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What’s the most common piece of feedback on fiction manuscripts, especially early drafts? It might be this:

Show, don’t tell.

Often writers apply telling when they should be showing. The result is that readers become bored with lack of engagement (more on engagement later).

But it also often happens that writers show when they ought to tell. In those cases, the readers face a different kind of boredom — exhaustion from the dramatization of every mundane detail.

The trick is to know when you should tell and when you should show, and how to apply either technique at the right moment, in the right way.

Below, I’ll share some ideas on showing, telling, and the importance of respecting reader autonomy — it’s what conjures magic in the mind. Ignore it at your own peril.

Showing

Fictional showing is simulated firsthand experience, or scene.

Here’s an example from a first-person narrator:

“Dana, don’t get mad, all right?” I said as a preamble. I kept Dad’s old armchair between us. “It was an accident.”

My big sister sat at the antique desk in the library, her elbows dug in on either side of a massive chemistry textbook. She looked up, red eyed, pale-faced, no doubt from pulling another all-nighter.

“What was that, Sally?” Then my words seemed to strike home, and she sat bolt upright. “What? What did you do to my car, you pig?”

“I didn’t do anything. It was an accident. Swear to God. Besides, there’s only one small scratch.”

She swept the textbook aside and shot to her feet, the chair slamming into the bookshelf behind her. Mom’s porcelain ducks rattled against each other

“You.” Pink mottled her cheeks. She jabbed a finger at me, stabbing the air. “Never. Ever. Touch my car again.”

It’s vivid. It’s dramatic. Apart from the narrator’s thoughts, most of this could have been acted out on a theater stage or on-screen in a film.

Showing roots the reader in the present dramatic moment by emphasizing actions, dialogue, character thoughts, and appearance. Even a flashback is a present, dramatic moment that the narrative allows us to look back on.

Showing reveals characters in four key ways — through their:

• Actions
• Dialogue
• Thoughts
• Appearance
  

Telling

In contrast, fictional telling is a simulated secondhand experience, or summary.

Here’s an example from a first-person narrator:

Here’s what happened. I told her about the scratch on her car and Dana got angry, telling me I could never again borrow her car. Right when I needed it to get to the concert.

This summary is workmanlike, and if it serves as a preamble to a scene that starts right away, its economy may be effective.

But it’s flat. Its lack of specificity risks boring the reader if there’s too much of it.

So let’s give it a bit more character.

Here’s what happened. My plan had been to borrow my big sister’s car, but while parking at the downtown CVS, I swiped another car and left an itty-bitty scratch on the passenger-side door. Dana totally freaked out and told me I couldn’t ever touch her car again, and yeah, I get it, my bad, but she knew how huge a deal it was that I got these tickets. How was I supposed to get to the concert without a ride?

Much more specific. As a result, Sally’s character emerges more clearly. It’s still summary, but now we’ve got Sally’s voice and a sense of her personality — including a hint of her refusal to take responsibility for her actions.

I provide this expanded example to underscore that telling, like showing, can use specificity to enrich a story.

Telling can be used to:

• Increase the pace through concise summary
• Convey information that would be distracting in a scene
• Characterize the narrator

When to show and when to tell

Most often, showing covers more pages of a story than telling. This provides a clue to when we use showing versus telling.

It depends on how you convey information.

Telling is a summary. In a few words or sentences, the narrative can convey information that’s required to set up the next dramatic scene. As David Lodge says in The Art of Fiction, “summary has its uses: it can, for instance, accelerate the tempo of a narrative, hurrying us through events which would be uninteresting, or too interesting — therefore distracting if lingered over.”

Showing is scene. It slows down the narrative, as we see exactly what happens between the characters. A well-wrought scene leads to an outcome that, through cause and effect, logically leads to the next scene. Strung together, these scenes, like pearls, form the necklace of a story.

But often, and in especially in a first draft, there will be a scene that adds information but does not fit on the necklace. Usually this is a sign that it contains information that should be summarized — told — since removing the scene will in no way mar the overall effect of the necklace.

To illustrate this idea, let’s return to Sally’s story.

Sally’s story

This is the story about Sally and her ex-boyfriend Jed, who reluctantly go on a five-hour road trip to a concert, and transform from ex-lovers and enemies into something new.

Here’s the setup for Sally’s story:

1. Sally has bought a ticket to a concert with her favorite band. But the music venue is in a town five hours away. She has no car. When she bought the ticket, she assumed she could use her big sister’s car.
2. Sally scratches her sister’s car and now Dana won’t let her use it anymore.
3. Only one other person she knows has a car that she could borrow, and that’s her ex-boyfriend, Jed, whom she’s been avoiding. She can’t miss the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see her favorite band; she’s even willing to beg Jed for help. So she calls him, and he reluctantly agrees.
4. The morning she’s supposed to leave, Jed turns up at her house with the car he’s agreed to lend her. But he surprises her by revealing that he’s bought a ticket to the concert, too. She won’t be driving alone; they’ll be going on a five-hour road-trip together.

Sally’s decision to buy a ticket in #1 isn’t interesting. It’s a basic piece of information that sets up the story. This is excellent fodder for telling.

Sally scratching her sister’s car in #2 (and Dana’s subsequent reaction) offers potentially interesting drama, but the scene would be a distraction — after all, this isn’t a story about Sally and Dana. Again, this is excellent fodder for telling.

Sally agonizes over whether to call Jed in #3. This is tougher, because it’s a strongly characterizing moment, and could hint at Sally’s repressed feelings for her ex-boyfriend. It could also foreshadow a choice she must make between Jed and her favorite band at a time when her priorities have shifted. So it depends on the story you want to tell. However, in most cases, this information should be summarized, so we can get to the main premise of the story: the road trip with Jed.

Finally, in #4, Jed turns up and surprises Sally, complicating her situation, and setting up the central conflict. To me, this is the real inciting incident, and where we want to begin. Maybe we start with Sally on the sidewalk, eager to get going, as Jed rolls down the window of his beat-up Honda Accord. Seeing his lopsided grin, Sally recalls how she had to humble herself to ask for this fool’s help. But that’s OK, she tells herself, because soon she’ll watch Jed in the rearview mirror as she speeds off to her concert. Then he drops the bomb.

Thanks to a blend of telling and showing, the pacing will be just right. Within a few sentences, the story kicks into gear and we’re off and running.

Finally, give the reader some autonomy

Often when a story receives the feedback that a passage needs to show, not tell, the author is withholding power from the readers. The best stories balance authorial power and reader autonomy — and they do so through showing and telling in ways that engage the readers.

“No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence, or whose attitude is patronizing.”

— William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White, The Elements of Style

These examples will show what I mean:

Dana was furious.

This is telling. But it’s also flat — it contains nothing to engage readers. In fact, it provides a conclusion that denies readers the opportunity to observe and draw their own conclusions.

She swept the textbook aside and shot to her feet, the chair slamming into the bookshelf behind her. Mom’s porcelain ducks rattled against each other.

“You.” Pink mottled her cheeks. She jabbed a finger at me, stabbing the air. “Never. Ever. Touch my car again.”

In this passage, there is no conclusion. Readers must make up their own minds. Though readers may agree on that conclusion — Dana is clearly furious — the point is not that the conclusion is obvious but that the readers can get there on their own.

Readers who are given the autonomy to observe the action in the story and draw their own conclusions will be more emotionally invested, and ultimately satisfied. Conversely, readers who are constantly robbed of the autonomy to observe and draw their own conclusions will become bored.

By the way, you don’t just grant reader autonomy through showing. The same principle applies to the other example of telling I provided earlier:

My plan had been to borrow my big sister’s car, but while parking at the downtown CVS, I swiped another car and left an itty-bitty scratch on the passenger-side door.

Even though this is telling, readers are invited to observe and conclude something about the narrator’s attitude — a much more interesting task than interpreting “Dana was furious,”

So, it’s not about showing being better than telling. Showing is useful when you need to dramatize. Telling is useful when you need to summarize. In either case, make sure you engage readers — it’s why they picked up your story.

Picking a point-of-view (POV) might be the most important decision for a story. You may default to first-person or third-person limited. After all, they are the POVs you most often see in fiction and maybe those are the ones you’re most comfortable with as a writer. Still, you need to understand the effect that all narrative POVs have on a story, including the one you consider the “easiest.”

How do the points of view differ?

