Category: creative writing

Names can tell us a lot about a person, especially when that person is a character in fiction. Names provide the author with a form of shorthand that can communicate setting (both time and place), culture, and even personality. Mishandled, however, character names can confuse readers (too similar-sounding), anger them (too unbelievable), or bore them (too many Toms, Dicks, and Harrys). So, let’s take a look at how best to name your characters.

Don’t worry, well-known authors don’t always get it right, either

Margaret Mitchell, in early drafts of her epic novel Gone with the Wind, apparently named her heroine Pansy O’Hara. Compared with Scarlett O’Hara, Pansy sounds too nice. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective was originally Sherrinford Holmes, and his sidekick was Dr. Ormond Sacker. I think we can all agree that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson work better. And Bram Stoker initially called the villain in his gothic novel Count Wampyr. During historical research, he discovered Vlad the Impaler (aka Vlad Dracula) and came up with Count Dracula as a happy alternative.

The point being that settling on the right name can be a process. Don’t get so attached to your character names in the first draft that you aren’t willing to revise them later. Often, we can’t see — or hear — the problems with names until we’ve finished the first draft (or subsequent revisions).

Consider the effect of the name

When you create a name, consider the effect you want to create.

Let’s say you call an American character in your story Johnny Foster. What might you assume about Johnny? What if we call him Jonathan Foster instead? Or rename him Jonathan Foster Kennedy? Now, your assumptions about the character may be quite different.

A character’s name can hint at:

• Story genre
• Time
• Location
• Class
• Ethnicity/culture
• Personality
  

Examples

Names like Goldry Bluszco and Brandoch Daha helps a reader understand that this book is a fantasy — in this case, The Worm Ouroboros by E.R. Eddison. Or how about Cedric, Wilfred, Rowena, Athelstane, and Gurth? Either you might think “fantasy” again or you’re expecting historical fiction (genre) set in the Middle Ages (time). And you’d be right: these examples are from Ivanhoe by Walter Scott.

What about location? Read this passage and consider what the names tell you about the location:

Abandoning his bicycle, which fell before a servant could catch it, the young man sprang up on to the verandah. He was all animation. “Hamidullah, Hamidullah! am I late?” he cried.

“Do not apologize,” said his host. “You are always late.”

“Kindly answer my question. Am I late? Has Mahmoud Ali eaten all the food? If so I go elsewhere. Mr. Mahmoud Ali, how are you?”

“Thank you, Dr. Aziz, I am dying.”

“Dying before your dinner? Oh, poor Mahmoud Ali!”

The excerpt is from A Passage to India by E.M. Forster, and immediately tells us we’re dealing with “non-British” characters (the 1924 novel would have assumed a British readership). Apart from one other clue in the dialogue (“Hamidullah, Hamidullah”), the names are what indicate location and culture.

Now replace the names with “English-sounding” names, make a few tweaks to the dialogue, and consider what assumptions we might make about the location:

Abandoning his bicycle, which fell before a servant could catch it, the young man sprang up on to the verandah. He was all animation. “Good God! Am I late?” he cried.

“Do not apologize,” said his host. “You are always late.”

“Kindly answer my question. Am I late? Have you eaten all the food? If so, I’ll go elsewhere. Lord Toppington, how are you?”

“Thank you, Dr. Cantrip, I am dying.”

“Dying before your dinner? Oh, poor Lord Toppington!”

Suddenly, the text suggests we’re in a British comedy set in the early 20th or late 19th century among a certain class (Lord Toppington). Could a character in modern Britain be named Dr. Aziz? Of course. Dr. Aziz might also be a gastroenterologist in modern Minneapolis, USA. But my point is that first impressions count. Our minds are likely to fall back on assumptions — assumptions authors can cleverly undermine if they so desire.

Finally, consider the effect of a name on what we may assume about a character’s personality. Scarlett O’Hara sounds stronger, more fiery than Pansy O’Hara. Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer doesn’t exactly sound like an upper-crust, subtle detective (his idea of justice is as subtle as a hammer, after all). Agatha Christie’s Tommy and Tuppence not only have a pleasing alliteration that immediately tells us they are a unit; their names also suggest a light-heartedness that wouldn’t work for a noir like Mike Hammer, but fits perfectly with the effervescent, golden-age capers that Tommy and Tuppence are known for.

Which leads us to what makes a memorable name.

A little alliteration

I mentioned Tommy and Tuppence above. A classic device for creating memorable names is using alliteration. Bilbo Baggins. Mickey Mouse. Parker Pyne. Nicholas Nickleby.

Strong alliteration can communicate playfulness, so be aware that this may create an expectation for lightness or even comedy.
A cozy mystery might make use of playful names. But if you’re writing literary fiction about a serious topic, you probably won’t want a character whose name is Bingo Bellwether.

Do keep in mind, though, that alliteration is not necessarily funny.

William Wallace is a very serious example from history.There’s also the actress Parker Posey, who has a memorably alliterative name. And in fiction, E.L. Doctorow’s literary novel Billy Bathgate is no comedy. Billy Behan, an Irish kid in 1930 New York City, changes his name to Bathgate to better fit in with his new boss: Jewish mobster Dutch Schultz.

Also, alliteration can be more subtle in the middle of names — e.g., Sandra Belsang, Bill Amberford, Linda Streliski.

