something that evokes a time of pain and vulnerability. Similarly, the character might have built a narrative that's important to maintaining power, but could be seen in a different way. A few facts (known or unknown), a witness, even something coincidental could put a new perspective on their life story, reshaping opinions and undermining trust.

Many of the challenges above can strike deeper than the external effects and what others think. The protagonist may be forced to grapple with his or her identity, which can shake or shatter a person. While it's always good in fiction (especially commercial fiction) to have things happening through action and conversations, I suspect most readers and audiences find themselves especially concerned about characters who move from confidence to being haunted. That won't work for every story, but it's always worthwhile to imagine what that would look like.

I’m reminded of Ophelia lamenting Hamlet’s insanity.

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!