From postcard to page

(Written for Writers’ Narrative Magazine, April 2026)

By Biba Pearce

You’ve just come back from an incredible trip. You know the kind, the one where you wandered the streets soaking up the sights, the sounds, the smells, the whole atmosphere of the place. Maybe it was a Greek island, where you explored narrow cobbled alleyways, blinked in the glare of whitewashed buildings, and breathed in great lungfuls of salty sea air. Or perhaps it was an urban break. A cultural few days in Prague, or a weekend in New York City. Whatever the destination, it stayed with you.

You’re a writer, how could it not?

All the way through the trip, or perhaps on the flight home, the ideas began to form. Wouldn’t this make a wonderful setting for a novel? A journey of discovery. A murder mystery. A romance. You can already picture it: a protagonist falling in love on a sun-drenched beach, racing through a warehouse district with an assailant on her tail, or witnessing a crime through an open window across a narrow street.

We’ve all been there.

Fired up with inspiration, and perhaps trying to soften the post-holiday blues, you open a new document and give it a working title like Mykonos Novel. And off you go.

But, stop for a moment.

Before you pour all those fresh memories onto the page, take a step back and think about the novel itself. Plot it out in your head, if not on paper. Because what you don’t want to do is turn your wonderful holiday into a travel brochure.

Long descriptions. Beautiful details. Paragraphs lovingly capturing exactly what everything looked like, felt like, and smelled like. The trouble is, none of that matters if nothing is actually happening.

That’s the golden rule to remember: readers don’t care where your character is. They care what’s happening to them there.

1. It’s About the Story

Setting is important, but it’s not the main focus of the novel. Even if you’re writing a Nordic Noir, or a hot, sultry romance, the setting doesn’t dictate the book. It provides atmosphere, it impacts the action, it affects the characters and creates mood, and can even be a plot device, but it shouldn’t take over.

Your reader might notice your book because it’s set in Paris, or Miami, or a small English village, but they’ll read it because of the characters, the plot, and the tension. The setting should support those things, not replace them.

It’s important not to let the location take centre stage. The result is often slow, descriptive passages that stall momentum. Instead, think of ways you can use that setting to:

Increase the tension: How does this impact the plot? Are they snowbound in the Alps with no way to get help? Is there localised flooding? Does the heatwave add to the steam of your romance?

Reveal character: How does your protagonist respond to the setting? Do they love it? Hate it? Can’t wait to leave? Is it spooky or scary? Does it remind them of a time when they were happy? Or bring back traumatic memories?

Complicate the plot: Does the setting impact the way the story unravels? Is the victim found under the ice in a Scandinavian lake, or are your characters in a war zone where the danger leads the characters to make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise make?

The sun hadn’t yet cleared the ridge when Olav Bergvall stepped onto the ice.
The light was the color of pewter, dull and heavy, without warmth. A thin wind hissed across the frozen lake, skimming loose snow over the surface in whispering sheets. It looked like drifting ash, swept out here by some faraway inferno.

Olav pulled his woolen cap lower over his ears and shifted the weight of the auger on his shoulder. He had been coming to Frostsjön every winter since he was a boy, when his father would bring him out at dawn with a thermos of coffee and a tin of cinnamon buns. His father’s voice would rise above the wind, gruff but warm, telling him to keep the auger straight, to respect the ice, to listen for its moods. These days, Olav came alone. His father was gone, the bun tin long since rusted at the hinges, but the ritual had stuck.

— Cold Mercy by Biba Pearce

If it’s not doing at least one of those, it’s probably too indulgent.

2. Description Slows Everything Down

Description, by its nature, is static. It pauses the story. It anchors the reader in a moment, in a space in time. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t describe anything, but it does mean you need to be intentional.

The stalker watched as the object of his attention exited the National Archives building in Kew, West London, a little after six o’clock in the evening, her handbag slung casually over her shoulder.

Right on schedule.

She glanced up at the April sky and frowned at the ominous clouds that threatened to erupt at any given moment. It was still light, but only just. The sun had already set and what little light was left was hastily following its descent into darkness.

— The Thames Path Killer by Biba Pearce

Notice how the setting details are there, but they’re not the focus. They’re tied to mood, timing, and what’s about to happen.

Description should serve the moment, not interrupt it.

3. Setting and Character

Instead of describing a setting, use it to tell your reader something about your character. I touched on this before, in an earlier point.

Don’t ask: What does this place look like?

Ask: What is my character doing here, and how does this place affect them?

A quiet street becomes more interesting when someone is being followed down it. A crowded market becomes more interesting when your character is trying to find someone, or escape. To illustrate this, here’s an example from a romantic suspense I wrote, set in the Middle East during an uprising.

The souk was her best chance. The bustling local market opened early and was always crowded, noisy, and in constant motion. If she could reach it, she might be able to vanish into the chaos, at least for a little while.

She turned out of the alley and onto a road flanked with shops selling everything from olives and vegetables to clothing and materials. The pungent smell of incense thickened the air. The colorful market stalls and their exotic produce were one of the things she loved most about Syman. Shoppers, mostly women, scurried around, packets in hand. They wanted to get back to the safety of their homes. Hannah didn’t blame them. She’d rather be anywhere else but out here on the street. But she had no choice.

Two blocks to the souk. She didn’t look back.

Then she heard it. The sound she’d been dreading.

Sirens.

