9 Answers
At first I chase a contradiction: places where reported averages don't match lived experience. That investigative itch leads me to cross-check multiple sources—government CPI breakdowns, housing vacancy reports, utility company rate sheets, and historical inflation curves—so I can see trends over time rather than just a single snapshot. I chart those trends and then overlay microdata from classified ads and grocery price trackers to get spatial nuance: urban core vs. outskirts, city A vs. city B.
Parallel to plotting numbers, I conduct short oral histories—usually five to ten-minute conversations about daily expenses. Those conversations reveal hidden costs like mandatory HOA fees, security deposits, or seasonal heating spikes. I simulate household budgets that include these line items and run scenarios: what happens if rent rises 10% or if a car breaks down. That scenario work helps me craft believable choices for characters under pressure. In the end, I’m less interested in pinpoint accuracy to the dollar and more in making fiscal constraints feel natural, so readers understand why someone would take a second job or move in with friends; it’s a small empathy engine that I rely on often.
Practical hacks are my favorite: I start with baseline numbers from public sources, then validate with the ground-level stuff that actually bites characters — late fees, co-payments, and seasonal utility swings. I love testing assumptions by doing the math for a whole month in a tiny spreadsheet: groceries, transit, rent, occasional takeout, phone bill, and an emergency slush fund. If the numbers don’t allow for that slush fund, the character’s choices become more interesting.
I also compare cities by purchasing power rather than headline salaries. Two people earning identical wages can have wildly different standards of living depending on housing markets and transit. Reading memoirs and local reporting helps me hear the language people use about money, which makes dialogue believable. I always try to end a research session with a few vivid details — a brand name, a fare price, a landlord’s petty rule — and those little things are what I love slipping into scenes.
My process is fast, practical, and a little obsessive. I ping local groups and swipe screenshots of receipts; I track rent ads and compare them to transit pass costs and grocery basket totals. I like to build a tiny ‘month in the life’ budget for each character: rent, utilities, food, phone, transport, and a small line for entertainment. That tells me whether they can afford sushi or just ramen, whether they bike or pay for the subway, and where the pressure points are.
I also pay attention to cultural cost cues—like whether tipping is expected, if medical co-pays are typical, and whether childcare eats a huge percentage of income. Those details affect dialogue and decisions in a way big numbers don’t. It’s a mix of quick data checks and listening to people’s stories, and it keeps scenes feeling human and believable; I’m always surprised by the tiny costs that end up meaning the most to a character.
If I’m short on time I do a blitz method: check a trusted database for baseline numbers, skim local classifieds, and message a few residents in neighborhood groups for quick quotes. I keep a pocket spreadsheet where I log prices for rent, utilities, transit passes, and staple foods, plus one surprise expense like medical deductible or babysitting.
Sometimes I'll shadow someone for an afternoon — not in a creepy way, just tagging along to see how far they travel for groceries or how many jobs they squeeze into a day. That small ethnographic slice reveals coping strategies like bulk-buying, couponing, or relying on food pantries. Those details stick with me and make dialogue and choices feel lived-in and honest.
Crowded markets, cramped apartments, and the hush of late-night convenience stores have been where I pick up the little truths that statistics miss.
I dig into public datasets first — things like national consumer surveys, local government housing reports, and tools people swear by such as cost-of-living calculators. But raw numbers only get me so far. I ask neighbors how much their groceries actually cost, flip through receipts shoved into wallets, and compare prices at different stores in the same city. I also lurk in community forums and local Facebook groups to see what people complain about week to week: sudden utility hikes, which landlords sneak in fees, whether a hospital copay actually means skipping treatment.
Then I stitch it all together: official averages against lived experience, seasonal spikes (heating in winter, air-conditioning in summer), and hidden expenses like commuting, informal childcare, or replacing broken appliances. That blend gives a texture that reads true on the page, and I always leave a scene with a small mental list of sensory details — the brand of instant noodles, the bus transfer cost, the way rent receipts are dated — because those tiny things make a world convincing to me.
Walking through streets at different times of day is the weirdest but most revealing research trick I use. Morning reveals who waits for buses, noon shows lunch prices and who eats out, and evening brings to light cheap dinner spots and which corner stores are closed. I cross-reference those observations with municipal datasets and local credit-union reports to check wages and typical bill amounts.
I also map expenses by zone: inner-city, transit suburbs, and exurbs often have wildly different hidden costs — longer commutes, higher car repair bills, or limited access to affordable groceries. Don't forget non-monetary costs: time spent in transit, mental load of managing finances, and social costs like avoiding certain neighborhoods. To get historical depth I read investigative books and longform journalism such as 'Nomadland' style reporting to see how economic shocks reshape daily life. That layered research usually gives me scenes that feel specific and humane, which I really enjoy crafting.
My approach is scrappy and detail-hungry. I start by scouring municipal data and national statistics for big-picture numbers, then I jump into the messy, human side: neighborhood Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and local blogs. Those sources tell you about day-to-day costs—like how much a haircut really costs on the edge of town or whether the corner deli still charges by weight.
I also collect real receipts from friends and acquaintances in different age brackets so I can sketch believable monthly budgets for characters. Combining hard numbers with tiny anecdotes—someone who subsists on ramen but pays extra for organic milk, or a shift worker who pays for ride shares at odd hours—gives me nuance. I’ll run the final budget through inflation adjustments and compare it to salary samples for similar jobs, so the scenes don’t contradict economic reality. Overall I want readers to nod and say, ‘Yep, that checks out,’ while still feeling like the world has heart.
I usually build a neighborhood in my head before I ever write a scene, and that mental map starts with numbers. I pull broad data like the Consumer Price Index and local government reports to set baseline prices for rent, utilities, groceries, and transit. Then I narrow: I look at real estate sites for current rents and sale prices, supermarket flyers and receipt photos on social media for food costs, and transit authority pages for fares. I keep a running spreadsheet so I can compare a studio in a downtown neighborhood to a two-bedroom in the suburbs.
After the spreadsheet, I go analog: I read local forums, browse classifieds, and reach out to people who actually live there—neighbors, baristas, delivery drivers—through DMs or short interviews. Those chats tell me what the official numbers miss, like which neighborhoods have outrageous laundry costs or where tipping culture is stronger. I also visit markets and jot down prices myself when possible, because the difference between a written figure and a real cart full of groceries matters on the page.
Finally, I translate those figures into character choices: how much my protagonist can afford to eat out, whether they take the bus or bike, and what kind of apartment they grudgingly call home. I test scenes against the budget to keep the stakes believable, and if something still feels off I tweak details until the world feels lived-in. It’s never just data — it’s how money shapes routines — and I like that friction; it makes the story breathe.
Numbers are great, but I swear by triangulation — using three different types of sources to confirm the same fact. I pore over government statistics for baseline figures, then check real-estate sites and grocery checkouts to see market prices. I also interview people who live in targeted neighborhoods: baristas, janitors, small-shop owners. Combining these approaches catches outliers and shows how averages mask inequality.
I sometimes create a sample weekly budget for a fictional character and live with it for a week — literally shopping, commuting, and paying bills to feel the pinch. Historical context matters too: rent control laws, recent inflation bursts, the presence or absence of public transit — they all shape cost structures. Reading books like 'Evicted' helps me understand eviction cycles and how a late fee can spiral into homelessness. End result: scenes that ring true because they match both the math and the mess of everyday life, which always makes me satisfied when readers nod along.