Setting Pt. 1

I’ve been meaning to share some of my travels as a nomad and the editorial insights they connect with and inspire while I’m on the move, and an addition to my website felt the best way to do that. So here goes nothing.

As an introduction, it felt appropriate to begin while I’m in Winnipeg, my de facto home. These days, it’s closer to the verb definition of a migratory bird. I’ve left Winnipeg for many reasons since 2012—university, relationship, work, general roving—but inevitably I return, though never for very long.

I’ve been discovering many things about why I initially gave up the title of home altogether when I went nomadic, which are too many to dig through here. Ultimately, this is the lifestyle I feel I’d been leading up to for as long as I can remember. This is the person I always knew I would be since childhood, perhaps not wholly where my imagination took me, but pretty damn close.

I couldn’t accept that my life had to be structured the way societal norms prescribed, and I never wanted my life to be dictated by routine. Perhaps this is why I was compelled to go freelance much sooner than I had planned for my career as a book editor. Deadlines may rule my work life, but how (and where) I get to them is up to me. And while I return home at least once a year, I find it quite difficult to stay focused when I’m here.

As I’m sure all can understand, the place where I was raised holds a personal history. They may just be memories now, but they’re also the starting point of many paths I’ve taken since, mostly subconsciously. Place, after all, is where it all begins.

Like in storytelling, the setting does more than just create a backdrop in which the characters exist. Yes, there is the challenge of moving our character from one room to another. But here, I’m speaking of the emotive qualities of a place. An affective setting in a story, as in real life, incites the senses—textures, sounds, smells, and of course sights.

When you think of the books you’ve read, often your memory will first conjure a place in the story:

-         The darkness of the wardrobe opening toward the lighted streetlamp in Narnia

-         The scent of mint from the overgrown garden in The Weight of Blood

-         The eldritch holiday park of Christmasland in N0S4A2

-         The stately rooms at Thornfield Park in Jane Eyre

-         The dusty desert air in Grind Your Bones to Dust

-         The dank, dripping slaughterhouses in Tender Is the Flesh

But beyond the senses, places hold the rhythm of memories we’ve stored in the back of our minds and all but forgotten. When stepping into a familiar scene, moments of our past recollect. An unexplainable discomfort can weigh us down on a street corner. The smell of a pizza oven can bring back voices from the years gone. Or indeed a homey repose from a prairie breeze might embrace us. When we write stories it’s important for us to think about how the setting may impact our character, especially if they have a personal history there. Or if it’s a new place, whose history influences their perspective of the surroundings?

Think of a place. What about that place could stir a reaction or a mood in someone? Forget other people’s interests and knowledge for a moment. What is the weather like? If it’s frigid temperatures, are they resilient in the face of the cold out of necessity? If there are so few months of summer, are they boosted with renewed energy in the heat?

If it’s a familiar place, are they happy to be there? If it’s new, are they intimidated or excited for the challenge of the unknown? A large population may make them feel safe in anonymity, or maybe it makes them lonely. Where in a small town they’d have all eyes on them, which they may relish or loathe. In a remote location, they’ll need to always be prepared. Alternatively, if they have access to everything always, they might be freer to focus on more “trivial” aspects of life. How deeply do these qualities shape the character’s story in this place?

If it’s a fictional, fantastical setting, what about it can you make familiar enough for the reader to find their footing so that they may explore with ease the untold world you’re developing on the page?  

We see every day the power a place can hold. Some even say that different parts of the earth hold different energies and certain people can connect to it depending on their own energy. I can’t lie and say that I’ve felt any specific energy coming from beneath my feet, but I do know when I’m in the right or wrong place. It’s a feeling I’ve learned to listen to, but not one I can really plan for.

I’ve always said my favourite place in the world is my family’s farm where I grew up visiting most of my summers and throughout the year. I even made it the setting for my first short film because of how much meaning the place holds for me, and that’s reflected in the story. This feeling has yet to falter no matter how long I’ve been away from the farm. And I know that most of this feeling comes from the expanse of the horizon and the peaceful pastures and the quivering clicks of Aspen leaves, all of which made me feel physically small but mentally enormous. If my body couldn’t be everywhere at once, at least my mind could connect me to more, and that was an intense feeling as a kid.  

Planting our readers in the setting is about more than just geography and street names. If you want your story to live long in the readers’ minds, take time to think about what you want them to feel in this place. Whether it’s a whimsical made-up world, a murky phantasmic atmosphere, or reflected from real life, the attention you give to setting can establish the vibe for the whole narrative.

Plenty still needs to be said about how setting can shape identity, but I shall leave that for part two on this particular topic. Stayed tuned.