• First-person point-of-view: The narrator is a character in the story and uses “I” to refer to themselves, as in “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath.
• Second-person point-of-view: The narrator addresses the reader directly as “you.” This is not as common as the other points of view. Check out “Bright Lights, Big City” by Jay McInerney for a classic example of how it’s done.
• Third-person point-of-view: The narrator is not a character in the story and uses “he, she, they,” etc. to refer to the characters. There are three types of third-person point of view:
• Third-person limited: The narrator only reveals what one character is thinking and feeling. Point of view may shift to another character after a scene or chapter break or an entire novel may stick with a single POV character.
• Third-person omniscient: The narrator knows everything about all the characters and selectively reveals their thoughts and feelings — or even information that none of the characters could know. Arguably very difficult to do well. This “god-like” narrative style went out of fashion in the 20th century, though there are hints of a comeback in the 21st.
• Third-person objective: The narrator only reports on what is happening and does not reveal any character’s thoughts or feelings. In “Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway, this narrative style is used to heighten the sense of tension in the story, as the two characters avoid talking about the very thing that’s most on their minds.

There is no right or wrong point of view for a story. Only successful or unsuccessful execution. The choice of POV depends on the story you want to tell and how you want to tell it. Consider what will allow you to most effectively convey the emotions and experiences of your characters, create the tone you want for your story, and, of course, the genre conventions your readers expect.

”The choice of the point(s) of view from which the story is told is arguably the most important single decision that the novelist has to make, for it fundamentally affects the way readers will respond, emotionally and morally, to the fictional characters and their actions.” – David Lodge, The Art of Fiction

Genre and POV

It’s important to consider the genre of your story when choosing a point of view, as it can affect how the story is told and the effect it has on the reader, especially if you are writing commercial fiction.

Mystery and suspense novels often use the first-person or third-person limited point of view to create a sense of mystery and tension. The sleuth doesn’t know what’s around the next corner — and nor do you.

Romance novels often use the first-person or third-person point of view to allow the reader to get close to the thoughts and feelings of the main characters, creating a strong sense of intimacy and relatability.

In contrast, fantasy and science fiction novels often create a greater distance between the characters and the reader. In these stories, third-person POV depicts story events from multiple perspectives, creating a larger scope and providing a wider view of the world.

There are no rules, though. There are intimate first-person fantasy and science fiction stories. In Golden Age detective fiction, there is omniscient narration, though it’s hard to pull off in a modern whodunnit and still build mystery and tension.

As I mentioned above, if you are writing commercial fiction — i.e., you want to sell a lot of books to a lot of readers — then you should pay attention to the POV used in most successful novels in that genre.

For mainstream fiction, the choice is often between first-person an third-person limited POV.

The benefits of first-person POV

With first-person point of view (POV), the narrator is the main character. There’s no distance between the two, and that can create a strong sense of intimacy, bringing the reader close to the action. It can be a good choice for stories that are heavy on dialogue and inner monologue, as it allows the narrator to directly express their thoughts and feelings to the reader. In fact, narrators in first-person POV stories often have the strongest, most distinctive voices (e.g., Mark Twain’s “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”).

First-person POV stories often have an immediacy that’s particularly effective in thrillers or stories where the main character faces a serious threat (e.g., Suzanne Collins’s “The Hunger Games” or Harlan Coben’s “Tell No One”).

For the first-person narrative to succeed, the main character needs to be well developed. One thing I’ve seen in story drafts that fall flat is a main character who is bland and passive. Often in those stories, there is another character — one the narrator observes — that is much more interesting. The writer should consider changing the point of view character or developing the narrator further. If you recognize this problem, try this: Rewrite a scene from the other character’s point of view to see if the story comes alive.

”A single point of view throughout is the best opportunity a writer has to get a reader to fall in love with a hero or heroine. The limitations are obvious; you can’t go to “another part of the forest” to find out what’s happening. But you have immense power in single point of view to get into the thoughts and feelings of your champion.” – Anne Rice, Author Facebook Page

The benefits of third-person limited POV

The third-person limited point of view (POV) also provides access to the thoughts and feelings of a character. As with first-person POV, the narration can give the reader a strong sense of intimacy and connection with the POV character. But since the narrator describes the actions of “he, she, they, etc.,” there can be more distance between narrator and character, and the reader may not expect as much inner monologue as with first-person POV narration.

Plus, since the narrator is not the main character, you have two levels of voice in the story:

• The voice of the narrator.
• The voice of the main character — as filtered through the narrator.

Here’s an example:

Greg didn’t curse. He didn’t yell at the vanishing cattle. He simply got up and dusted off his jeans, thinking what a lucky bastard he was to have survived the fall.

The herd had rounded the bend. Only the dust in the air and the distant thunder of hooves told him the cattle weren’t miles away already. Soon they would be, though.

His horse walked in the brush, nudging the ground innocently, as if the stupid animal hadn’t just thrown him off.

Who’s the stupid one, huh, Greg? Who insisted on going out alone today?

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. Well, he’d made a real mess of things, hadn’t he?

The narrator is outside of Greg but close enough that we readers can both see him and hear his thoughts. One way to think of narration and point of view is a zoom function. In the passage above, the narration zooms in and out, depending on whether we’re viewing Greg from outside or getting his thoughts.

This zooming has to be smooth, and with third-person limited POV, the writer has to be careful not to jump into another head in the same scene or allow the narrator to reveal information that the main character couldn’t know.

What happens when POV breaks?

Point-of-view (POV) can fall apart. It happens all the time in first drafts, even in third or fourth drafts. The “zoom” of POV is a subtle tool and it can easily go flying off to the wrong places.

In fact, if the point of view changes too frequently within the same story, readers will get confused. This happens a lot in third-person stories. For example, a scene is told from character A’s perspective, but then midway through the scene, the narrative zooms in on character B and we get their thoughts. Then it’s back to character A. This is called head hopping. It can be confusing.

It’s best to choose a point of view and stick with it through a scene.

Most short stories will stick with one point of view character from beginning to end. Sometimes two is done by experienced writers. But once you get to three or four, you have to be masterful to pull it off in such a short form.

In a long novel you can move around more, but consider that every time you provide access to a character, the reader will expect that character to be developed further — resist the temptation to give access to a character’s thoughts because it’s convenient for the plot, never to return to that characters interiority again.

Mixing first and third-person point of view is rare. But it happens. Most often where a third-person narrative is interspersed with first-person diary entries or letters. Charles Dickens mixes POV in “Bleak House,” with some chapters in third-person omniscient narration and others in first-person. But even Dickens was criticized for this choice, and some of his readers found it jarring. If it were done within the same scene, the whole thing would likely fall apart.

In the passage about Greg above, the narrator provides direct access to the main character’s thoughts. Those thoughts are set off in italics to make it easy for the reader to understand that “now it’s Greg talking.” He’s not talking to the reader, of course, and if he were, the readers would probably get mighty confused. They’d ask, Why is Greg suddenly the narrator? I thought I was reading a third-person story…

Another error might be that Greg isn’t speaking to us, but the narrator is. In most contemporary fiction, readers expect the third-person narrator to be impartial, unobtrusive. In 18th and 19th century fiction, authorial intrusion wasn’t shocking. It is today. So avoid the temptation to drop information into your narrative that the main character couldn’t know – or wouldn’t agree with – simply because it’s convenient.

Generally speaking, choose a single point of view and stick with it.

“In many respects, authors are actors. When we write in a character’s POV, we must become that character. If we fail to love him, we will fail to understand him and, as a result, end up looking down our noses and sermonizing.” — K.M. Weiland, Structuring Your Novel

Final words

Experimenting with point of view can be gratifying, and if you pull off a difficult point-of-view trick, the effect on the story — and its readers — can be profound. In Henry James’s classic ghost story, “The Turn of the Screw,” we get layers of narration that make what happens questionable: Was there really a haunting or was the governess tormenting the children?

But if you’re writing mainstream commercial fiction, your readers may have less appetite for such subtleties. They want a ripping yarn that isn’t complicated by point of view.

The novice writer, whether interested in commercial or literary fiction, should keep it simple. Telling a good story is difficult enough without a complex approach to point of view.

Start with first-person or third-person limited — whichever you are most comfortable with — and get writing. Then try a different POV for your next story. The more you write, the better you will become at managing the character viewpoint.

I’m often shocked to hear some novice writers say that they don’t read much. I heard this on Reddit recently (I’m paraphrasing):

I want to be a writer, but I don’t like to read books — I prefer to play video games.

Many video games can reveal storytelling technique. The same goes for screenplays and audio dramas and telenovelas. But there’s no way around it: A writer of fiction — short stories, novellas, or novels — must read books. And lots of them.

But how?

I still remember, as an adolescent, first reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (my dad had an old Scribner Library paperback edition). I’ve reread it since, still enjoying it as a reader – but also as a writer, studying its fictional craft.

Reading like a writer is different from reading like a reader or an academic (as we’re so often taught in school).

