Settings are obviously important - and as a writer, you have to

The words of Joan Lingard are as a compass for all who labor with the pen: “Settings are obviously important – and as a writer, you have to respect what was real at the time of the story you’re writing. But the real key to success lies in finding the right characters to carry that story.” In this reflection, she reminds us of the eternal truth that though landscapes may frame the tale, it is the beating heart of the characters that gives it life. The world is the stage, but without the actor, the drama remains unspoken, silent, and still.

From the days of the ancients, storytellers have known this law. The epics of Homer sang of Troy and Ithaca, but it was not the geography that stirred the soul—it was Odysseus, weary yet cunning, yearning to return home. The setting was vast, but it was the man who walked through it who carried the story across the centuries. So too, Lingard warns us: respect the truth of time and place, for they are the vessel, but do not mistake the vessel for the wine. The essence is always in the human spirit, struggling, failing, rising, and enduring.

Consider the tale of Charles Dickens, who depicted the streets of London in all their grime and grandeur. His settings were vivid, drawn with the eye of one who knew the city’s corners and alleys. Yet what endures is not merely London—it is Oliver Twist asking for more, Ebenezer Scrooge transformed by compassion, Sydney Carton laying down his life in sacrifice. Without these figures, the city would remain a sketch of brick and fog. With them, it becomes eternal, because the soul of the character makes the setting immortal.

Lingard also reminds us of respect—that the writer must honor what was real in the time of their tale. To distort the truth of an era is to weaken the ground upon which the story stands. Yet respect alone does not suffice. A writer may paint the world with accuracy, may research every custom, costume, and street, yet if they fail to breathe life into the characters, the story is an empty vessel, a body without breath. Accuracy without humanity is no tale at all.

The lesson here is not confined to the craft of writing but extends to life itself. For in our own days, we too walk amidst settings—cities, cultures, workplaces, nations. But it is not the settings that define us. It is the choices of the characters we become. Two souls may walk the same streets, endure the same era, and yet their stories will be vastly different, because what defines a life is not the place, but the heart that moves within it. Thus, Lingard’s words are not only for the writer but for all: the key to a life of meaning is to shape your character, for that is the story others will remember.

History teaches this lesson with power. The backdrop of India under colonial rule was the same for many, but it was Mahatma Gandhi who carried forth a story of nonviolence that changed the destiny of millions. The setting of oppression was shared, but it was the character of one man—his humility, his endurance, his courage—that bore the weight of the tale. The stage was vast, but it was the figure upon it that gave the world a new song of freedom.

Therefore, children of the future, heed this teaching: in your creations, in your labor, in your very lives, honor the settings into which you are born. Respect the truth of your world, its history, its struggles, its limitations. But do not stop there. Find the characters—in your stories, in your companions, and most of all within yourself—who can carry the tale forward with strength, with compassion, with courage. For it is character that turns place into destiny, and without it, even the grandest setting falls silent.

Thus, Lingard’s words endure as a torch: success lies not in the backdrop, but in the soul who walks upon it. Let your character be such that it carries the story of your life with honor, and whether the stage be humble or great, your tale will live on, etched into the hearts of those who hear it.