— Sweet Betrayal by Gemma Ford

The setting comes alive when it’s part of the action, which leads us on to our next point.

4. Filter Everything Through Action

One of the simplest ways to improve pacing is to focus on movement. (If you read last month’s article, you’ll know I’m a big fan of movement to enhance your novel.)

Instead of describing a neighborhood, show your character running through it. I’ve done this very thing in the continuation of the above scene.

The road to the left curved sharply, a narrow stretch winding like a river through the old quarter. As she rounded the bend and nearly collided with a man on an ancient Vespa. He swerved and narrowly missed, swearing at her in Arabic.

“Sorry!” she yelled, her legs pumping, her chest burning.

Did they see which way she went?

She hoped not. She needed more time.

On the right side of the road, a line of squat concrete houses loomed, jammed together like Lego. Their windows were shuttered, their balconies strung with laundry. There were no yards, which meant no trees, and no cover.

— Sweet Betrayal by Gemma Ford

Movement keeps the story flowing and naturally weaves in detail without stopping for it.

5. Use Emotion as the Lens

The same place can feel completely different depending on the tone of your scene. A beach in a romance novel might feel warm, soft, and expansive, but the same beach in a thriller might feel exposed, isolating, with nowhere to hide.

Setting isn’t neutral. It’s filtered through your character’s emotional state.

So instead of describing what is, describe what it feels like to be there in that moment.

6. Drip-Feed, Don’t Dump

A common habit is the “arrival paragraph” where the character reaches a new location and we get a full page of description. It’s usually the start of a book, or a chapter. But readers tend to skim these.

Instead, spread your details out when they matter. A scent that wafts over during a conversation, a sound at a tense moment, a visual detail as your character moves. This keeps the pace up and makes the setting feel more natural.

Here’s an example from the very first chapter of one of my own books. I’ve utilized several of the techniques in this article and I hope it illustrates that. Here, the scene is set, but through the eyes of the character. I’ve drip fed it in, more as an observation rather than a description. There is no action in this paragraph, but you get the sense of movement from the river, even though the character is sitting still, watching.

In the hours before dawn, the streets belonged to her.

Not to the hurried commuters, umbrellas angled against the rain, not the tourists with their expensive cameras and vacant smiles, not the workmen in their yellow hardhats, beefy hands wrapped around Styrofoam cups.

To her.

Shrap sat on the low concrete wall separating St Thomas’s Hospital gardens from the South Bank and watched as the sun painted the Houses of Parliament a burnished gold. The river walk was empty. She glanced along it, then down the other way. There was nobody in sight.

The river rushed past, governed by man-made tides, unable to do what it wanted. The surface was still, but just beneath she could see flurries and eddies, a sure sign the undertow was strong and relentless.

A port authority patrol vessel appeared from around the bend, kicking up white water as it raced by. Two men hunched over the bulkhead in high-visibility jackets. Shrap wondered if they were going on a rescue mission. A hapless kayaker, perhaps?

Then it was quiet again.

— Rough Justice by Biba Pearce

7. Turn Setting Into Obstacles

This is where travel details really start to work for you. A smart, and fun way of using your setting is to make things harder for your characters. Are there language barriers? Have your characters lost their way? Is the weather slowing down their progress, or leaving them stranded? In forced proximity? Are there cultural misunderstandings you can weave into the plot?

If your character is comfortable, your story probably isn’t doing enough. If the setting is actively getting in their way, you’re on the right track.

8. Static vs Active Writing

Static writing describes, while active writing moves the story along. It’s important to know the difference.

Static writing tends to pause the action. It asks the reader to stop and look around, often in quite a passive way. You’ll see it in sentences that simply tell us what a place looks like—listing details without anything actually happening on the page. There’s nothing wrong with those details in themselves, but if they’re not tied to movement, tension, or character, they can slow the pace right down.

Active writing, on the other hand, keeps everything in motion. The character is doing something—walking, searching, escaping, noticing—and the setting is revealed naturally through that movement. Instead of stepping outside the story to describe the world, you stay inside it.

A good way to sense the difference is to ask yourself: Is my character doing something in this moment, or am I just showing the reader what I saw?

If it’s the latter, there’s a good chance you’re slipping into static writing.

The goal isn’t to strip out description altogether, but to make sure it’s working hard—woven into action, filtered through your character, and always serving the story rather than interrupting it.

9. What to Take From Your Travels

When you’re travelling, it’s tempting to focus on the obvious things like landmarks, views and the beautiful scenery. But what’s more useful for fiction are the smaller, less polished details like how people behave, what surprised you, minor inconveniences, sensory details that felt different.

Those are the things that make a setting feel real and specific. So next time you pack your bags and go somewhere exotic, look out for more than just the usual travel-related things, and start thinking about how you can use these details in your novel when you get home.

In conclusion, travel can add richness and authenticity to your writing, but only if it serves the story. Your reader doesn’t need to see everything you saw. They just need to feel what your character went through. Write the experience, not the postcard.

Are you a fiction writer, and if so, how has your travels influenced your work? Let me know in the comments below if you’ve made any of these mistakes, or how you’ve incorporated your travel experiences into your novel?

Biography

Biba Pearce is the author of the bestselling DCI Rob Miller and Kenzie Gilmore books. A Faber Academy alumna and CWA member, she’s also been shortlisted for the prestigious Debut Dagger Award. Visit her at www.bibapearce.com.

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