As a writer, you must read with your brain split in two: one half relaxes and acts like a reader, reacting viscerally to each twist and turn; the other half keeps a keen eye on the choices the writer has made and how those choices — or techniques — create an emotional effect.

In other words, you allow yourself to feel what the story does to you, and then investigate why that happened.

This requires close reading. Before we get to a close reading of “The Apple Tree” by Daphne Du Maurier, let’s look at writerly questions you can ask when you read.

The questions writers should ask while reading

Below are questions to ask while reading fiction, whether that’s a novel, novella, or short story, organized into 5 categories:

1. First and last impressions

• Close your eyes and think of the story. What image comes to mind? Why do you think that’s the strongest image?
• What feeling does the story leave you with?
• What questions are you left with?
• Did any parts of the story make you stumble and fall out of the fictional dream? If so, why do you think that happened?

2. Structure

• When does the story begin? When does it end?
• What is the inciting incident or catalyst of the story? What happens to disrupt the status quo?
• What major turning points can you see — such as a midpoint or a climax?
• What formal breaks are used in the text, and how do they show structure or affect the flow?

3. Characters

• Why does the story focus on the main character and not another? How do you feel about the main character? What about the secondary characters?
• What is the main character’s story goal and how does it change by the end?

4. Narration

• Why use this point of view? If the story relies on multiple viewpoints, why do you think that’s the case?
• How would you describe the style of narration — or voice? How does this voice affect the telling of the story?
• How do keys words and sentence structures add up to a distinctive voice? What language is particularly vivid? How do words and sentences change during the story to create different effects — e.g. slowing the pace, increasing tension, adding uncertainty, introducing comedy?
• Which parts of the story are shown in a scene and which are told via summary? Why do you think these choices were made?

5. Takeaways

• What techniques can you identify that you can add to your writing toolbox?

As a beginning writer — or even one with more experience — it’s worthwhile to keep this list handy as you read. And you can add to it, of course, if you have other questions you find helpful.

Wait, what? I have to analyze the books as I read them — this sound worse than my English class in school.

Personally, I enjoyed English class, but I know many people lost their desire to read in school. Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting you pick up a new novel, read a paragraph, stop, check the list above, answer each question, then move on. That would deny the readerly half of your brain the pleasure of the fictional dream.

(In fact, it’s crucial that you strengthen your readerly muscles, the ones that allow you to laugh and cry and scream in the right places.)

How to approach novels, novellas, and short stories

• Ideally read a novel all the way until the end to get an uninterrupted, first impression. Alternatively, stop after 1-3 chapters (depending on their length), and then go over the questions above.
• Read a novella or short story all the way through, reviewing it afterward with the questions in mind.

Your dual reader-writer vision will get stronger over time, and you should start to notice that your unconscious is processing the questions, even as you stay emotionally engaged in the story.

But I’ve heard writers say they stop enjoying books because they’re so aware of technique, and they see nothing but problems. Is that true?

Don’t fear. I can’t speak for others, but in my experience — and I read widely, everything from experimental literary fiction to pulp mysteries — I still enjoy stories where I see shortcomings.

Sure, there is fiction I can’t stomach now that I loved many years ago, but that’s part of developing as a writer, reader, and human being. Lots of readers who don’t study the craft of fiction have the same experience. The more we read, the more discerning we become. Good thing there’s an endless supply of story out there.

Reading up, down, and across

That endless supply of story leads to my next belief:

We should all read widely.

It’s important as human beings, because it broadens our minds, and potentially make us more empathetic, open-minded individuals (by improving our social-cognitive abilities).

As writers, it’s doubly important, because it helps us build a repertoire of techniques — a box full of amazing tools.

Here are some examples:

• Technique: Write a crowd scene in a story without creating a muddle.
  • Check out: James Joyce’s “The Dead” (classic short story)
• Technique: Establish a sympathetic but unreliable narrator.
  • Check out: Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day (literary fiction)
• Technique: Create an oppressive, gothic setting — but modern (not e.g. Dracula or Wuthering Heights)
  • Check out: P.D. James’s The Black Tower (mystery)
• Technique: A first-person coming-of-age novel, where the protagonist suffers cruelty and isolation.
  • Check out: Robin Hobb’s The Assassin’s Apprentice (fantasy)
• Technique: Write a story about grief in old age.
  • Check out: William Trevor’s “Cheating at Canasta” (short story)

If you only read in your own genre and only the writers you are most familiar with, you’re limiting your access to tools. A carpenter whose toolbox only contains a hammer and a flathead screwdriver cannot attempt any but the most basic jobs.

Reading widely equips you not only with technique, but also with a mental register you can refer to when you need to find the right book to emulate.

But I don’t have time to read widely. I hardly have time to read in my own genre.

I can relate. But trust me, it’s worth the extra effort. If you struggle to find time to read widely, check out short stories and podcasts — they might be a better start than tackling a long list of novels.

Reading widely means you:

• Read across genres (e.g. romance, westerns, horror, domestic realism, sci-fi)
• Read across time (e.g. ancient Greeks, Victorian novels, modernists, contemporary)
• Read across cultures (e.g. writers from abroad and subjects differing from your gender, ethnic, class, sexual, or religious identification)

Every word you write is a choice. The more you read, the more options you have at your disposal — the more ways to affect the reader.

So, let’s take a look at some choices made in a published work of fiction.

Reading “The Apple Tree” closely

Let’s take a close look at the opening paragraph of a story — “The Apple Tree” by Daphne Du Maurier:

It was three months after she died that he first noticed the apple tree. He had known of its existence, of course, with the others, standing upon the lawn in front of the house, sloping upwards to the field beyond. Never before, though, had he been aware of this particular tree looking in any way different from its fellows, except that it was the third one on the left, a little apart from the rest and leaning more closely to the terraceLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

How do you feel reading this paragraph, imagining the scene? Personally, I got goosebumps. There’s something terribly wrong about that tree standing apart from the others, and since we’ve had the mention of death, it can’t be good.

Let’s look at it line by line.

It was three months after she died that he first noticed the apple tree.

The story begins with a deliberate sense of time. But it’s not, “It was October 3rd, 1967,” or some other date. Notice that the time is related to “her” death, which immediately suggests the death will be central to the story. As will the apple tree, which is mentioned at the end of the first sentence.

Note also that the narrator — which, at once, is established as third-person point of view — refers to the other person as “she.” Not by name. Not as “his wife.” But simply “she.” It shows we are deep within his perspective, yes, but maybe it also hints at his feelings for her. He can’t even speak her name.

And all of this happens within the first sentence, because the author has made deliberate choices.

He had known of its existence, of course, with the others, standing upon the lawn in front of the house, sloping upwards to the field beyond.

This is an odd way to describe the trees: He had known of their existence. It suggests they are strangers to him, even if they are in his backyard. Could they have belonged to his wife?

In this sentence, we get a sense of the lay of the land: There is a lawn in front of the house and it slopes upward toward a field beyond. No description of other houses. This might be remote. The protagonist might be fairly isolated.

Never before, though, had he been aware of this particular tree looking in any way different from its fellows, except that it was the third one on the left, a little apart from the rest and leaning more closely to the terrace.

This is the inciting incident or catalyst for the story. A change has occurred to disrupt the main character’s status quo. The trees ought simply to be trees, three of them standing side by side. But the protagonist seems to think one of them now looks different, and it’s “leaning more closely to the terrace.” That suggests movement. Movement toward him.

Why three? That number is deliberate. Three together suggest order, but two with one “a little apart” hint at disorder — it’s imbalanced and unsettling.

We don’t know exactly where the viewpoint character is standing yet. Is he on the terrace or inside a house? At this point, I imagine him looking out a window, probably because the story begins with observation of a yard and that suggests looking through a house window. (In fact, the next paragraph will reveal that he’s standing by a window.) But even this is a choice the writer has made — perhaps to put us deep into his viewpoint while also making us feel uncomfortably disembodied. Where is he? How close is that creepy tree?

Did you notice the voice in the paragraph? The commas that create little interruptions, little rhythms of uncertainty, hesitation. Also, the confident of course in “He had known of its existence, of course…,” soon undermined by the though in the next sentence: “Never before, though, had he been aware of this particular tree…”

Now read the paragraph again and consider the choices the writer did not make.

• Viewpoint: The third-person point of view gives us something different than first person. A first-person narrator traps us in his perspective, making objectivity difficult and easily suggesting he might be unreliable. Is he going crazy? Instead, we have greater trust in what he sees. Also, there’s baked-in vulnerability to the third-person point of view. First-person narrators must almost always survive the end of their story.
• Setting and descriptions: The writer did not choose just one tree. Or a tree that comes alive as the man watches and starts crawling across the terrace. Or a small lawn surrounded by other suburban houses, complete with neighbors raking leaves and kids playing ball.
• Did you notice other choices the writer made?

