How Do I Know When To Stop Researching This Story?

And other research related questions that have kept me up at night

I’ve been down research rabbit holes inside rabbit holes inside rabbit holes, until I popped up for air on the other side of the research field. I’d dug my own rabbit warren at that point, and if you’re anything like me, and you love history and research, getting tangled up in that process can feel joyously never ending.

Even if you’re not writing historical fiction, you might be writing fantasy with a medieval element, or a contemporary romance and you’ve found yourself Googling stuff like, is it yete or yeet? If you’ve ever looked anything up in service to a story because you need to verify something, then this is for you. If you’re prone to falling headfirst into Pinterest boards, and reddit forums, and the Gale Cengage search bar, at some point you’ve probably said something like:

  • Do I know enough?
  • Do I keep researching because this is my latest ADHD hyper fixation, or do I really not know enough?
  • How much do I have to read before I’ll finally know enough?!

It turns out, not as much as you might imagine. Or want to know. Or want to simultaneously write a dissertation on. Cough, cough. Anyway.

Procrastination/Anxiety/Both/Neither

Inevitably, someone will tell you you’re just procrastinating. So I’ll get it out of the way here, because would this article about research and the failure to stop doing it even be complete without a mention? The thing is, you might be procrastinating. You might be letting a story marinate. Or maybe you’re not. I think if you’re using research to procrastinate, you already know you’re doing it. You know you’ve been reading for an age and not writing a single page. You can feel that little claw, sinking into your heart when you think about what you’re doing to yourself and your story.

This is about how to know when you’re actually done reading. How to know that you know enough.

You can read until God dies, and still feel like it’s never enough

So let’s just get that one out of the way, too. Let yourself off the hook of reading every single thing that’s ever been written about the subject ever, so you can get a move on. I wrote a memoir manuscript set during COVID lockdown and the pandemic. Can you imagine if I read every single thing that was published about that time period? I’d never be done. So… set a research deadline and write anyway.

You’re going to fill any gaps that you discover mid-draft as you go. And honestly, those pieces are almost always the research you actually needed. The front-loaded stuff is just your foundational knowledge and it comes in handy later.

But I have to know things so I can keep writing

OR, you can use the bracket method. When you hit on something you don’t know while drafting, type some brackets like this [RESEARCH: what did a 19th-century apothecary smell like? Is there a way to make it unsettling?] and keep moving. Because the reality is, it’s equally unsettling if the apothecary smells like Black Death or movie theatre popcorn. If you discover that’s it’s herby and kinda medicinal, then it’s probably not a plot point worth an afternoon on the nerd forums.

Just keep going. Brackets also give you something to use CTRL F to find through your document, so you can make sure you catch all the of the research bits that you’d still like to do.

Excessive research will cause you to info dump or worse

Lecture your reader. The best research shows up organically on the page and feels more like background texture. The ratio of research you do to the research that actually appears on the page should be roughly 10:1.

10:1?! I know. I know. Take a deep breath. You read so much. You dug into the deepest darkest crannies of the archive for some of this info, and yet… Are you writing fiction or a dissertation? It’s OK if you want to do both, but you can’t do both in the same manuscript.

OK. So when do I stop researching then?

Way back in the stone ages, when I was working at Pacific University, I asked one of the MFA profs, Elinor Langer, the same question. Elinor had written this intensely researched nonfiction book on the skinheads of Portland and the death of a Black international student. She read and read and read about all manner of heinous things in order to understand the motivation behind the violence, the killing, and the skinhead movement. That book is an education you never wanted to have, let me tell you. It’s dark, and gritty, and also very real. Very human. Vitally important.

So, when I asked her the same questions, “But how do you know when you know enough? When do you stop reading?” She had a very straightforward answer.

“When nothing surprises you. You may not have known a particular tidbit of information, but when you read it, you’re not at all surprised by it. Then you know you’re done. You’ve understood the heart of it.” -Elinor Langer

I’ve taken that advice forward with me and it’s never failed me. We’re not writing the People’s History of Napoleon and His Failed Conquest into Russia, or The Rise and Fall of the Habsburg Empire (even though I probably could at this point). We’re writing fiction, set inside a particular time period. We might even need to understand some science around elements and how that might translate to elemental magic. Or it could just be yete or yeet.

The point is, we really want to do it well. We want to make sure we’re representing things in a realistic way. We want to do the story justice.

And we’re also writing fiction.

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Your Dialog Sounds Like a Hostage Negotiation

Nine tips for more natural character conversations

Nothing takes me out of a story like when characters open their mouths and talk like they’ve never interacted with another human being before. If that’s true for them, I read on. Romantasy can get wild, folks. But when I’m supposed to believe that this character has friends, has neighbors, has community members with whom they regularly interact… then bad dialog can grind all other story engines a halt, and lose you readers before you even reveal that decadent first twist you have planned.

So let’s talk about talking. Let’s doll up your dialog. Let’s wag those tongues in the natural way.

