When I first sat down to write Hitting the Sauce, I thought I was penning a little post-divorce recovery story. When the book opens, my protagonist Lucy McCool is just coming out of the worst year of her life. Her husband left her, her son was arrested, and her dog died, proving country and western songs can be written about women.
Anyway, there she is, a woman finding herself again through sheer willpower, a positive mindset, and wine. I had the character arc beautifully planned, but as the book unfolded, I discovered the real diva on the page wasn’t Lucy. It was her hometown, Atlantic City.
You see, both my protagonist and her hometown are experts in reinvention. They’ve been through bad relationships, questionable fashion choices, and financial crises. Yet somehow they both manage to come out the other side looking like they meant to do it that way all along. Sparkly, defiant, and still standing.
Here’s how I played with setting to make it more than just the background of Lucy’s story.
When Your Setting Has as Much Personality as Your Protagonist
A strong setting doesn’t just frame a story; it flirts with it, heckles it, and occasionally takes over the narrative.
Atlantic City didn’t politely stay in the background while I wrote Hitting the Sauce. Oh no. She kicked open the door in her sequined tracksuit and said, “Step aside, sweetheart. I’ve got history, heartbreak, and a boardwalk full of metaphors.”
There’s a line where Lucy drives down Atlantic Avenue and observes:
“The street went from slums to paradise without even an inch of real estate separating the two.”
That’s not just a street. It’s a mood. It’s Lucy’s mood, in fact. She’s one pothole away from despair and one traffic light away from redemption. (Which I think could be said for most of us.)
Local Flavor: It’s All in the Gravy
Some of the scenes I most enjoyed writing take place in the group therapy sessions Lucy holds with “her” senior citizens at the community center. The seniors are lively, unique, and unapologetically true to their authentic selves. In one scene, they argue loudly and passionately over whether it’s tomato sauce or gravy. I’m telling you, nobody fights with more heart than a bunch of octogenarians armed with gluten-free biscotti and opinions.
It’s a funny scene, yes. But what makes the setting sing is the local flavor at the center of the argument. The rhythm, the pride, the culinary combat of gravy vs. sauce is pure New Jersey. And, darling, that’s the kind of thing that gives a story its spice.
Anytime you can incorporate regional dialect, geographical nuances, or even inside jokes into a scene, take advantage of it. You’ll make your reader feel as if they know the place where the story happens. Even if they’ve never visited it, they’ll develop memories of it without spending a king’s ransom on airfare.
(Pro tip: never call it “sauce” in a Jersey kitchen unless you’re prepared to die on that hill.)
Geography with Feelings
Here’s the thing about Atlantic City: it’s always under construction, physically and emotionally. And so is Lucy.
She’s got snarling teenagers, a cheating ex, and an unwavering belief that one day things really will get better. The city’s got hurricanes, broken boardwalks, and dreams that won’t quit. They’re both tired, a little waterlogged, but defiant enough to slap on some mascara and keep going.
When Lucy says,
“You can start to see shiny spots in the ghetto,”
she’s not just talking real estate. She’s talking hope. Because even when everything’s a mess, she—and the city—keep looking for something worth polishing.
Humor: The Native Language of Survival
Both Lucy and Atlantic City cope the same way: through humor. When life falls apart, they laugh, pour another drink, and dare you to underestimate them again. Because honestly? Comedy is just tragedy wearing good lipstick. Or, as I like to say, tragedy that knows the way to Wawa. (If you’re from the area, you get that!)
When the City Becomes the Co-Author
In the end, I didn’t just write a book about one woman’s breakdown and comeback. Atlantic City had other ideas and, as usual, refused to stay quiet. It demanded to be seen, not as a backdrop, but as a mirror.
It reminded me that place isn’t passive. It’s alive. It shapes us, challenges us, mocks us, and sometimes saves us.
So whether you’re writing your own story or just trying to live it, listen to where you are. The place you’re standing in might have a few lines to add.
And if you ever find yourself in Atlantic City, remember this: she’s not broken. She’s just rehearsing her next act.
How to Make Your Setting Work Harder Than You Do
Writers, take note: your setting should not behave. It should talk back, misbehave, and steal the spotlight when you least expect it.
Here’s how to make that happen:
- Be a cartographer of chaos. Map how your place feels, not just where the streets go.
- Give it senses. What does your city smell like on payday? What does it sound like when everyone’s pretending to be fine?
- Let the weather gossip. A rainy Tuesday can say more about your character’s mental state than five pages of backstory.
- **Ask what your setting wants. ** If your city were a person, what would she demand? (In my case: a strong coffee and an apology from the state government.)
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