by Zoe Richards
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06 Jun, 2023
Since school days, when my love for writing and reading started to mature under the tutelage of Mrs Hymers, I've been told to write what I know. Let's face it, though, you're not really that interested in a novel about the life of an NHS programme manager ... or are you? So what does it really mean when we're told to write what we know? Silly though it sounds, I only attuned to what the phrase means about 2 years or so ago. Writing what I know is not referring to my profession or what I do, but rather it's about writing from a place of knowing. If you know Liverpool like the back of your hand, then write about it, but if you've never been there it's maybe better to concentrate on a place that you do know - and if you've never been, come to Liverpool, visit the city. Believe me, it's worth it! We have 2 beautiful cathedrals - the catholic one designed by an anglican, the anglican one designed by a catholic ... see, something to know about Liverpool. There is something else about 'write what you know' and this place of knowing, and that's the role of research. It's ok for me to research something to the point where when I write about it, you think I have written about what I know. That means the research has to be hidden between the lines of the novel. Take the photograph at the top of this post. Flowers in a jug sitting on distressed wood. What do you know about roses? A metal milk jug? Distressed wood? Let's take roses - we know that some have a delightful scent, that they come in different colours and start with a bud. Some roses are as beautiful in their death as they are in their blossoming. They're often used as wedding flowers - and having photographed weddings, there's a lot I know about that. Roses can be bought at flower markets, but you have to get there in the early hours before most others have stirred in their beds. In fact I know a little about the Liverpool flower market as I've been there to buy flowers and plants on a really cold spring morning whilst most people were still snuggled up in bed ... and so we can go on. But if you ask me about distressed wood, well, I don't really know much about it, other than it's rough, with peeling paint and is very much in fashion. I don't know what else I'd say about it. It's something I can research, though. How is the paint applied to get this effect? What kind of paint is used? Does it need to be old wood or can you make new wood look distressed and old? Does it need wax or varnish applied on top? All of this is stuff I can go and find out. And research can be more than reading about it - for example, you could go on a workshop to learn the technique. And the milk jug? Well, that transports me back to my Nana's kitchen in Woodlands, my grandparents remote, cold, damp house in the countryside near Clitheroe - I loved that house. We'd get milk from the dairy farm next door, still warm from the cow. I don't remember the taste of it particularly, but I do recall that creamy, rich scent, almost earthy. And I recall the feeling of the cow's udder when, on occasion, the farmer let us milk the cows. I know I could write a scene that's connected to that milk jug, simply using my recollections from childhood. Looking at this photograph and writing what you know, what would it inspire you to write? What's your story? If, then, we're told to write what we know, and research what we don't, how do we use research in a manner that feels like we know it? I find it helps to immerse myself into the research. I might do hours of work to write one sentence, or a short paragraph. When I first started writing historical fiction (and hopefully that novel will see the light of day, one day), I overwhelmed the story with my research. Because I'd learned something, I felt the need to prove that I knew stuff, to 'teach' the reader through my writing. Yet when I write what I know, I skim over things, making assumptions that people will know things, leaving the reader to know for themselves, or to go and do their own research if they want to. With our researched material, we need to move beyond the point of excitement for what we've learned, and reach a place where the knowledge is wrapped up within us. That way, what we've researched becomes 'what we know'. I often need to write my way into using the research I've done - and then in the edit I delete most of it. In my novel that's out on submission, I had one chapter of around 2,500 words that I absolutely loved. In truth, it added nothing to the story, despite it being really well written. It slowed the pace down. That chapter is now a sentence of about 20 words. A WHOLE CHAPTER IS 20 WORDS! Oh boy, that hurt, killing my darlings, but it was absolutely the right thing to do. The research took over and it dragged the story down. I discovered through that chapter that it's ok to write my way into using the research - and it's ok to delete it all later ... or save it in a file for future use in another novel. One final thing - here's a little tip for you. I keep a 'know-how notebook'. I started this over 20 years ago when I doubted that I was ready to apply for a more senior role. I didn't think I knew anything. So I started to jot down what I did know in my field. I was shocked to discover I did, in fact, know a great deal. I've kept using the know-how notebook, and I now have one specifically for writing. I put down things about the craft of writing, as well as things I think I might use in novels at some time or other. For example, I recently went on a bookbinding workshop, and whilst I'm not going to write up the whole methodology for the library style of bookbinding, I found it interesting watching the tutor and how he wiped the glue off his fingers and onto his apron. That tiny motion is something I'm adding to my know-how notebook. I'm not sure when I might use it, or if I ever will. But I want too capture that moment in case it becomes useful in the future.