We’ll stop here, but the point is that we can get a lot out of reading fiction and thinking about not only what was done, but also what wasn’t done. Sometimes what wasn’t done can give us ideas — especially if we read fiction and notice a choice we didn’t think worked at all. Maybe another choice would have worked better. Maybe we should try it ourselves.

The biggest challenge I’ve faced as a writer has been to create conflict-driven scenes that propel the story forward.

In my early stories, conflict between characters was vague or weak, and often my first scene, beginning with gusto, would lose steam. Or else the conflict would be intense, but it would go in circles or worse yet, send the scene off in an illogical direction, derailing the entire story.

Whether I was stalling, going in circles, or jumping off the tracks, my problem turned out to be simple:

• Clarify my character’s scene goal
• Map the string of obstacles complicating that goal
• Ensure the end-of-scene outcome compelled the character to ditch the scene goal and try something else

Once I figured this out, my scene writing became faster, more effective, and — importantly — more fun.

The 5 things your scene needs

For the first draft of a scene, I keep a 5-point checklist. Although I may refer to my notes on the setting or character backstories, the checklist is all I need to ensure the scene stays on track while I’m writing. If I start to feel lost, I check the list, maybe delete a couple sentences that have sent me off track, and quickly move forward again.

This method has increased my writing output significantly; I used to average 2,000 words a day, but now I usually write above 5,000 — sometimes as much as 7,000 or more words.

Here’s the checklist:

1. Scene goal — character wants something tangible in the moment
2. Action & Obstacle #1 — character tries, obstacle stops them
3. Action & Obstacle #2 — character tries, obstacle stops them
4. Action & Obstacle #3 — character tries, obstacle stops them
5. Action & Outcome — pointing reader to next scene

State the obvious

A scene goal is a natural extension of the viewpoint character’s story goal, a micro version of the macro desire. It’s a signpost for the reader to say here’s what’s at stake for the character – do you think they’ll get what they want or not? That question is what makes the reader keep reading.

If you bury the scene goal too deep, or poorly articulate it, the scene will fail.

Even when I understood that my viewpoint character needed a clear scene goal, I worried about stating the obvious. Having my character say or think, This is what I want, felt clunky. So I buried it, concealing it from not only the reader but also myself. The result was a muddle.

I’ve since learned this: Make the goal tangible. You don’t need to worry about being too obvious, especially in your first draft. (You can get subtle in revisions.) Stating the viewpoint character’s goal will set the scene so you can dig into the stuff that is actually interesting — and can be subtle and complicated — when obstacles undermine that goal. After all, it’s not the scene goal that your reader is interested in, it’s the series of obstacles that will create conflict and lead to the outcome. That’s where the magic happens.

So go ahead, state the scene goal clearly — ideally by having the viewpoint character say or think what they want or imply it by taking action that reveals that desire.

Take the toy from the baby — and make it cry

Creating obstacles can hurt. Our characters — painstakingly created with an interesting backstory and a heavy dose of empathy — can feel like our babies. So when it comes to denying them what they want, we flinch, we find excuses, we soften the blow. But as writers, we have to be cruel — even to our babies. Especially to our babies.

Ready to be cruel? Let’s look at obstacles.

In my checkpoint list, I include three obstacles. I can have five or seven or twelve, if the scene calls for it, but in general 3-5 is about right. More than that, and the scene will drag.

Once I’ve clearly articulated the scene goal for my viewpoint character, I brainstorm ways that I can keep them from succeeding. The more ideas, the better. It’s important to start with a clear action the viewpoint character takes — an action that should logically get them what they want — and then find a corresponding obstacle that

I suggest linking obstacles to one antagonist with maybe one supporting force of antagonism or other source of resistance. A mob of people can be an antagonist, but if you have twelve individuals in a scene, the scene will quickly become a muddle; the reader will be more focused on keeping track of characters than on the key question — will the protagonist get what they want?

Once I have my list of obstacles, I prioritize them and look at which ones most logically follow from one to the other.

Let’s look at an example story setup.

Sigrid’s story

Teenager Sigrid has a crush on the lead singer of her favorite death metal band, Völsunga; she spoke with him at a party and believes she’s finally met her true love. Unlike her deadbeat ex-boyfriend, who she’s vowed to stay far, far away from. The band is playing tonight, but she can’t afford the ticket. Her only option is to borrow the money from her father, who disapproves of the band almost as much as he disapproved of her ex-boyfriend. She knows he will say no.

Based on this setup with Sigrid, let’s start with some possible actions and obstacles:

• Sigrid argues that she should be allowed to go to the concert, since she’s sixteen and all her friends are going; Daddy refuses
• Sigrid “borrows” the money from his wallet; Daddy discovers the theft and grounds Sigrid and takes her house keys, forcing her to stay home
• Sigrid climbs out her window to escape the house; she miscalculates the distance to the ground, falls, and twists her ankle — plus the window shuts above her, closing off her means of entry later
• Sigrid asks if she can borrow money for “a thingy”; Daddy asks why
• Sigrid lies and says she needs the money for “a female thing”; Daddy seems to believe her, but when she mentions the amount, he realizes it matches the ticket price on the concert poster she has in her room
• Sigrid calls her dead-beat ex-boyfriend to borrow money from him; he accepts, but only if she’ll go to the concert as his date
• Sigrid’s ex-boyfriend turns up in his old, noisy car; Daddy hears the familiar sound and looks out the window, discovering that Sigrid has sneaked out

At this point, I sort through the actions and obstacles. I put them in a logical order, so the complication raises the stakes and escalates the character’s actions. For example, Sigrid stealing the money from her father should come after she asks him for the money; asking is the logical first thing she’d do — stealing is more desperate.

Here’s a reordered list:

• Sigrid asks if she can borrow money for “a thingy”; Daddy asks why
• Sigrid lies and says she needs the money for “a female thing”; Daddy seems to believe her, but when she mentions the amount, he realizes it matches the ticket price on the concert poster she has in her room
• Sigrid argues that she should be allowed to go to the concert, since she’s sixteen and all her friends are going; Daddy refuses
• Sigrid “borrows” the money from his wallet; Daddy discovers the theft and grounds Sigrid and takes her house keys, forcing her to stay home
• Sigrid calls her dead-beat ex-boyfriend to borrow money from him; he accepts, but only if she’ll go to the concert as his date
• Sigrid climbs out her window to escape the house; she miscalculates the distance to the ground, falls, and twists her ankle — plus the window shuts above her, closing off her means of entry later
• Sigrid’s ex-boyfriend turns up in his old, noisy car; Daddy hears the familiar sound and looks out the window, discovering that Sigrid has sneaked out

Now, there’s another thing I’ve noticed. Her father is the main antagonist in most of the situations listed, but her ex-boyfriend appears in later obstacles. That’s a hint that they don’t belong in the scene. So let’s remove those from our list and save them for the next scene.

But we know that Sigrid has previously articulated a goal to stay away from her ex-boyfriend. By cutting the scene after she succeeds at borrowing money — but at the cost of reconnecting with her ex-boyfriend — I further complicate the story and naturally provide forward momentum. It’s bad for Sigrid; it’s good for the story, because it complicates her situation and points toward the next scene, in which readers would no doubt expect to meet the ex-boyfriend.

That means our final list looks like this:

1. Scene goal: Sigrid wants to borrow money to go to death metal concert.
2. Obstacle #1: Sigrid asks if she can borrow money for “a thingy”; Daddy asks why
3. Obstacle #2: Sigrid lies and says she needs the money for “a female thing”; Daddy seems to believe her, but when she mentions the amount, he realizes it matches the ticket price on the concert poster she has in her room
4. Obstacle #3: Sigrid argues that she should be allowed to go to the concert, since she’s sixteen and all her friends are going; Daddy refuses
5. Obstacle #4: Sigrid “borrows” the money from his wallet; Daddy discovers the theft and grounds Sigrid and takes her house keys, forcing her to stay home
6. Obstacle #5: Sigrid calls her dead-beat ex-boyfriend to borrow money from him; he accepts, but only if she’ll go to the concert as his date
7. Outcome: Sigrid has succeeded in getting the money, but she has failed in a previous — and more significant — goal of staying away from her ex-boyfriend.

What’s next for Sigrid?

Before I move on to my next scene, I look at the outcome and consider Sigrid’s options. What would she plan to do next? Based on the outcome above, the escape from home no longer seems so important (she effectively defeated her antagonist — her father — and focus now shifts to a new antagonist — her ex-boyfriend.