What’s Making Your Dialog Sound Stilted

  • Not using contractions. For example: “do not” versus “don’t.” A lack of contractions makes your dialog feel overly formal, and if your conversation is happening between two people with a more casual rapport (best friends, siblings, etc), that’s one of the first things readers will clock, even if it’s unconscious. There are exceptions to this rule, like if you’re writing during a time period or culture where language is more formal, or if you want one character or both to feel a little bit stuffy, but unless you’re trying to evoke a very specific, very formal cadence… add some apostrophes.
  • Overusing names. Generally speaking, we only ever say people’s names TO them for emphasis. I go days between saying my husband’s name to his face. He knows I’m talking to him. He knows I know his name (I hope). It would feel completely bizarre to be like “good morning, husband’s name” versus “morning, how did you sleep? I slept badly because you stole the covers in the dead of night again!”
  • Too long/complete of sentences. How often are you grammatically correct out loud when you’re not in a job interview? And how often, outside of circumstances where you’re given the floor to tell a story, are your sentences longer than a few spare words to get your point across? Most people use language to communicate, and communication does not require perfect sentence structure. Communication relies on context and familiarity, rather, and if your characters are familiar with one another… they probably use a lot of shorthand, or they start with the simplest possible thing (“do you need anything from the store?” “Shampoo”) before being forced or compelled to clarify (“the one in the purple bottle. I think it’s got a green cap? Garner Frunk or something. Just text me a picture of the display and I’ll tell you which one.”) Also- let them interrupt each other! It’s often not rude, it’s just that people get excited to chime in or they guess the end of the sentence and are ready for the next one.
  • Unrealistic exposition. “Hello, sister of mine, my beloved Brianna, who is exactly ten years my junior. How fair thee on this fine Monday afternoon at 3pm outside your high school, Fruita Monument?” We are all trying to figure out the best way to convey important information without just doing a three page info-dump, but mechanically forcing your characters to do it for you is also not the answer. If you really need someone to say something out loud, you need to also ensure they’re in a situation that calls for that explanation. This is why it’s so common for protagonists to be newcomers- to a school, a world, a community. Their ignorance is your ignorance, so if you don’t know something, it’s because neither do they.
  • Improperly placed filler words. Is that REALLY where the “um” goes? This is one of those things that you really gotta hear it out loud to catch perfectly, but a rule of thumb to follow is: if you need a character to stumble, filler words are used at the start of a sentence, in place of nouns, or preceding the subject of a sentence. “Uh, can you get me some shampoo?” (start, implies the character was distracted before speaking) / “Can you get me some, uh, shampoo?” (noun, they’re struggling to recall the word or are uncomfortable with what the noun indicates) / “Can you, uh, get me some shampoo?” (subject, either their unconscious mind knows they have something to say but are distracted until their conscious mind comes up with the specifics, or they feel uncomfortable making the request). I wouldn’t overuse these, but if the moment or character calls for it this should steer you correctly.
  • Overusing dialectic spelling and style. Sometimes, you can just say they’re from Boston, you don’t need to spell out “Ahm” instead of “I’m” every single time. Pick a handful of words or turns of phrase to remind us. If it’s a fully different, like when a Scottish character is asking if someone “kens” something (“knows”), that’s fair game.
  • Treating the reader like they’re dumb. Unless it’s genuinely unclear after multiple rounds of feedback/beta readers, you don’t need to tell me “she said snarkily” if the line is already snarky. And if it’s genuinely unclear… then the line doesn’t sound very snarky. Think of your snarkiest friend- what makes their words snarky? Is it emphasis? Word choice? Sentence construction? Some tonal tagging will be necessary, but an angel dies every time a writer puts “they said jokingly” after an obvious joke in the dialog… and they die painfully when the joke isn’t even funny.
  • There’s too much cluttering the conversation that isn’t dialog. This is less a dialog note than it is what appears around it, but my advice is: sometimes, take it from the screenwriters and just let them TALK, checking in only to give us plot-important actions or to remind us who each line belongs to… though if you’re in your characters’ voices enough, we should be able to tell without it. You’ll also find it’s easier to get into a rhythm and start distinguishing between voices when they’re just kinda going at each other.
  • There’s too much dialog. You actually don’t have to transcribe every single thing literally being said in a conversation for the reader to understand what’s happening. Yes, the character may literally be recounting something we’ve already seen and so they would say all that stuff… but do we actually need to read it? Sometimes the best dialog is a summary of dialog because the actual conversation doesn’t move anything forward or reveal anything new to us about the characters, it just has to happen for logistical reasons.

But you should also just read it out loud

Things sound different in your head than in your mouth; what scans fine in the ol’ noggin is absolutely bizarre when your tongue has to trip over it. This is doubly true for dialog (though I would recommend reading your whole book aloud to yourself at some point in the revision process).

