I remember someone comparing the totality of the work you do in crafting a novel to an iceberg. (A bit of a cliche metaphor, I know, but apt. Hear me out.) The part the reader sees, the finished final novel, is the bit that pokes out from the surface. You can sail around it, marvel at the subtlety of the whites and blues, the penguins and/or puffins living on it, etc. But, as we all know from this metaphor (and movies) the overwhelming bulk of it is beneath the surface. There's a whole mountain under there and you would never know (I mean, have you seen a puffin? Distractingly cute), and unless you're in a submarine or a doomed ocean liner, no reason to really think about it.

But I do. It's what holds up the story. The history and backstory of the characters, the rules of magic, the setting, the history of the world (real or fantastical, the only difference is whether the ideas originate in an encyclopedia or your head); a lot of the whys of the story are down there. Everything in my series bible is down there. Everything I've ever thought about the story, from late-night scribbles that came out of some weird limnal dream state to the inspiration I got on a walk to the fundamental bedrock thesis of why I want to commit to the insane act of writing it in the first place is down there. It is the mass of the story that gives it weight and informs the shape of the bit at the top.

Where does it start? Ideas are a dime a dozen, so it's the fleshing out of those ideas that is the true beginning of the process for me. And that means research.

Research is like an ogre onion--it has many, many layers, and the more you peel away the more you find.

Let's start with something super simple: what does your main character wear? Sound easy, right?

Okay, what time period is it? What does she even have access to? What's her social status/class? Is birth order important (hand-me-downs, etc.)? You may envision her liking purple. Oh, purple was really rare and super expensive for most of human history? Maybe not. Silk. Who doesn't want to live vicariously through their characters and put them in silk? Lovely stuff. Where did she get it? How did she pay for it? Only royalty in Europe had access to it for a long time, but by the '20s you could get silk pajamas and dressing gowns at the department store. Oh, only the posh department store? Oh. Fine, she wears a burlap sack! But her knees are showing now, what a harlot! Damn! Uh, petticoats! All the petticoats! Okay, could she have gotten into her chosen outfit/ensemble alone or would she have to have had a maid/sister/lover cinch her up? Layers. So many layers! Well, summer sucks now. Or does it? What would she have been expected to wear? A hat and gloves, too? Just the hat?

Ad nauseam.

F*ck!

But.

It's not always a cascading chain of questions. Sometimes it's as simple as finding a piece of artwork or a photograph and saying 'She wears that. Primary source. Done.' Or, if you write contemporary, just what that lady at Starbucks was wearing yesterday. Vibes, man. Horseshoes and hand grenades. (To a point. Don't have a character say 'strike three' or 'right off the bat' 100 years before baseball was invented.)

Peeling back the layers reveals more layers, yes, but also enriches the story. The bob haircut Victoria has is iconic to the mid-to-late 1920s, but in 1919? Holy shit, she might as well have had a mohawk. Now she's even more independent and rebellious. Electricity and telephones were still brand new in 1919, now I have the super fun scene of Millie trying to teach 400+ year-old Ivy that telephones aren't dangerous. What lurked under the surface popped up as character building.

Right now, my research involves trawling through real estate listings getting a sense of what the location looks like, the views you could expect and spending inordinate amounts of imaginary money on houses I could never own. My character could, though, and it helps me put myself in her head. Developing her sense of taste and priorities. What color woods would she prefer? Busy wallpaper or solid colors? How does she have her most private spaces arranged? Does her bathtub have feet? Simple things that may never get explicitly mentioned but nonetheless help build up (and inform) a whole personality.

And that's when the layers thing comes up. "Oh, neat, now I know what kind of birds are tweeting outside her kitchen window. Kitchen... wait, where does she buy sugar? There's a field out there. I think. What's the difference between a field and a paddock?"

If I'm making this sound like a lot of work, it's because it is. But I enjoy it. Building that underwater bit of the iceberg makes story choices easier later. It clarifies a lot of things and sets boundaries. That sound bad, but it really isn't. I write fantasy, so magic, right? Magic that can do anything and has no rules is boring and the reason a lot of people who hate fantasy, hate fantasy. Magic that has restrictions and clear limits is more compelling because you can raise the stakes and put characters in positions where you know they can't just magic themselves out of it. It's a tool, not carte blanche to do whatever the plot needs it to. And it has a cost. Guns run out of bullets, mages run out of magic. Or get tired. Or have to sacrifice a puffin to get more. Whatever, they're your rules! Just think them through and stick to them.

Writing a novel isn't a research paper, and while it may be up for peer review, it's not that kind. Ultimately, story is about character, and they come first. If I don't care about them, I don't care what happens or how or why your Dickensian ragamuffin is wearing a purple silk dressing gown.

But what filling out that iceberg can do is make them deeper, richer and more solid. The world they live in is the context for their choices, and their choices tell you who they are.

Just don't get lost. You still have to write the book.

Ramming sp- I mean, full speed ahead!