Story Location is Everything: How I Picked the Perfect Setting
My current WIP’s story location is a fictionalized version of both the town I went to college in and where I currently reside. Both of these towns have populations of less than 20,000. They’ve provided me some of my favorite memories. Better yet, they’ve taught me some of my biggest and most painful lessons. I chose the setting by default. After all, this was just supposed to be a short story based on a queer romance writing prompt.
Like character career choice, a story’s location is genre- and character-dependent. It relies on the plot and character development you aim to show on the page. It’s one of the most important pieces of the story creation puzzle. Unfortunately, it’s also one of the most overlooked.
C.S. Laskin makes clear the benefits that come from not overlooking this vital storytelling principle.
By carefully choosing settings that trigger emotions, intensify conflicts, and evoke specific moods, you infuse your story with vivid, unforgettable scenes that keep readers engaged from the first page to the last.
Even at just under 55,000 words, I keep an eye out for how I’m showing scene settings on the page. I weave in tension when I place a protagonist in a darkened room. That reflects his inner turmoil after an emotionally draining scene. I inject humor when the two characters stumble upon each other on their respective morning hikes. It’s set in a well-lit and colorful state park. Now, yes, it’s the first draft. Still, by not skimping on setting details now, I can further refine them during the self-editing stages.
I do this by writing what I know and writing what I don’t know. I share that process with you below, in hopes that it helps you figure out the story location that works best for your story.
Photo by Astrid Schaffner on Unsplash
The Story Location I Know
I live in a constant state of wanderlust. Since I was a child, the urge to travel flourished with every book I read, every vacation I watched my grandparents set out on. I’ve vacationed in Orlando, Florida; Los Angeles, California; Washington, DC; and Toronto and Montreal, Canada (three times for that second one).
After each of those trips, for upward of a week after, I locked myself in my house and disconnected from the world. Being in these major cities very much reminded me why I prefer my small town. Like my protagonist, I’m easily overstimulated. I knew instantly that trying to place my story location in a big city wouldn’t work.
Technically speaking, I’m a Southerner. My home city is below the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s also part of a smallish metropolitan area filled with military bases and a total population of two million. Every time I go home, my blood pressure spikes. My autism reaches a combination of melting down and shutting down. Between the traffic and the people, it’s just too busy for me.
Of course, that made it the perfect setting for my first original fiction manuscript. I had direct access to the specific locations where a vast majority of the scenes happened. Essentially, there was zero travel required. Those I didn’t have access to were merely a Google Maps search away. In Crystal Kaswell’s words, “You don’t need to grow up in a place to know it well, but you do need to spend time there. Learn the little details that make the place feel real.”
(Note: To my assigned National Intelligence agent, I promise I am just a writer.)
The Story Location I Don’t Know
Nalini Singh points out, “Knowing the wider outline of your world will help you make decisions about the more detailed aspects and give you a solid foundation on which to stand.”
When it became clear that my “short story” wasn’t going to stay short for long, I moved it to a small city roughly ninety minutes from my college town. It was just big enough for the protagonist to be just another resident. On the other hand, it was small enough that his familiarity with it was second nature.
I’m not a city planner, but I also didn’t want to spend hours “driving” through this city just to make sure I had street names and neighborhoods and distances perfect. Instead, I turned the setting into a fictional town that used the city as a base design. I chose real places where the characters work. The general design of the neighborhood where they live exists on the far end of this city. That state park I mentioned above? Real place. Different name.
Doing this, in L. G. Davis’s words, “eliminates the need to start from scratch.”
It’s been through my flash-fiction that I’ve learned the true skills of setting. This story in particular let me write about the future, while this story gave me a chance to explore the US’s Midwest. Both involve the supernatural, which is a genre I rarely read, let alone write. The only time I’ve even been in the vicinity of the Midwest was when my plane to L.A. crossed over it. And as much as I may long for it, the future is still just a hair’s breadth out of reach.
What’s Best for Your Story?
Your story location is yours to decide. It intertwines at every point with your characters and your plot. Removing the location from the planning process is the easiest way to lose the thread of the story you’re trying to tell. Still, it’s not just about picking a setting and dropping in those characters. Don’t forget to drop your readers in right beside them.
A captivating setting helps readers visualize the story as it unfolds and can make readers feel like they are right alongside your characters, embedded in the plot.
I previously provided a few questions to ask yourself as you build out your story world. To add to Smith’s explanatory advice above, I would add a couple more.
Character Motivation
I initially moved to my current town for a job opportunity. I don’t regret the move one bit. The job opportunity, though, came about because I’d reached the ceiling at my previous job. There was no further to climb up the ladder.
Understand why your character is in this specific location at this specific point in their life. Knowing why they arrived (or currently live) there helps build out their backstory. Their backstory is what influences their current-story time decisions.
Supporting and Background Characters
All characters serve a purpose in the story, some more so than others. Understand just who you need to populate your story world. Deciding their roles in your story will aid in knowing where and when its best to bring them onto the scene.
Sometimes it might be best to highlight the local citizens. In another instance, your protagonist could have a major external conflict with a coworker on the job or the local authorities at a crime scene (or a nosey patron at a bowling alley). Use the setting to show their connection to your characters, whether directly or simply in passing.
To Sum It All Up
A few weeks ago, I was struggling with a scene starring my main protagonist. It was a big decision point in the story for him. I knew exactly what he was going through, what he felt about the situation, and what decision needed to be made to keep the story moving forward. Better yet, I had a clear idea of the scene’s purpose. It isn’t a throwaway scene; it’s a vital moment in the first quarter of the story.
After weeks of struggling, said character finally whispered, “Just change the location, goofball.”
Where I wanted this scene to happen wasn’t working because it wasn’t supposed to happen where I had planned. It’s further proof of why I could never be a hardcore plotter. I go where the story takes me, literally and figuratively. It doesn’t matter how important the scene, how much weight the purpose carries leading up to or away from major plot events. If the location isn’t right for the scene events, there’s no forcing that scene to happen there. After all, as Liz Michalski puts it,
Setting is as much of a character as the main protagonists. It speaks to readers, revealing secrets and emotions and feelings in ways the living characters may not be able to share. And it carries a double load, rooting the protagonist in place and giving readers a glimpse at their internal landscape.
As you draft, consider how to use setting not as a backdrop to your story. Instead, give it a dual purpose. A dark room can be comforting or menacing, for example. It depends on who’s experiencing it, when they’re experiencing it, and what else is happening while they’re experiencing it. Give your readers insight into your character’s mental and physical state as they move around the space.
Done well enough, and readers will forget they’re reading fiction. They’ll be sucked into your characters’ lives one word at a time.
Reflecting On Your Story One Word At A Time!
