The Research That Never Made the Page

For every detail that ends up in a finished novel, there are probably a dozen that didn't.

I research thoroughly, sometimes to a degree that goes well beyond what the story actually requires. It's all to understand the world my characters inhabit from the inside.

• The way people spoke
• The rhythms of daily life
• The particular texture of a place and time
  

That kind of understanding requires far more knowledge than will ever appear on the page. Most of it is invisible to the reader but all of it impacts how the story feels. Unknown or uncommon facts are one of my favorite things about research discovery.

• Fascinating historical details
• Pieces of local lore
• Unexpected connections between two things I didn't know were related
• Things that simply don't fit the story I'm telling

I write them all down anyway. They go into a folder that has never stopped growing. Somehow, they'll find their way into a future manuscript. Nothing is ever wasted!

The Scenes That Got Cut

Cutting a scene you worked hard on is one of the quieter griefs of novel writing. No one except me and maybe my editor or critique partner knows it happened.

But there are scenes in every manuscript I've written that I genuinely mourned losing. Moments between characters that felt real and true and earned, that simply didn't serve the larger shape of the story well enough to stay. A scene can be well-written and still be wrong for the book.

I keep those scenes, though. In a folder, just like the unused research. I may or may not use them, but I can't quite bring myself to delete them either. They're part of the story even if they're not in it.

The Long Road Between First Word and Finished Book

What you hold in your hand as a reader represents years, sometimes, from the first stirring of an idea to the day the book exists in the world.

Every book's journey involves:

• Writing and revising
• More revising
• Conversations with editors about what the story needs to become
• Cover designs
• Marketing decisions
• Endorsements to gather
• A release date that needs careful preparation

By the time a book reaches a reader, the author has usually been living with it so long that reading it feels like visiting a place you moved away from years ago. It's familiar in a way that's almost strange.

That long road is why a reader's response matters so much. The letters. The messages. The moments when someone finds me at an event or reaches out online to say that a particular character or scene met them somewhere real. Those moments close a loop that started quietly, alone, at a desk somewhere, with nothing but an idea and the hope that it might become something worth a reader's time.

It did. You're holding the proof of it.

Is there something you've ever wondered about what happens before a book reaches your hands? A part of the process you've been curious about? Ask me in the comments. I'll be happy to pull back the curtain a little further.

How I Name My Characters (And Why It Matters)

Names have weight.

I don't think most people realize how much until they try to change one that has already settled into place. There's a particular kind of wrongness that happens when a character's name doesn't fit. A low-grade friction that follows you through every scene, every line of dialogue, every moment where you type that name and something in the back of your mind quietly objects.

When the name is right, you don't notice it at all. It just disappears into the character, the way a good pair of glasses disappears when you're actually looking at the world through them rather than at them. That's the aim of every author.

Getting there, though, is its own process.

Where the Search Begins

I rarely arrive at a character's name quickly. Oh, I might start with a name to get the story rolling, but those names often change before the book comes to an end. Usually the character exists for a while before the name does. I might even throw in a placeholder of sorts while the rest flows. A presence, a voice, a set of tendencies and wounds and desires that feel real before they have anything to be called.

During that nameless stretch I pay attention differently. Noticing names the way you notice a color when you're trying to decide whether it belongs in a room. A name will catch my attention in a completely unrelated context. It might be a historical record, a passing conversation, or even the credits rolling at the end of a film. Yes, I'm one of those who sits until the very end. But something will shift.

That's not how it always happens, though. Sometimes, a name will land and I'll know immediately that it belongs to the person I've been trying to find.

Other times I go looking deliberately. I keep a list of names I've encountered and liked but haven't yet used. I research naming conventions for the time period and region or contemporary setting I'm usingn to write the story, because a name that belongs to a character's world matters as much as one that belongs to their personality. A woman living on the Virginia coast in the early twentieth century is not going to be named something that sounds like it belongs in a contemporary Manhattan apartment, and if she is, there needs to be a specific reason. And the story needs to earn it.

What a Name Has to Do

A character's name is doing more work than you might think.

It's the first impression a reader has of a person before they know anything else about them. It carries sound and rhythm that affect how a reader experiences every scene where that character appears. It can signal something about the origin of a character, what era they inhabit, what kind of family shaped them. And in dialogue especially, the way other characters use a name becomes a tool for showing relationship and tension without having to explain either one directly. Whether they shorten it, avoid it, or use it pointedly in a moment of conflict 

Names also sometimes unlock something about a character I hadn't consciously known. There have been moments where I tried three or four names that were all technically fine. Then, I landed on the right one and suddenly understood something about the character I hadn't been able to articulate before. As if the name was the last piece that gave everything else clarity.

That probably sounds strange. It makes complete sense to me.

The Names That Didn't Work

I've changed character names mid-manuscript more times than I care to admit. Usually it happens when I realize somewhere around chapter four or five that the name I chose in the planning stage was just who I hoped the character would be rather than who they actually turned out to be once the story started breathing.

Characters have a way of becoming themselves despite your best intentions, and sometimes the name you gave them at the beginning no longer fits the person who showed up on the page. When that happens, there's nothing to do but change it and do a thorough find-and-replace and hope you didn't miss any. Which reminds me, I have a comical story (now) about this:

In one of my earlier book series, I reached the Net Galley phase of the editing process. This is the time to find any overlooked spelling mistakes or grammatical errors. It's not for major substantial edits. Well, in my review, I realized I had 2 completely different very minor characters in similar roles who had the same name.

