I needed to do some quick research to answer one question today. Instead, I wound up opening up a previously undiscovered thread of information on the subject. As I read deeper, I began to feel overwhelmingly ignorant. It was fascinating; I knew I could learn it, given time; but finally, I had to stop myself and take a step back.

There’s such a thing as too much information. Especially when it comes to writing fiction.

I wasn’t training for a career in the field I researched; I was preparing to write about someone who has a career in the field. There’s a difference, one which I need to remember, if I ever want to get anything done. Interestingly, a lot of fiction writing is sleight-of-hand. I don’t need to know everything about a subject; I just need to know enough to sound like an expert.

Conversely, I can’t fudge it. I do have to learn it. Nothing is more glaringly obvious than vagueness. Brevity, on the other hand, sounds perfectly respectable. An expert is not going to pepper every sentence with detailed descriptions of what they do (or, I wouldn’t think they would). They’re going to use verbal shorthand, and just skim across the basics. Probably because they don’t want to sound like a know-it-all…even if they do know it.

I find that the more deeply I involve myself in the research of a project, the further I drift from the essence of strong characters and story. I can’t do without the research, though. Too little research, and I have vagueness. Too much, and I have no personality.

For example: This blog post. Up to this point, I’ve been using vague words, like research, information, subject, career, field. Expert, they, project, characters.

Let’s punch it up a notch.

In writing my current mystery novel, The Rosewood House, I’ve been learning as much as I can about security alarms—the business, the technology—because Jeff Barrister, one of my protagonists, is the co-founder of Barrister-Norman Security. He can tell you anything you want to know about point of protection, CCTV, central stations, and access control. But the mystery isn’t about any of those things; it’s about Jeff’s interaction with his family members, the guests and staff of the Rosewood Inn, and the antagonists of the story. He may never mention magnetic contacts; but that’s all right, since a reader is probably more interested in the magnetic attraction between Jeff and a woman he contacts.

So is all my work for naught, if I’m just going to make it up anyway? No. You know that feeling of confidence you get when you ace a subject? When you walk taller because you have an ability, even if you’re never called to use it? It’s the same thing here. Jeff’s character comes alive because I know—at least to some extent—what he does. I don’t have to make him talk about it. You can tell from the glint in his eye that he knows his stuff.

So now all I need to do is forget it, so I can write.

 

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