Sigrid’s thrilled to be going to the concert, but she has no interest in her ex-boyfriend. Her new scene goal is: Ditch my ex-boyfriend as soon as I get to the concert venue. Now I can brainstorm the many ways in which her antagonist — her ex-boyfriend — can stop her from succeeding.

Don’t forget the reaction

The method above helps me move from one scene to another, building ever greater complications for my viewpoint character. But scenes can’t just contain action thwarted by obstacle and then followed by more action. The viewpoint character must also react to what’s happening.

When Sigrid reconnects with her ex-boyfriend and sneaks out of the house, it’s not just the reader who should react to that — she herself should have thoughts about these outcomes. Is she worried what will happen when her father inevitably finds out? Is she worried about what her ex-boyfriend will do when she gives him the slip? These thoughts should serve as a bridge from the first scene’s outcome to the next scene’s action.

Final thoughts

I keep my checklist close at hand. In fact, I keep a scene template in my writing app (Ulysses), so that when I’m about to draft a new scene, I can easily duplicate the file with the checklist at the top. Once I’ve brainstormed obstacles and filled in the checklist, it sits at the top of my draft, always within reach. If I feel my characters veer off topic or I forget where I want the encounter to go next, then I can quickly scroll up and refer to the list.

The result: I don’t get stuck as often as I used to.

The scene-goal method keeps me on track, and because I spend less time brainstorming while I’m drafting — and less time fixing issues along the way — I write faster and keep more of my draft once I reach the revision stage.

Many years ago, I wrote a story I was very proud of — a stylistic breakthrough, I thought — but it was boring as hell.

The language was rich and challenging, a reflection of the narrator’s state of mind, with long, meandering sentences and lots of subsidiary clauses in paragraphs that rarely gave the reader a break. By the end of it all, nothing much had happened.

Does this type of story sound familiar to you? It might seem the problem is the long, meandering sentences (and they might be terrible, too), but most often, the passive main character is to blame. The character may not have a clearly articulated desire. Or if they do, they don’t act on it.

Let’s take a look at why passivity kills stories and then how to fight it — and breathe life into the scenes in your fiction.

Self-help and good manners make for dull fiction

The first stories I wrote included swashbuckling heroes in outer space, shipwrecked adventurers facing gangs of pirates on a treasure island, brilliant detectives who would go to any length to solve a mystery, and so on. As I grew older, I learned to view such dramatic scenarios with skepticism. My stories became quieter and quieter, until one day the drama was a mere whisper on the page.

”People who have practiced good manners and conflict-avoidance all their lives have to remember to leave those habits of mind at the door when they enter the theater of fiction. Stories thrive on bad behavior, bad manners, confrontations, and unpalatable characters who by wish or compulsion make their desires visible by creating scenes.”

— Charles Baxter, The Art of Subtext

The problem is conflict-avoidance. It’s deeply ingrained in me. I don’t like people who misbehave. You may love confrontation in real life and find it easy to recreate on the page, but I suspect most writers, like me, wince when their character acts in a reprehensible way.

I said I don’t like people who misbehave. That isn’t entirely true. I love people who misbehave in the novels of Elmore Leonard or Agatha Christie or Robin Hobb. If Elizabeth Bennet always behaved well — like her sister Jane does — Pride & Prejudice wouldn’t be the great drama it is. Can you imagine Darcy as a friendly, communicative guy? He wouldn’t be much fun.

Fiction isn’t self help. It’s not an etiquette manual or handbook for making friends and influencing people. In fact, Charles Baxter calls fiction “the antidote to the conduct manual” and says it’s the “place where human beings do not have to be better than they really are, where characters can and do confront each other, where they must create scenes, where desire will have its day, where all truth is beautiful.”

That’s not to say that you can’t have happy endings or cozy elements, especially if you’re writing a cozy mystery or a clean romance. But even in a cozy mystery someone gets murdered. Even in a romance, the characters oppose each other. Regardless of genre expectations, the engine of fiction runs on character motivation.

What makes a character’s motivation dramatic?

Do you know the Kurt Vonnegut quote, “Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water”? It’s worth remembering. But also this: A scene in which your main character asks for a glass of water may not qualify as drama. In the boring story I was so proud of, my character did lots of mundane things, including visit an art museum. None of it mattered.

Every character should want a glass of water, and then you should withhold it.

Let’s look at some examples.

Rachel X chases Dr. Bishop across the Sahara

Consider this scene: Your main character, Rachel X, has been pursuing her nemesis across the Sahara Desert. She’s been lost for days and is dying of thirst. She finally comes across a jeep. The driver is Dr. Bishop, her enemy. Instead of killing him, as she had vowed, she begs him for a drink of water.

The scene has potential, because it hinges on high stakes. If the hero dies of thirst, she’ll never get what she wants: revenge. And if the enemy shows mercy and gives her water, she is indebted to the very person she hates above all else.

But this doesn’t need to be a James Bond-like action plot for the stakes to be high. Next we’ll look at an example from a domestic drama.

The (doomed) promise of a perfect family gathering

Your main character, Harlan, long estranged from his family, has returned to his childhood home in Michigan for Thanksgiving. His mother, Beatrice, has terminal cancer and has asked the whole family to gather. In private, she’s asked her oldest son to “make this day special for me.” She emphasizes how important it is to have her boys back home for one last Thanksgiving. Even though Harlan has vowed never to speak with his brother, Mickey, again, and dreads going back to Michigan, he feels guilty for abandoning his mother and never being there for her during her illness. So, in the end, he promises her she will have a “perfect Thanksgiving.”

Mickey owes Harlan money, and when they meet again at the family home, he has the gall to ask for more. When Harlan refuses, Mickey threatens to leave the party at once, and thereby ruin the special occasion for their mother. Harlan doesn’t want to give his brother more money, but he also can’t risk Mickey leaving and breaking Beatrice’s heart.

Harlan’s desire is to please his mother one last time, because he feels guilty for prioritizing his new life in New York over her. This desire hits an obstacle in the form of his brother, Mickey, who seemingly cares more about his own desire (money) than his own mother’s feelings.

Dreams and dread — the bread and butter of storytelling

What unites Rachel X and Harlan? They exist in very different fictional genres, but in both cases, they are motivated by strong feelings. Rachel X doesn’t risk her life crossing the desert to ask Dr. Bishop a few questions; no, she wants to kill him or die trying. Harlan doesn’t return to Michigan simply because his mother says, “pretty please”; he returns because she’s dying and he feels guilty.

The point is this: Strong feelings translate into compelling character motivation, and that’s the foundation for interesting fiction.

”Compelling stories (in other words, stories with high stakes) tend to dwell in the outer reaches of the motivational contiuum. They deal in the realm of characters’ dreams and dreads, rather than with mere expectations.”

— Michael Kardos, The Art and Craft of Fiction

I learned the term motivational continuum from Michael Kardos, and when I first read it, I was a little intimidated by the term. It sounds like something from a psychoanalysis textbook (which just goes to show how many psycholanalysis textbooks I’ve actually read).

But once you see it as a graphic, it’s pretty simple. Kardos has it on a straight line – I see the continuum as a kind of mountain with a pit of despair (dread) at the bottom, a baseline plateau (expectation), followed by a rise upward (to dreams). Like this:

Characters motivated by expectations won’t hold our attention; they need to be motivated by dreams or dread — the strongest positive or negative emotions.

The baseline is “expectation.” As we move through our daily lives, we are mostly motivated by expectation: I will go to my local coffee shop and order a coffee and it will taste pretty good.

But we’ll also have certain hopes and fears: I hope my boss recognizes the hard work I did on this presentation. I fear she’ll give me that new project and I’ll be overwhelmed.

Even if these everyday hopes and fears can cause delight or stress, they aren’t dramatic enough as primary drivers of fiction. That’s not to say that fears, expectations, and hopes aren’t important. They’re essential. But for the story to be compelling to readers, your main character’s primary motivation must be based on stronger stuff: dread or dreams.

Rachel X dreams of avenging her partner’s death and killing Dr. Bishop.

Harlan dreads what will happen to his mother if she doesn’t get the perfect Thanksgiving that she’s asked for.

Brainstorming character motivations and obstacles that match

I’ve focused on the strongest emotions, because, as I said at the beginning of this post, I tend to avoid them. But I’m not suggesting fiction must only deal in strong emotions. That would result in, at best, melodrama or, at worst, an exhausting, insane world of crazy characters, constantly feeling only the most frenzied emotions.

Good fiction includes a range of emotions that build to a climax.

In both story examples above – Rachel X’s adventure and Harlan’s domestic drama – we can expect to see characters draw on the full motivational continnum. But how do we discover the full range of motivations a character experiences in the course of a story?

