Why Research Matters in Fiction

An author’s greatest gift is the ability to convey authenticity, be it of character, setting, or emotion. Readers trust us to tell them a story that is truthful and real. That is the covenant. So what happens when we have to lie?

We write fiction, after all, and that comes from our imagination. How can we show authenticity when we are essentially making it up as we go along? The answer, at least in my case, is research. 

(How to Create Synergy in a Split-Time Storyline.)

In the course of writing 20 novels, I have had to school myself on such arcane topics as falconry, anchor design and deployment, the Hindenburg, and the history of lighthouse inspectors. Including details of the mundane into a novel without showing off that you’ve spent too much time in the library or on the internet is essential in forming that trust between the writer and the reader.

Research is the backbone of that relationship. It is crucial to get the details right because out there among your readers is someone who knows that topic far more than you. And if you get something wrong, some detail that they know isn’t correct, you will tear that reader out of the narrative and leave them saying that this author doesn’t know what they are talking about. It won’t matter to them that every other bit of research in your novel is spot on. You’ve lost them because you were wrong about something they know intimately.

Case in point: You’re reading a book that takes place during the American revolution and a character calls another character a thug. Sounds reasonable to a modern audience. That word is used every day. But it derives from the suppression of the Thuggee bands of thieves in India in the early 19th century and would have been unknown in Revolutionary-era America. The vast majority of readers wouldn’t have thought twice about the word—but that one historian reading your novel just tossed it aside with a contemptuous scoff.

That is the importance of research. Done right, it builds the trust between the reader and writer, assures them that you know what you’re doing. You’ve mastered the details of the real world so that when you introduce the ideas and situations that you’ve created in your imagination, the reader is willing to suspend some disbelief for the sake of the story.

For the past few years, I’ve been collaborating with the Cusslers on a series of books first developed in 2007 by Clive Cussler about a detective working in the first decades of the 20th century. Isaac Bell is his name and the cases he’s solved have involved the Titanic, sabotage of the Panama Canal, German spies operating in the United States prior to our entry into World War One—and most recently, in The Heist, the theft of a billion dollars from the United States Government. These are all fantastical plots, full of over-the-top action, edge-of-your-seat cliffhangers, and improbable escapes.

Check out Jack Du Brul’s Clive Cussler The Heist here:

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All of that comes from my imagination. What grounds the stories and makes them believable is the historic details I include. What was the fashion of the day? How much did a meal cost? What was more common on the streets, cars or horses? What was the home-town newspaper called? Why did trains have a caboose? Peppering a novel with details such as these gives an author an authenticity that allows him to seamlessly include fictitious elements without diverting the reader from the story.

For a novel set in the contemporary world, it is enough to get the details of location right to create legitimacy with your reader. For historical works, the burden is much greater. Phrases and slogans we take for granted today likely weren’t in use at the time you set your book. So my advice is: When you’re in doubt, look it up. Can your Civil War-era soldier say ‘the whole shebang’? No, that word was first used in 1869, and some etymologist reading your novel knows that.

For the average reader, this level of detail isn’t strictly necessary—but here’s the trick, and the real reason why I pursue minutia. As a writer, your job is world-building and the more confidence you have in the world you are creating, the better you are at presenting it to your audience and the more they will enjoy it.

I like to use George Lucas as an example. The universe he created for Star Wars was entirely fictional, but filled with such detail that for much of the audience, it was logical and utterly believable. Lucas didn’t have to create a backstory for every alien, human, and droid, but he did, and then presented them with such totality that no one questioned a giant slug gangster or a little green wizard. Lucas presented a world in full because he knew every nook and cranny of it. Do that with your books and you will bear your readers on a journey charted both by your imagination and—just as importantly—your expert knowledge. 

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