So, I made note of the pages where the 2nd character appeared at the end of the novel. That, along with a couple other spelling catches went to my publisher for final changes. I specifically stated what needed to happen for that character. Isolate those exact pages, and change the name "Mary" to "Laura." Simple enough. Right?

Obviously not. And I had no idea of the mistake until I received reader email and letters asking what "prilaura" was.

It took me a few minutes to process, but thankfully, one of my readers cited the page number. Anxiously flipping to the page, I found the error. But sadly, it wasn't just that one. My book also had the odd words of "custolaura" and the scent of "roselaura."

Ugh! Instead of limiting the find/replace command to the 7 specified pages of a single chapter at the end of the book, the person who oversaw the galley changes had done a global search & replace and also forgot to capitalize the names. So, anywhere the string of letters m-a-r-y appeared in any word or name, they were replaced with l-a-u-r-a. And there were over 20,000 copies that went to print like this!

After notifying my publisher and replying to that handful of early readers, then sitting in anguish over this glaring mistake that couldn't be fixed, I realized I could get angry, or I could find the fun in it. I chose the fun.

So, I sent out a newsletter challenging readers to find the mistakes and report back. Each one who did was entered into a drawing for 1 of 5 different prize baskets containing not only a copy of this "rare" book, but also a copy of the other 2 books in the series, some herbal tea, a coffee cup, bookmark, and a magnifying glass to honor the sleuths.

If you'd like to join the fun, pick up a copy of Bound by Grace anywhere you can find it and look for yourself. :)

I never mind the extra work. A name that fits is worth the trouble of finding it.

Do you have a name that you've always thought sounded like it belonged in a story? Maybe your own, or someone close to you. I'd love to hear it in the comments.

When the Story Stalls: What I Do When the Words Won't Come

There's a particular kind of quiet that settles over a writing session gone wrong.

It's not the peaceful quiet of early morning before the house wakes up or the silence of the late night after everyone is tucked in bed. The kind where ideas surface easily and the words seem to know where they're going.

No, this. This is the other kind. The kind where I've been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes and the cursor hasn't moved, and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should go reorganize a kitchen cabinet instead.

Every writer knows that quiet. Nobody talks about it enough.

I've lived through several versions of it over the years. The short kind, where a scene simply isn't cooperating and a good night's sleep resets everything. The longer kind, where weeks pass and the manuscript sits untouched and the guilt about the manuscript sitting untouched somehow makes it harder to open. And the longest kind. The season I've written about recently here, when life demanded everything I had and the creative well went completely dry for a stretch of years.

They're not all the same problem, and they don't all have the same solution.

When the Scene Is the Problem

Sometimes the stall is right in the manuscript I'm writing. One scene, one chapter, one conversation between characters that refuses to come together. When that's what's happening, I've learned that pushing harder rarely helps. Staring at a stuck scene with increasing frustration is a bit like pressing harder on a key that won't turn. Eventually something gives, but it's usually not the lock.

For stuck scenes, I've learned to step back and ask whether the scene is stuck because I'm writing it wrong or because it shouldn't exist at all. Those are two very different problems. A scene written from the wrong point of view, or entered at the wrong moment, or carrying too much expository weight will resist you. But sometimes a scene stalls because some part of you already knows it doesn't belong in the story. It's just taking a while for your conscious mind to catch up.

I've deleted entire chapters that I worked on for days once I finally admitted that's what was happening. It's never a comfortable moment. But the story always moves more freely afterward. And don't worry. Those deleted chapters are never permanently deleted. I've almost always found use for them somewhere else, in some other story or book. Nothing written is ever wasted. It's simply repurposed.

When the Writer Is the Problem

Other times the stall has nothing to do with the manuscript itself. Life is loud, or heavy, or simply full in a way that leaves nothing left over for fiction. The creative part of my brain requires a certain amount of margin to function, and when that margin disappears, when every hour is spoken for and every emotional reserve is already committed somewhere else, the words stop coming. The story isn't broken. I'm just temporarily running on empty.

That's a harder stall to work through, because the solution isn't craft-related. You can't outline your way out of depletion. Sometimes the most honest thing a writer can do is set the manuscript down without guilt and tend to whatever is actually demanding attention. The story will still be there.

I've had to learn that lesson more than once. And no matter how often it happens, it doesn't come naturally to me.

What Actually Helps

When I'm stuck and the cause isn't immediately obvious, a few things have helped me find my way back.

Reading almost always helps. Not reading about writing, though. Just reading fiction I love (the kind that reminds me why stories matter) rekindles something in me that a stuck manuscript can temporarily extinguish. There's something about immersing in someone else's well-crafted world that loosens whatever has tightened up in my own.

Getting away from the desk helps too. Some of my best breakthroughs on a stubborn scene have happened in the car, or on a walk, or in that half-awake space just before sleep. That's why I keep a notepad and pen by my bed, in the car, and in various places around the house. I also learned how to quickly access my voice recording on my phone for when inspiration strikes. The brain keeps working on the problem even when you stop forcing it to produce. Giving it room to do that quietly is sometimes all it needs.

And occasionally, what helps most is simply lowering the stakes for a session. Instead of sitting down to write the scene, I'll write around it.

• Journal from a character's perspective.
• Draft a scene that will probably never appear in the book but helps me understand something about where they are emotionally.
• Take the pressure of the actual manuscript off for an hour and let myself write badly and freely.

All of this helps me remember that words still come when I'm not gripping them so tightly. The story always comes back. That's the thing I keep having to remind myself in the middle of a stall. It always comes back.

When you're stuck on something hard, whether it be a project, a decision, or a difficult conversation, what gets you unstuck? Is it pushing through, stepping away, or something else entirely? I'd love to hear your approach in the comments.