In The Art and Craft of Fiction, Michael Kardos recommends brainstorming a character’s dreads, fears, expectations, hopes, and dreams.

Then, he goes on, imagine what obstacles can:

• Thwart expectations
• Dash hopes and dreams
• Stir fears and dreads

When you have your list, you should be able to prioritize the obstacles. An obstacle that thwarts an expectation is unlikely to serve as the climax of your story. But one that stirs your character’s worst dread (or makes it come true) – that’s more likely to result in a satisfying finale.

I would also recommend checking the list against the character’s most powerful motivation — their controlling desire — to make sure that the smaller emotions (and the obstacles that get in the way) connect to the thing the character wants the most.

For example, Rachel X might want a drink of water, but even that connects with her hope to survive long enough so that she can fulfill her dream of killing Dr. Bishop.

Final thoughts

When I work on a new story, I refer back to several methods of building character. I used to dream of having one tool to rule them all, but over time I’ve come to realize that the wonderful thing about the craft of fiction is how rich it is. Kardos’s motivational continuum is only one of many tools I keep in my toolbox. If I’m stuck and this method doesn’t help me, I look to another.

In the end what matters is not the method but the outcome. Is my story compelling readers to turn the page? Taking a close look at character motivation can be the key to unlocking the drama you need in your fiction.

When I think about a great story — whether it’s a book or movie or stage play or other format — I likely remember those hair-raising, heart-thumping, gut-wrenching moments when change happens. These moments are the turning points in the story.

It wasn’t until I studied story structure that I began to understand why these turning points made such an impression: Because the character would discover that they couldn’t — or even shouldn’t — pursue the path they had been on to achieve their goal.

The turning point would compel them to change direction. They would literally need to turn onto a new path.

Once I understood that, my own ability to bring my characters to life within the plot of a story got a lot easier. Plus, it’s provides a handy revision tool. Now I take a close look at my draft to make sure it includes enough moments when my main character pivots. Does the character truly step away from the path? Or have I allowed them to keep one foot on the old path while stepping onto a new one, muddling the character’s development? More on that below.

The three (or more) turning points in a story

Let’s begin by taking a look at the story map before we dive into the character journey.

There are at least three turning points in a traditional story: a catalyst, midpoint, and climax. I knew these terms for years before I learned that each was a turning point. Frankly, it was hugely helpful to stop thinking of them as unique moments and instead see them as steps on the same stairs leading the main character toward the resolution of the story.

Turning point #1 — the catalyst

A story begins with the “normal world” or “status quo.” We usually get a glimpse of the character’s life before a big change kicks their story into action.

This can be an exciting normal world (James Bond movies often begin with a thrilling action sequence — just another day on the job for 007) or it can be more recognizable and mundane (Stephen King’s novel IT begins with a little boy in a small town playing with a newspaper boat — ordinary enough).

Either way, the story doesn’t take shape until the first turning point.

The first turning point compels the main character to take the path toward a newly formed goal. But keep in mind that this turning point doesn’t always guarantee that the main character will pursue that path. Often the main character, resistant to change, must actively choose to go forward, though maybe with a little push or coercion from an ally or antagonist.

When the turning point happens, the main character formulates a goal. At the very least it’s an implied goal.

For example, I want to escape prison or I want to go to the rock concert or I want to get out of this relationship.

The goal may be given to them by another person (Here, you must take this ring, Frodo). In fact, in this first stage of the character’s journey, they will often be reacting to the first turning point, following someone else’s lead or path or simply fleeing from trouble.

Turning point #2 — the midpoint

At the midpoint — literally the middle of your story — the main character comes up against a massive obstacle, throwing the entire journey into question. Whatever assumptions the main character has been basing their decisions on, they now see that they’re false or inadequate.

A new approach is required. A new direction.

The detective discovers that the man he’d pointed to as the killer is innocent, because he’s dead — one of the other suspects has a false alibi.

The squire assisting the knight on the quest to slay the dragon realizes that the knight is a fraud and will never stand up to the monster — and if the squire doesn’t do it, no one else will.

The innocent hero escaping the police, who believe him to be a criminal, realizes that he can’t run forever — he must discover who framed him so he can be free.

The important thing here is that the main character must come out of the turning point with an entirely new plan. Maybe the story goal is still to track down the killer or slay the dragon or find that true love, but the tactic must change significantly.

At least until the next turning point.

Turning point #3 — the climax

Don’t think of the climax as when the main character succeeds or fails, ending the story. The climax is the beginning of the finale. It’s the final confrontation with the antagonist, whether that’s an evil mastermind, representatives of a corporation, or a force of nature.

It’s also another turning point, when the main character’s tactic turns out to be inadequate.

Maybe the main character tires out half a dozen variations on the same tactic, all failing to stop the antagonist. In spite of everything that has happened over the course of this difficult journey, it seems the main character, success finally within reach, may fail and not get a second chance.

The problem is usually that the main character still hasn’t learned their life lesson and may be clinging to old habits.

The detective is still using her old ways of thinking — logic that has gotten her far, but not far enough to finally uncover who the killer is.

The squire faces the dragon, but continues to compare himself to the knight and trying to emulate his former boss’s style, failing to see that only his own unique skills that can vanquish the monster.

The hero, innocently accused of a crime, finally discovers the motive for framing him, but still fails to see the truth about who stands to benefit, deep down refusing to accept that his best friend would kill his wife and set him up to be the patsy.

The main character needs to push themselves one last time, raising their actions to the new standards they’ve learned. Basically, they need to rethink their goal or the path to that goal, just as they did back at the midpoint.

Only they need to do it fast. Because the climax is underway.

Extra turning points

Can you have more than three turning points?

Sure you can. In a long story, you may want multiple turning points along the way.

But be careful. After too many epiphanies where the main character realizes they’re going about everything the wrong way, the reader may grow impatient: How many twists and turns can this story contain?

Ideally, the character should set a course, and we should see them go through a try-fail cycle a couple of times before they realize that this isn’t going to work.

It can look something like this:

How many try-fail cycles should you have before reaching a turning point?

There’s no rule. It depends on the length and pacing of your story. A very compressed narrative with high stakes may have fewer try-fail cycles before we get to the turning points. You may have lots of try-fail cycles between the catalyst and the midpoint but fewer between the midpoint and the climax.

In general, however, it’s safer to have more try-fail cycles than it is to have too many turning points, and also to make sure they’re spread more or less evenly (the midpoint is called the midpoint for a reason — too many try-fail cycles before the midpoint and too few after can make your story feel unbalanced).

But, again, take care. The risk with too many try-fail cycles is that, after a while, the reader may grow impatient with the character: What’s wrong with this protagonist — can’t they see that this isn’t working?!

The quick test to see if your story “turns” enough

OK. So, knowing this now, how can it be used for storytelling?

Here’s how I use it. If I’m outlining or checking an outline for weaknesses or revising a draft, I can ignore the dozens of other elements in a story and zoom right in on the turning points.

• What happens at turning point #1 (the catalyst) and what goal/tactic does the main character commit to?
• What happens at turning point #2 (the midpoint) and what new goal/tactic does the main character pursue? Is it different enough from the first goal/tactic? Is to too different, sending the character off on a tangent?
• What happens at turning point #3 (the climax) and what new goal/tactic does the main character pursue? Does it reflect the life lesson the main character learned in the third act of the story? Is the last and best tactic of them all, exhausting the final ideas of the story?

What’s nice about targeting the turning points in e.g. revisions is that I can ignore everything else. I’m less likely to feel overwhelmed and I can devote my brain power entirely to making sure that the journey my character goes on isn’t so straightforward that it gets boring — or that I’ve missed out on an opportunity for a turning point that is bigger, bolder and more emotionally satisfying.

How do writers get ideas for novels? Popular author Neil Gaiman says it’s through daydreaming, which isn’t far off the mark, but he also offers a more active approach: asking what if.

”You get ideas when you ask yourself simple questions. The most important of the questions is just, What if…?”

— Neil Gaiman

In fact, a simple exercise using the phrase what if can help you generate a rough novel concept and the beginning of a plot outline in 30 minutes. All you need is your usual word processor or writing implements, your creative brain, and a basic understanding of the three-act story structure (with e.g. a catalyst, midpoint, darkest moment, climax).

But before we get to that, let’s talk about how to handle the influx of new ideas.

Ideas are great — as long as you actually turn them into stories

You might struggle to find good ideas or you might struggle under the crushing weight of them. My own problem has often been that I get lots of ideas. And they tug at my attention.

I’ll start on an idea I like and work on it, brainstorming characters and catalysts and climaxes. Then I get another good idea. The second is as shiny as the first — in fact, it’s a little shinier, because it’s fresher. Which should I stick with? There’s no easy answer to this question.

