A Town is not a Backdrop
I have, sitting in my files right now, a novel where the entire physical world consists of a diner, a library, and a school. Another where the whole of human geography has been reduced to “a mountain.” Just the mountain. Not which mountain, not what’s at the base of it or who’s buried on its far side—a mountain, doing its mountain business, while my characters had entire emotional lives on top of it as if the setting were a green screen I’d get around to filling in during post-production. To make settings feel real, include sensory details like sounds, smells, and textures that evoke the environment beyond just what it looks like, helping readers feel truly immersed.
I am being a bit dramatic, but it really made me think. I did not notice this was a problem for a long time. That’s the embarrassing part. I’d outlined the plot with real rigor—motive, timeline, who lies to whom and why—and treated the setting like furniture I’d shop for later. Function over character. A diner is just a place where people talk. A mountain is just a place that’s cold and far from help. I could tell you exactly what was in Chapter 14 of both of those books. I could not have told you the name of a single street.
Then I started building a spreadsheet to track all my projects. I got tired of searching for specifics. That’s how I realized these two projects weren’t fully formed. I suppose organization does have its benefits.
SEE NOT, HEAR NOT, SPEAK NOT
It’s kind of appropriate that this novel was lacking a well-defined setting. Holly Courtland’s restaurant plays a big role in the novel. It’s the central community gathering place and the location near which Holly’s body is discovered. Its delivery door and rear service area are especially important. It now has a proper setting in Weatherford, a close-knit Connecticut town along the Connecticut River, just south of Hartford, where centuries of history coexist comfortably with the routines of contemporary life. Its historic neighborhoods, mature trees, older homes, modest commercial district, and riverfront give the community a settled, familiar character. Giving the setting a distinct identity will help your audience feel a sense of pride and authenticity in your world-building.
The town's greatest characteristic is its familiarity. People know the buildings. They know the businesses. They know the families. They know one another's routines. That familiarity creates a sense of security—but it also creates assumptions. People believe they understand what they are seeing because they think they already understand the people involved.
As the murder investigation unfolds, Weatherford gradually changes in the eyes of its residents. The familiar becomes questionable. Ordinary places become evidence. Old relationships acquire new meanings. And the community's greatest comfort—its belief that everyone knows everyone—becomes one of its greatest vulnerabilities
Here’s the thing: it wasn’t that difficult to expand the setting and give it a real-life feel. I did have the basics, and nothing I added for the setting changed the plot. It enriched the world I created.
If a setting can be swapped out for a different one of the same type without the story changing—a mountain for a different mountain, a diner for a different diner—it isn’t done yet. It’s a placeholder wearing a location’s clothes. The test isn’t “does this feel vivid.” Vivid is easy; you can always add fog and good lighting. The test is whether the place has a history that argues with your plot, something it did or was or used to be that your characters now have to work around, lean into, or lie about.
Give the town a name it’s embarrassed of. Give the building a former life. Give the water something it used to be famous for. Then get out of the way and let the place start telling you things you didn’t plan.