Better yet: host a table read, at least for important moments where you really need the banter and back and forth to connect. Get some friends (bonus points if they’re actors!) to read a section for you, and just watch them interplay. Take note of where they stumble, where they emphasize words, where they skip things, where they fully lock in and where they seem less engaged. Watch actual people talk your words, and be honest about if it came out the way you intended, then as people talk amongst themselves before and afterwards, really pay attention to the cadence and word choices. Listen to how conversations tend to weave half-thoughts and gesticulations, because the goal is not to finish sentences but to communicate information or to convey emotion.

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The Opening Scene Problem Every Writer Has (Including Yours Truly)

Figuring out where to start the novel or story can be maddening. Until now.

Oh, where do I begin with this? At the beginning! Only sometimes the beginning can be a tricky bugger to find. It has been for me, and I would find myself writing around an idea, priming it with 500 pages of backstory, or stopping and restarting at least a million times.

But here are a few things I’ve learned from my own practice, and after teaching hundreds of university students, that just might help your story get off on the right foot.

The story never starts where you think it does

Let’s just get that out of the way so you can stop feeling badly about yourself. Honestly. And I say this because you can read a bajillion books and know intuitively that they’re working, but not be able to pinpoint precisely why. Or where it breaks down. Or, again, why. Reading a lot of stories definitely helps, and yet sometimes, we need some straightforward advice for the stories we’re trying to tell.

Here are the most common traps, and some questions to ask yourself if you tend to flail around in the beginning of your stories:

  1. Starting too early. I’m looking at those hundreds of pages of backstory. The best opening is the moment your protagonist’s world flips on its head and not a second earlier.
    1. Ask yourself this. What is the least amount of information I can give right now that will get the reader up to speed here? Not the whole tranche of files. Too much information is hard to hold onto, and you’re asking your reader to know, intuitively, which details are THE details worth hanging onto. Giving them the most relevant information is a gift.
  2. Starting too late, in mid-crisis, and with zero grounding or context. You could be writing about the worst thing in the world happening to your character, but your readers might come away not caring. Not because they don’t care about abuse, violence, betrayal, etc… but because there’s a stakes problem. Your reader doesn’t understand the significance of what’s being lost or threatened. And if you want the replay to our What’s at Stake? Workshop, you can get it here.
    1. Starting in medias res is a trap that creates chapters of car crashes that mean nothing. Action without context is noise. Ask yourself this. If I’m going to start in the middle of the chaos, what part of this story matters the most to my protagonist? Because a thing in motion that also matters, throws a life line to the reader and anchors them into one emotional thread of the story.

But where do I actually start the story?

With desire

Even if it’s not the character’s ultimate desire. Cinderella started her story simply wanting to be loved. To experience freedom and peace. Not to go to a ball. Not to wear a beautiful dress. Not to dance with a prince. Not for the shoe to fit. Even though, she would desire all of those things as the story unfolded. But in the beginning, she wanted to be swept away from that harridan stepmother and her two harpy step-sisters, and it just so happened to take going to a ball, wearing a beautiful dress, dancing with a prince, and the shoe fitting to make it happen.

The reader needs to know what your character wants (even if they change their mind as we go) before they can care about anything that happens to them. Establish desire first.

Revealing their character and the world’s rules at the same time

Your opening scene has to do two jobs. We can see how horribly Cinderella’s being treated in the beginning, that she has no choice but to serve as a maid in her own house, and how this step mother has taken her poor father for everything. And now that he’s dead, Cinderella has lost her only source of support and protection.

Does it make Cinderella angry, bitter, or vengeful? No. She’s damn near saintly about the whole thing. Does she go on a murderous rampage and write their names on the walls in their own blood? No, but we wouldn’t have blamed her if she did. We learned the rules of her world and how she responds to those rules, which gave us her character.

If your opening scene is only doing one, it’s working too hard in the wrong direction. Your character needs some structure so the reader will know when they’re breaking the rules. That also helps the reader know how terrified/happy/anxious they should be for your character as the story unfolds.

Some tests

If you can delete the first chapter and the story loses nothing, you started too early.

If a secondary character appears in your opening scene, and then disappears for fifty pages, you started wayyyyy too early and introduced someone the story wasn’t ready for yet. This is also a sneaky way of filling in backstory that you probably don’t need but is very interesting to you.

If your opening scene involves your main character waking up, getting dressed, eating breakfast, or commuting, and none of those things are plot-critical, you’ve started too early. This is so common, it’s called The Morning Routine. And it’s understandable to start there because it feels like a natural beginning. For the day, yes. For a story, 99/100 times, no.

If your protagonist is set to lose something in your opening pages, does the reader know why their actions matter beforeit’s threatened? If no, and the loss or the danger arrives before your reader has even connected with your character, you’ve started too late.

If you find yourself mired in backstory dumps or flashbacks in chapter two to explain everything that happened in chapter one, it’s a great sign that the flashback material needed to come first. You started too late.

If your reader feels like they’ve walked into someone else’s crisis and are basically a stranger at a funeral, meaning they’re emotionally present, but they’re not sure who they’re supposed to grieve or why or what to do with their hands, then you’ve started too late.

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