I have learned this, though: If I drop the first idea in favor of the second, and then a third idea entices me to shift focus again, I’ll likely end up never finishing any work.

If that rings a bell, and you’ve struggled with jumping from idea to idea, please take my advice: Note down all your ideas, keep them safe for later use, but stick slavishly to completing the first one. There’ll be time for the other ideas afterward. Don’t underestimate the difficulty — and importance — of finishing work. It may be the hardest thing of all.

Ideas are great, but an idea means nothing if it doesn’t serve as the foundation for a full-fledged story.

All right, with that out of the way, I’m going to assume you’re reading this because you’d like a way to generate even more ideas that might work for your next novel project (or novella or short story, for that matter).

The benefits of fast-drafting novel concepts

What follows is an exercise I’ve used myself. With it, I’ve managed to create a rough plot outline for a novel within a day. It used to take me days, even weeks, to arrive at a solid, fleshed out novel concept and outline, but now I can brainstorm one in a day or two.

What are the benefits of doing this kind of fast novel planning?

First, by putting pressure on yourself to deliver a concept and plot outline quickly, you can stimulate unexpected creativity. Where a slower, more methodical process may be hampered by your critical editorial brain, this process doesn’t give you much time to be critical. In fact, it postpones the moment when you should be critical.

Second, you will very quickly get a sense of whether an idea works or not. In the past, I’ve gotten an idea I liked, only to take weeks to develop the outline and then realize, to my horror, that the whole concept is weak and not worth pursuing. It’s best to learn that as soon as possible. You might even consider sending one of more ideas to beta readers to see how they respond to the concepts.

Third, and related to the second point, you will be able to generate a whole bunch of story ideas in a single sitting. This provides you with helpful comparisons (“Do I like idea #2 better than idea #7?”). It may also provide you with creative cross-pollination (“Ooh, if I take the antagonist from idea #3 and substitute them for the antagonist in idea #5, the story will work much better!”).

But enough talk. Let’s do the exercise.

How to fast draft a novel concept

Step 1: Set a timer. ⏳

• Set a timer for 20 minutes. Setting a timer on your phone (or elsewhere) pushes you to be creative and shut out your critical voice.
• Get your writing implements ready — e.g. word processor on laptop, typewriter, pen and paper.
• Keep the questions below visible next to you e.g. so you don’t have to flip back and forth between apps. Consider printing out the questions so you can keep them by your side.
• Close down all other apps on your devices. Make sure you won’t be disturbed by phone calls. Put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on your door.
• Start your timer.

Step 2: Answer the ‘what if’ questions within 20 minutes. ⁉️

• What if my main character (MC) is a (profession/identity) BUT they are/have (problem, recent reversal of fortune, curse)
• What if, more than anything right now, the MC wants
• And what if, the antagonist is a (profession/identity) who logically opposes the MC because   
• What if, everything changes for the MC when (catalyst/inciting incident)
• What if the MC is reluctant to act upon this incident, but then this happens:
• What if after much effort to deal with the catalyst, about halfway through the story, the MC’s actions trigger this big disaster or triumph: (midpoint disaster or triumph)
• What if the worst thing imaginable happens to the MC, which is: (all is lost / darkest moment before the dawn)
• What if, during this dark moment, the MC sees that what they want is not what they need — which is actually this:   
• What if, knowing what they need, the MC can now face the antagonist at the climax, which is exciting because (climax / finale)
• And what if these other things happen, which would make the story fun:

Step 3: Answer three questions in 10 minutes. 3️⃣

• Once the 20-minute timer goes off, set the timer again, this time for 10 minutes. Dive right back in by answering these questions about the concept you’ve drafted:
• Is your main character’s primary desire/want driven by their greatest dream or dread? Make sure their motivation is strong.
• Is the antagonist driven by their greatest dream or dread? Make sure their motivation is also strong.
• What is the one thing you can tweak that will make the story different or less predictable?
• Repeat

What’s the next step?

Let’s assume you have another 30 minutes at your disposal. Your inclination may be to revise the rough-hewn story concept you’ve come up with. Don’t. Instead, restart the process, preparing a blank doc or piece of paper and setting the timer for 20 minutes again.

If you want to revisit the same concept and characters, feel free to do so, but begin afresh. Going back over the same story but writing out the concept again will help you riff on those initial ideas and, perhaps, improve them. Alternatively, try an entirely new idea. And then another. And another. In an hour, you can generate two detailed story ideas. In two hours, you’ve got four. And so on.

Remember what I said about having multiple story concepts to compare? This is why it’s worth repeating the exercise several times.

Leave your concept alone…but not for too long

Once you’re done doing the exercise, whether you end up doing one or half a dozen rough concepts, you need to step away from them. Leave the story concepts alone for at least an hour. Let them cool off, so to speak. Take a walk. Do some cooking. Iron a shirt.

Whatever puts your mind in a different place.

Maybe you even want to let it sit for a day or two. But don’t wait too long, because, in my experience, that freshness that comes with a new idea can wither if you don’t cultivate it.

I find an hour or two is enough to allow me to look at the idea with different eyes.

All right, now you’ve taken a break and you’re ready to flesh out the concept you like the best.

How to flesh out your concept and create a full novel outline

You’re back at your desk. Have you picked the newly brainstormed idea that you like best? Good. Now let’s dive into the fleshing-out part of the process.

Reread yours answers to the what if questions and the tweaks from the quick 10-minute review you did. You should have the following elements:

• Main character
• Main character’s want and their need
• Antagonist
• Act I catalyst or inciting incident
• Transition into Act II
• Act II Midpoint
• Act II dark moment
• Act III climax
• Other details about the story

Basically, you should have much of the raw material to refine and turn into a full plot outline.

Take this raw material and organize it into three sections, one for Act I, another for Act II, and a third for Act III, noting what is the catalyst, midpoint, climax, etc. At the very top of this skeleton outline, write What if…? The answer to this headlining question will be your brief story synopsis or pitch.

With that preparation work done, we’re going to dive into the next stage of the exercise.

Step 1: Set your timer for 30 minutes. ⏳

• The same guidelines apply as with the exercise above — including putting a big DO NOT DISTURB sign on your door (literally or figuratively).

Step 2: Describe your story in 1-2 sentences, answering the headlining question, What if…? 🤔

• Don’t worry about getting this perfect. Perfect is the enemy of creativity in these exercises.
• Try instead to imagine you are telling a good friend what your story is about.
• Write down your summary quickly and don’t worry about how it sounds or reads, as long as you put the gist of the story into words.

Step 3: Add ideas to the gaps in the outline — e.g. the hook at the beginning of the story, complications during Act II, and the lead-up to the climax ✍️

• When that timer goes off, you should have a succinct, if rough, summary and the rudiments of an outline for a story.

The outline will need more work, for sure, but when I’ve used this brainstorming method, I’ve had the rough sketch of an outline, which I could then flesh out, including imagining what supporting characters or secondary antagonists would serve the story well.

Importantly, you do this last stage under time pressure to push your rough concept and outline a little further — far enough so you can look at it critically or share it with beta readers or friends. The point is to have enough of an idea how the story will work to decide whether you want to spend the next X number of weeks, months, or years (depending on the size of the project) drafting and revising the novel.

Final words

This is one of several approaches that has worked for me.

In fact, there are many ways to skin a story — and even more ways to add flesh to its bones afterward. The benefit of this approach is that it encourages you to silence your inner critic and quickly put together a concept and a rough outline. It’s considerably easier to determine if a story idea is any good or not when you’ve got a rough version in front of you.

Creative writing is notoriously difficult to make a living with and most full-time writers struggle to find financial stability. Many people view creative writing as a hobby or “nice-to-have,” not a serious or valuable pursuit. Even as a creative pursuit outside your main career, your writing may not be taken seriously.

Unfortunately, friends, family, or colleagues may challenge your commitment to writing. They may view it as an unrealistic dream. But the worst critic of all may, in fact, be yourself.

Do you question whether you should write? Do you wonder whether it’s “worth it”? If a little voice in your head sometimes says, “Don’t bother, it’s a waste of time,” you’re not alone. A lot of writers face the same self doubt.

Many writers write because it makes them happy. The work is its own reward. Beyond that, it can also have serious social, health, and cognitive benefits that many people overlook.

The reasons not to write

Here’s what they — or you yourself — may say:

• Creative writing has no practical value.
• Unless you’re J. K. Rowling or Stephen King, you can’t make a living from fiction.
• Instead of wasting your time on stories, you could invest time in your actual career or in your family.
• Stories are just empty entertainment — they don’t have any social or cultural value. So why bother?

