The Beautiful Mess of Building a Book Series: Why I'm Going Back to Square One

When I started my historical fiction novel about immigrant homesteaders in 1880s South Dakota, I thought I knew what I was doing. I had my main characters sketched out, a rough timeline, and stacks of research covering every surface of my workspace. Time to write, right?

Now, looking at my completed rough draft, I'm facing an uncomfortable truth. The story is solid, and the plot is sound. Yet, that's not enough. I need to start over with a deeper character analysis of not only the protagonists but the supporting cast, who have their own stories to tell.

My Workspace. And this doesn't count what's on my hard drive!

The Book Series That Grew Beyond My Imagination

What started as one couple's story has somehow grown into a sprawling saga. I now expect each book to cover about three years, and I could easily extend this into the 1900s. But that's where it gets complicated. All the secondary characters have started demanding their own storylines.

Some of these side characters have become so real to me that I catch myself wondering what they'd do in situations that aren't even in my outlines and timelines. That's exciting, but also terrifying. What I thought was one book about my great-great-grandparents has become the creation of a whole universe.

The Character Consistency Challenge

A pet peeve of mine is reading a series and encountering shallow characters who change their personalities in each book to suit the moment. Or back stories are rewritten to fit the newest book's plot. When writing a series, character consistency isn't just nice to have, it's make-or-break. You, the readers, will notice if Sarah is stubbornly independent in book one but becomes a doormat in book three. It's a betrayal between the writer and the reader.

My original character notes? Laughably thin. I had basics like "stubborn farmer" or "quiet but strong mother," but that's not enough when you need these people to feel real across multiple books spanning decades. I need to understand them at a gut level. Why is the farmer stubborn? What changed Sarah? I need to go deeper and broader. What happened to make a particular character compromise their values? What childhood memory still makes another flinch? What do I need to understand to predict how they will react? Why do they succeed or fail? This is the foundation of everything that follows.

World-Building: More Than Historical Accuracy

My first book in the series, tentatively titled Prairie Fundations, is set in the late 19th-century Dakota Territories. While developing the characters and constructing their world, historical accuracy is essential. But it involves more than knowing the farming techniques or what people wore. I need to grasp how this harsh environment influences my characters and how they transform their small part of it.

The space they occupy needs to feel lived-in. A place that grows and shifts over time. The bustling general store in Book One might be a divisive  saloon by Book Three. An empty prairie may become a thriving agricultural hub. Or a successful homesteader might lose everything.

The Frustrating but Necessary Pause

I'm not going to lie. Having a finished rough draft and then realizing you need to go backward feels awful. There's a voice in my head telling me to push forward and keep the momentum going. Why am I second-guessing myself when I already have 100,000+ words on the page?

But here's what I keep reminding myself. I'm not taking a step backward. It's an investment. Every hour I spend figuring out who these people are, mapping out their emotional journeys, and understanding how their world shapes them will save me from massive headaches later. More than that, it'll make the books better. And honestly? Better is what I'm after here.

The Learning Curve of a First-Time Novelist

This is my first book, and I've discovered that writing a series is different from writing a standalone novel. It needs a different kind of planning, more patience, and an understanding that all this extra work will pay off.

I'm learning that being a historical novelist means getting comfortable with not knowing everything while being obsessive about the details that matter. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to take what feels like a giant step backward. Going back to strengthen the foundation so the characters and their stories can shine.

Why It's Worth It

Despite the frustration, I know that this planning phase will make the series so much better. When readers pick up book four or five (if I'm lucky enough to get that far), they should feel like they're coming home to old friends in a familiar place. The characters should feel consistent yet evolving and growing. The world should feel real and lived-in. The themes should resonate throughout the entire series.

But there's another reason this work matters so much to me. This series is loosely based on my own family history. These aren't fictional characters I'm creating. They're inspired by real people who lived, struggled, and built lives on the South Dakota prairie. My ancestors' stories deserve to be told with care, authenticity, and respect.

The central theme I'm exploring is how emotional trauma passes from one generation to the next. How the wounds and coping mechanisms of parents shape their children, who then carry those patterns forward in their own lives. It's a heavy theme. But one that feels essential to understanding not just my family's story, but the broader human experience of survival and resilience.

The personal connection makes the stakes feel higher. Of course, I'm worried about disappointing readers, but I'm also concerned about honoring the legacy of people who faced incredible hardships with remarkable courage. Their stories deserve the best I can give them, which means taking the time to get the foundation right, even when it's frustrating.

That level of craftsmanship doesn't happen by accident. It happens because a writer was willing to go back, dig deeper, and build something that will last.

The Process Is the Point

I'm learning that writing isn't only about getting words on the page. It's about building something meaningful, something that honors both the story I want to tell and the readers who will join me on this journey. That means being willing to pause, reassess, and strengthen the foundation even when it feels like I'm moving backward.

My 1880s Dakota homesteaders were building something to last. Something that could weather storms and support generations. It seems fitting that I should approach their story with the same kind of patient, careful construction.

The series will grow stronger through this extra work, and I will become a better writer as a result. Sometimes, the bravest step forward is the willingness to look back.