Writers and editors are advised to “niche down” and become subject matter experts. The reasoning for this is to develop deep subject expertise that makes one a “go-to” resource for writers in a particular genre or topic. However, I’ve always been a generalist rather than a specialist, and it’s served me pretty well. I can tackle a diverse array of topics, genres, and document types and do a good job. Through that diverse and varied experience, I have developed a good “sniffer” that detects inaccuracies and prevents authors from looking stupid.

In fiction, that matters just as much as it does in nonfiction. In fiction, an author needs to inject plausibility to earn a reader’s trust. If the reader doesn’t trust the author with the small, easily researched details, then the reader won’t trust the author to lead him or her into fictional realms of impossibility. An SME in automotive racing won’t necessarily understand that an elopement from London to Gretna Green via horse and carriage took at least nine days. Today you can drive the distance in a single day and, possibly, on a single tank of fuel.

Research isn’t the same as deep familiarity.

The farrier came today. (A farrier is someone who trims and shoes horses’ hooves.) He asked if I’d sprayed the horses with fly spray. I hadn’t, remiss on my part. Since I’d already brought Teddy out of his stall, I handed the lead rope to the farrier and fetched the spray. The farrier continued to hold Teddy while I attempted to apply the spray. Teddy detests, loathes, and hates fly spray. The farrier could not hold him in place—and a human being cannot out-muscle a horse. I set the fly spray aside and walked Teddy to a tie. I snapped the tie to his halter, gave him a pat, and began to spray him. Teddy squirmed and shifted bit, but he stood much more quietly, which enabled me to quickly spritz him down.

“You know what works with him,” the farrier commented.

That’s familiarity. I know what works and what doesn’t with Teddy. We’ve got history. The farrier, on the other hand, knows what works with horses in general, but not what’s effective with a specific horse.

So, with that lesson in mind, I terminated a ghostwriting project and refunded the nonrefundable deposit.

This wasn’t the usual type of ghostwriting project. It was fan fiction.

The client sent links to videos (about six hours’ worth), so I could familiarize myself with the fictional “universe,” the vast cast of characters, the overarching plots, and the myriad subplots. I had difficult wrapping my mind around it all and realized that I needed that same deep familiarity I have with Teddy to write the client’s trilogy of fan fiction stories effectively.

It’s disappointing, because I wanted this project. I was interested and enthusiastic. But I didn’t understand my limits when it comes to this sort of project; I didn’t realize deep background knowledge was necessary to base new stories on it.

Now I do. So, I did the honorable thing. I terminated the contract and refunded the deposit.

Writing like horsemanship is an area in which there’s always something to learn, no matter how long you’ve been doing it and no matter how expert you are.

This lesson brings another realization: I’m pretty damned good at creating something new.