Call me a curious cat, a history buff or a crazy loon, but I love to research. Facts about the past, from how things were created to what actually took place, have always held an endless fascination for me. 

Now on the surface this appears to be a good quality to possess when you’re making up tales. And it’s true, in the beginning, I spent a lot more time collecting facts than I did writing stories. Y’know, necessary character-building facts such as the origins of names or the particulars of occupations, sicknesses, towns, climates, vehicles, etc. In that “discovery” phase, when I filled page after page with peripheral information, I felt as though I were creeping up the first big hill on a roller coaster. The sheer anticipation of the ride consumed me. 

Yet by the time I shifted my focus to the story, I felt as though I’d been thrown off the ride and on to my head. “Holy cow,” said I. “Wherefore shall I place these valuable tidbits of which I’ve unearthed? Why, the amount is so great, I know not where to sally forth.” Then a really dim light went off in my head and I snapped my fingers. “Eureka! I shall sit my lead character in a comfy chair and allow her to reminisce with an old friend. While she prattles, her background shall flow from her lips as smoothly as sourwood honey. Ah, such fine literary writing is that!” 

I’ll spare you the actual results of this wayward thinking, and provide you with a simple example. 

Let’s say we’re sitting at our favorite café, waiting for a friend to join us. She rushes to the table, eyes wild, and says, “You are not going to believe what I’m about to tell you!”

We almost gag on our drinks. “What? What?”

“Bill came into the office today with a gun!” 

"Get outta town." We don’t know Bill from Adam’s housecat, but we certainly want to know more. “What happened?”

“Well.” She pulls out her chair and sits. “Bill was born on a Kansas farm in 1968 to Eugene and Eula Anderson. The third son of twelve, his destiny as a farmer was decided as soon as he left the womb. He liked to play with the animals, sure, but he had an ache in his heart to become a pilot. He began school like all his brothers in a one-room shack. His teacher’s name was Mrs. Pratt. She didn’t have a car and rode a bike to school, even when it rained. His grades were pretty standard and—” 

At this point, depending on our level of patience, we are either getting antsy or already thinking, For the love of Pete, who cares about the man’s life story! What the heck happened today?

And the audience is lost with an info dump. The storyteller had our attention, piqued our curiosity and then stepped away from the story altogether. She basically turned the spotlight on herself, the author, and said, Hey, readers, look at me. I’m the one behind this story. And now, I come out on stage to set it up, to give you a complete background of these characters. Otherwise, you’ll never get it. You’ll never understand the reasons they do what they do.

Why do we do this? Pride and fear. We’re proud of what we've created and we want to share every morsel of it with the world. We’re also afraid readers won’t stick around unless we provide all the details up front. But that’s simply not the case. Readers will stick around as long as they’re interested. And what interests readers? People doing stuff. 

But how do we insert a character’s history without bringing the story to a standstill? First, let’s make sure the history is actually relevant. Does it matter what sort of grades Joe Blow earned in school or how Suzy Q celebrated holidays as a child or that Hiddy Ho broke his leg at the age of sixteen? To the author, sure. It helps to create well-rounded believable characters. To the reader? Not unless the fact has a direct effect on the character now. 

For instance, what if Bill brought a gun to work because he suspects he’s going to be fired? What if his biggest fear in life is going back to the farm? How do we convey his frustration without heading back to his childhood? Insert specific moments at the opportune time. Perhaps:

"Got a minute, Bill?" said Mr. Caruthers. "Like to speak to you in my office."

Bill stood, a little shaky. He thought of the last time he saw his dad, leaning against the fence post with that toothless smirk. "You'll be back. I'll give you two years and you'll be back plowing the field like you're suppose to."

"Coming," Bill said as he took the gun from his top drawer.

Nuff said. Readers now have an insight into his motive, and their active imaginations will take it from there. Ahh, this guy's willing to go so far as to kill somebody to keep from going back to the farm.

So let's spoon-feed pertinent facts instead of ramming them down the throat. This not only tightens our prose, it forces us to avoid the worst writing technique of all: telling, not showing. That's for next time.