The Rabbit Holes and Oubliettes of Research
I’m counseled to write what I know. What the hell do I know? This is the white-rabbit worry that lures many writing projects down rabbit holes of research. I chase that magical promise of certainty. These tunnels of intellectual adventure can quickly turn into oubliettes where my intended stories get trapped, destined to be forgotten.
Example: My knowledge of washing machines is built on three facts; dirty goes in, clean comes out, and water is involved. If I’m writing about a washer repair tech doing their job, research is needed. The danger? One bit of info has a way of leading seamlessly into another and into another, on and on forever.
My approach to research depends on whether I define myself as a fiction or a non-fiction writer.
Josip Novakovich, in his book Fiction Writer’s Workshop, describes the difference: I may be writing a novel but if I must be absolutely sure that the car my character drives is appropriate to my story’s time frame down to the make, model, color, and VIN number, I am a nonfiction writer. Even in fiction, it hurts my heart to be inaccurate.
On the other hand, if I am the kind of storyteller who has no trouble altering or inventing details simply to offer a better tale, I am a fiction writer down to the bone. Novakovich points out that fiction writer is “much nicer than saying you are a born liar.”
Personally, I used to feel compelled to offer what I found interesting. I needed to prove myself an authority on a subject—to myself.
I try to remember a spectrum exists connecting the two. I fall somewhere between the polarized definitions, and I shift my location on that spectrum depending on what I am writing.
I’m a fiction writer who values fact. If I begin my washer repair epic, I’ll want to know what I can about the job. History I’ll find in books and online. Experience I’ll find in interviews. My research would lead me around the world, through evolving technologies into true stories from those who do the job. The process is fun.
While I enjoy the researching, I’m not writing. When I do get around to the writing, how obligated am I to share the researched information? Personally, I used to feel compelled to offer what I found interesting. I needed to prove myself an authority on a subject—to myself. Does the reader really want a dissertation on the chore of laundry? If the details hold no real narrative necessity, then no, they don’t.
My research is best started after the first draft is completed. I then know clearly what the story calls for in terms of facts and how those particular facts will allow my repair tech characters to live fully as people who have jobs. That’s ultimately what I want to write—my characters’ full lives. The task of research is to make the characters’ authorities on themselves.
It’s not what I know about the world that shapes my writing. It’s what my characters know about their worlds that shapes everything. Research then becomes a matter of chefs’ tweezers on micro-greens rather than carpenters’ hammers on nails. Emotionally-informed intelligence is how I get a reader to follow the white rabbit of what happens next? into a place where they’ll forget they’re reading. That’s possible only when I don’t forget my first obligation is to the reader.
Writing Exercise
Pick a topic, any topic. Spend some time researching the topic you chose. Take notes. When your research feels adequate, write a scene with a character where your research comes into play. The object is to keep the research within the character’s life experience—a factor that is only part of a fully-lived life. Bonus Points: Write another scene. New character. New topic. Do your research after writing and then write your new info into the scene—without losing the sense of character. Which of the writing approaches felt better to you?
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