Keep in mind that the value of writing is subjective. Where one reader sees a novel as a waste of paper, another sees it as a life changer.

But forget about the readers for a moment. Consider the effect on the writers. Many find great enjoyment and fulfillment in creative writing, and a regular writing practice can have several cognitive and emotional benefits.

In fact, some can’t live without it.

“Not to write, for many of us, is to die.” — Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing

The reasons to write

You can get value from writing even if you are the next bestselling author. Even if your creative goals are modest. In fact, there is a growing body of research on the cognitive and emotional benefits of creative writing, including writing fiction.

For example, research has shown that writing fiction improves social skills and empathy, maybe because the writer has to delve into the thoughts, feelings, and motivations of characters who differ from themselves.

Let’s look at some other reasons writing is worth it:

• Personal enjoyment: Creative writing can be enjoyable and rewarding, whether you publish short stories and novels or start your days by doing free-form writing. The act of writing — like painting or knitting or running or rowing — can be its own reward.
• Self-expression: Writing down your thoughts, feelings, and experiences can unlock parts of your own self that otherwise remain buried. This self-expression can help you process your daily life and make sense of it.
• Emotional release: Creativity can be a therapeutic outlet. Research has suggested writing can reduce stress and improve well-being, in part by providing a sense of control and accomplishment — not to mention escape. Being transported into a fictional world can be powerful. When I’ve gone through difficult periods in my life — from dealing with a painful breakup to the death of a parent — writing has often helped me ease stress or express my feelings, even when I was writing about fictional characters that looked nothing like me.
• Cognitive development: Research has suggested that creative writing can improve memory and cognitive function, in part because it involves generating and organizing new ideas, considering multiple perspectives, as well as recalling and describing specific details.
• Intellectual challenge: Writing is hard work. The writer has to generate and organize ideas as well as consider different perspectives and viewpoints, putting everything together in a narrative that flows naturally. This intellectual challenge is like a complex puzzle, and it can be hugely rewarding.
• Community building: People often think of the lonely writer working in solitude. But writing can also be a powerful way to connect with others. On platforms like Wattpad, writers can test out ideas and build community with like-minded readers. The friends I made during my MFA in Creative Writing are still a tightly knit bunch more than a decade later.
• Professional development: For some people, creative writing may be a path to a new career. It may even come as a surprise how useful stronger writing skills can be professionally. When I finished my MFA in Creative Writing, I had no expectations that my two years spent deep-diving into the craft of short stories and novels would help me in my day job. But soon after graduating, I landed a job in communications at one of the world’s largest philanthropies — in part because my writing skills had improved by leaps and bounds.

There’s no doubt that creative writing has a range of benefits. But ultimately, you have to decide for yourself whether those benefits are worth prioritizing in your busy life.

Are you ready to dive in?

How to get started

These best practices can help you get the most out of your writing practice:

• Schedule time for writing: Set aside time specifically for writing, whether it’s 5 minutes or 5 hours. A short, daily session is better than a long, weekly one. If you must choose between 5 minutes a day and 35 minutes on Saturday, stick to 5 minutes a day. In my experience, the daily practice will reap real benefits that the once-in-a-while session won’t.
• Find a distraction-free place to write: Shut off your phone. Tell friends and family that unless it’s an emergency, you’ll be unavailable during your writing session. If you can’t close a door to stop interruptions, put on headphones to show that your focus is elsewhere.
• Start with a simple goal in mind: Whether you’re working on a short story or a novel, it’s helpful to have a clear objective in mind. Maybe a specific scene or character you want to develop. Or a scene you’ve drafted that you’d like to revise. Even if your goal is to free-write for 15 minutes, it’s best to articulate what you’re doing before you start, so you don’t waste time thinking about what to do when you’re sitting in front of the blank page.
• Keep a writing prompt in your back pocket: If you feel stuck, reach for a writing prompt that can help you get started. Even if you have a goal, following a writing prompt can warm up your writing muscles. There’s no need to waste time staring at a blank page.
• Don’t worry about perfection: Writing is a process. Even the most experienced authors begin with a crappy first draft. Allow your writing to be mediocre or bad and save your revisions for later. See the next point.
• Set aside time to revise: Don’t mix your drafting time with your revising time. When you’re drafting, you want to rush headlong forward, not worry about plot holes, character inconsistencies, or grammar.
• Get feedback: After revising, consider sharing your writing with others for feedback. Ideally, your readers should be writers or readers who can provide unbiased, constructive feedback. Very often, family members struggle to play this role, and you may need to find a critiquing group to get help.

Conclusion

Writing fiction can have a range of positive effects on mental wellbeing and intelligence. It can reduce stress and improve well-being, improve social skills and empathy, increase cognitive flexibility, and enhance memory and cognitive function. All good stuff. But honestly, you don’t need to know about the benefits to justify your writing practice. It’s enough to know that writing makes you happy.

If it does, what are you waiting for? Grab some of that joy.

Go write.

In the early years of my writing life, I used to carry a notebook and pen with me wherever I went. It was my constant companion, and I’ll share why it helped me then and how, even today, it’s still the most important technology I own.

At university, I’d be waiting for a class to begin and get an idea or observation or even a question. I’d open up my notebook and jot it down. I did the same on buses in Costa Rica, between teaching English classes in Berlin, at coffee houses in Brooklyn.

Maybe I’d never look at the note again. I filled dozens of notebooks with quotations, definitions of words, story ideas, and character observations, and probably only revisited a fraction of them.

But sometimes an idea would germinate and I’d revisit it later. Expand on it. All I had to do was open my notebook again and continue writing.

There were times when the idea would mushroom, growing bigger and bigger until it was clear it had become a full-fledged story draft. Then I’d usually move on to a larger medium — a legal pad or a computer.

In that way, most stories — especially the successful ones — began in my notebook.

“Always carry a notebook. And I mean always. The short-term memory only retains information for three minutes; unless it is committed to paper you can lose an idea for ever.”

— Will Self, Rules for Writers

These days, my writing life is digital. If I’m away from home and get an idea, I note it down on my iPhone. With iCloud keeping my files up to date, I can easily revisit the note the next time I sit down at my desk. And most workdays I’m never far from my desk, which also means noting down ideas on my computer is quick and easy.

I do still keep a pen and notebook next to my bed. Why not my iPad? Because apart from my Kindle e-reader, I don’t allow any digital devices into my bedroom. Banning screens from bed was the best thing I ever did to improve my sleep routine.

Besides, all I need is pen and paper.

Sometimes I get an idea during bedtime reading or I wake up in the morning and my brain has mysteriously solved some gnarly plot problem. I have to jot down the idea quickly or risk losing it. It’s easy to reach for my notebook in the windowsill next to bed and write down my idea. Easier than unlocking my phone and opening the notes app and creating a new note, etc. And if inspiration strikes at 3 a.m., I have a book light that I can clip on to the notebook. Though over the years, I’ve also gotten good at scribbling blindly in the dark.

At times, I’ve prioritized using a notebook outside the bedroom too. Mainly when discipline was a problem.

I’m generally very disciplined when I sit down to write at my computer, but there have been times, especially when I worked a busy corporate job, when I was easily distracted. My concentration span got extra short. Opening my iPhone or iPad or Macbook, I’d get antsy and feel drawn to YouTube or some other site. Before I knew it, my precious writing time was gone, eaten up by social media or other distractions.

If you recognize this problem, I’d recommend switching to a paper notebook for a while. It’s worked for me. Because the notebook is entirely dedicated to writing, it is the original distraction-free word processor. And unless you’re indulging in a beautiful Moleskine or LEUCHTTURM1917 notebook with a fancy pen, it’s also arguably the cheapest word processor out there.

By the way, I once had a beautiful notebook and I wound up worrying that I would deface it with the odds and ends of my writing notes, not to mention my ugly handwriting. Instead of serving as a tool to make writing easier, it increased my resistance to getting things done.

Solution? I bought a cheap supermarket notebook instead, and as soon as I stopped thinking about the notebook, I wrote more. Lots more. The point is that sometimes we have to pick the simplest tech to be the most productive.

• Starting out, get a pen and notebook and keep it with you at all times. Write down your thoughts and ideas and revisit them daily.
• Allow your notebook to be a place of messiness. If you’re afraid to get your notebook dirty, switch to something cheaper, simpler.
• Stuck? Distracted? Get off your digital devices. Get a pen and notebook instead – the original distraction-free word processor.
  

Finally, what happens if my laptop breaks, my phone is stolen, the power grid goes down? Even if going 100% off-grid, or facing a zombie apocalypse, when all else fails, the notebook will still work. I may not give it the love it deserves every day of the week, but through good times and bad, the notebook will always be my friend.