On Setting, as it relates to: Living, Loving New Hampshire Again

My summer vacation with the kids was truly incredible. It was wonderful to connect with family and friends. The days were so full of sunshine, sailing, boating, fishing, and swimming, it was amazing to think I actually found time to sit back and relax in one place from time to time and simply enjoy the scenery.

Yet, even in those quiet moments, I was reminded of how when we settle down and be still, the world continues to move and breathe and fill in all the spaces around us with some form of energy, however subtle that may be.

The same can be said for writing, or more specifically, for writing about settings. (Yes, I always try to connect my posts to the subject). In a previous post, I said that a story is lost without a sense of setting. However, a setting is not simply colors and temperatures and textures and sounds. It's not enough to say, "The ridge was lined with green trees."

It's important that the setting be layered with a sense of movement, or energy.

Avi begins The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle with a setting that moves with the character:

Just before dusk in the late afternoon of June 16, 1832, I found myself walking along the crowded docks of Liverpool, England, following a man by the name of Grummage.


In Drowning Ruth, Christina Schwarz's setting seems nearly alive:

Lakes were scattered all over this part of the country, their outlines different, but their innards just the same. They were drops and drips and splashes on the land. They were holes and craters lined with skin too thin to hold back the springs that rushed to fill them, and most of them were dotted here and there with stubborn little islands, knobs of land that refused to dip their heads under water.


Good stories are written with settings that carry their own form of action, their own essense of life. In the real world, in nature, we become unsettled when something goes wrong, when the world becomes suddenly still--like the calm before the storm, causing us to stop, step back, and wonder what has happened.

Likewise, a reader can be thrown out of a story, or become disengaged, when the setting is too quiet, or too stark, or too absent (unless that in itself is part of the storyline). If too much is missing, if the reader doesn't become connected with a living world inside a book--one that moves and pulses with energy--then the reader isn't likely to stay too long. They'll wonder what is wrong, and perhaps, if they can't connect on a personal level with the character, they may walk away and connect with the energy of another.

I'm happy to say, my vacation, with all the combined energies of the quiet and action-packed moments, was far too hard to walk away from. But it's one that I can relive in the memories again and again.

Details Matter for Setting a Sense of Place

I started carrying my camera a while ago, not wanting another moment to go by where I'd find myself wishing I had it with me. Today, the tumultuous sky captured the attention of my daughter and I.

I believe that in the deepest sense of being alive, whether each of us realizes it or not, we are connected to the world around us--both biologically and spiritually. That is why we're drawn to the outdoors--to watch and to experience what nature has to offer. And that is why we are drawn to books and to stories--to connect with something outside ourselves and to deepen our understanding of what it means to exist.

Creating a setting is one of the most important aspects of creating a story. It gives a foundation that readers can connect to. It the is foothold that keeps both your plot moving along. Without it, your characters and your readers can be left adrift, lost, and without balance. And when key aspects are missing from your setting, their absence echoes.

This spring, with the unusual weather, the absence of one of nature's pivotal species--the director of new life--has been sharply brought to my attention.... Bumblees.

The bees are gone. They have been missing from my yard. Whether it be due to the long, rainy spring we've had or disease, I'm not sure; but their gentle flitting among flowers has been missed.

Thus, I've been reminded. Details matter. Even the faint buzzing of a bumblebee--or, lack thereof--doesn't go unnoticed, both in stories and in life.

So, in both places, take care to not overlook the small stuff.

Trolling Deeper Waters, Pelican-style

Pelicans "hunt" for fish in much the same way that sheepdogs herd sheep. They swim together, fanning out in a line, which spooks the fish into swimming ahead of them. The pelicans continue swimming forward, herding the fish into shallower waters where the pelicans can scoop them up into their expandable bills. I love pelicans! And I'm so happy we have a flock nesting in Cache Valley this year.

But of course, I'm not just a pelican lover, I'm a writer, and so now, I'll connect the dots between these two, because there's a lot to be learned from these magnificent birds.

Re-writing or editing a novel can be a lot like fishing, pelican-style. You swim over the surface of your story, checking plot, sharpening your characters, defining their motives, while herding the entire story into the shallows. Doing so allows you to focus in on what you've been mining for all along, the underlying message you really want your story to say, the emotional connection that feeds readers and keeps them connected.

Herding the "meat" of your story takes patience; it takes time; it might even take a little team work from your critique group; but it is entirely necessary for bringing up the treasures lying beneath the surface.

And if you do your job right, perhaps those treasures will even take flight.

Happy writing everyone!