Comedy — intentional and unintentional

Alliteration isn’t the only way to make your names playful or even funny. If you’re going for outright comedy, playing with readers’ expectations via names (and sometimes defying our expectations) can be a useful device, if handled well.

P.G. Wodehouse’s comedic stories with Jeeves and Wooster include names like Gussie-Fink Nottle, Tuppy Glossup, and Lord “Chuffy” Chuffnell. We’re immediately aware what genre we’re in — and also that Wodehouse is poking fun at the upper crust.

Anthony Trollope, the dizzyingly prolific Victorian-era author, is (in)famous for his creative names: Lord Buttercup, son of Earl of Woolandtallow, Countess Clanfiddle, Sir Oliver Crumblewit, Sir Orlando Drought, Mr. Gotobed, Mrs Montacute Killandcodlem, to name a few.

Obviously, Trollope had a blast naming the characters, and these tongue-in-cheek monickers are fun for readers, too. This all works fine when a character is flat and intends to make us chuckle. But Trollope also tackles serious issues, and some readers may struggle to take a character seriously when his name is, for example, Mr. Haphazard. In general, silly names are best reserved for comedy.

Check the origins of a name

Check the popularity of names in the era of your story. Names indicate placement in time. A kid named “Hunter” in the 1920s would be unusual, and if we met a 90-something year old named Hunter now, we’d take note. But a teen named Hunter might not raise an eyebrow today. Similarly, you don’t meet many young people named Mildred. The name suggests an older person because it’s an old-fashioned name.

If you’re writing a historical novel, make sure you research that period’s names, so you don’t introduce a character whose name hasn’t been invented yet.

Moreover, be aware of the name’s history and meaning. There are websites that provide background on names, including which countries they’re most prevalent in and what the linguistic origins are. So, for example, using Behind the Name, we might learn that a character named “Diana” carries this rich meaning with her:

Means “divine, goddesslike”, a derivative of dia or diva meaning “goddess”. It is ultimately related to the same Indo-European root dyew- found in Zeus. Diana was a Roman goddess of the moon, hunting, forests and childbirth, often identified with the Greek goddess Artemis.

Does this mean that every “Diana” in a novel makes us think of the Roman goddess? No. But the association may occur to some readers who have been exposed to Roman mythology. Therefore, they may, even subconsciously, wonder what makes the Diana character like the goddess. Does she play the role of hunter in the story? Is she associated with a forest?

You can use this to your advantage. But be careful not to pour too much obscure meaning into your character names — and never assume your readers will know what that obscure meaning is. Leaning too heavily on this device will get you accused of authorial intrusion.

The power of nicknames

Nicknames can transform what we think about a character.

A woman named Charlotte Carrington might suggest an upper-class background, and that will give us certain ideas about her. Conservative. Older, perhaps. But what if her name is Charlie instead? Do we see her as younger, more dynamic? Is she slightly rebellious, attempting to break free from the conservatism of her background? With the assumptions the reader makes, we can defy expectations.

What about a man named Theodore? I picture a sturdy and stuffy man in his sixties or seventies. Now, let’s call him Teddy instead. I can’t help but see him as younger. More easy going. But not edgy or cool.

Consider also what the nickname says about the character and their relations to other characters in the story. Young Theodore might like to be called Theodore because he feels it lends gravitas to his image. But his mother insists on calling him Teddy, even in public. What if Theodore’s mother is such a bubbly, likable person that others can’t help but mimic her? Suddenly, everyone in Theodore’s life switches to calling him Teddy, sabotaging his efforts to maintain that important sense of gravitas. In this way, the way characters — and the people around them — engage with their names can characterize them and even set up conflict.

Beware of Danny, Manny, Ginny, and Minnie

When you’re sketching your characters, or after you’ve written your first draft, review all names to see if they sound too similar. Too many similar-sounding names can be confusing to readers. The characters can start to bleed into one. So avoid having a story with Pippa, Peter, Pansy, Prim or another with Dave, Dean, Deanna, and Dash.

A simple trick is to make sure that the characters have different first initials. If they do have the same initials, then try varying the length of the name — Tim can easily be distinguished from Theodore.

In fact, in general, you’ll want to vary the length. Jim might be friends with Seamus, who’s married to Elinor, and whose parents’ names are Harold and Lil.

Then check that they don’t all have the same suffix. If your three main characters have different first initials — D, M, and G — but they’re named Danny, Manny, and Ginnie, you’re in trouble.

Authenticity vs. readability

If you’re writing historical fiction or nonfiction, like memoir, you may encounter this problem: Several characters have the same names, and you can’t change them. For example, half the men in that 1940s social circle were called John, and there’s no getting around it. One solution is to use the last name or last initial to distinguish the characters (e.g., Smith and Barrow instead of John for both of them). Another is to use their actual nicknames (e.g., Jack) or invented nicknames to help the reader (e.g., London John vs. Paris John). Even if you’re being authentic and true to history, it won’t matter if the reader gets confused. Always consider the reader’s experience first.

Revenge is sweet…

It can be tempting to give a villain the name of a real-life nemesis. Be careful. People are easily offended — and some are even willing to make a stink. Better not risk it.

In one of my cozy mysteries, I allowed myself to kill off a high school teacher who had bullied me as a kid. But after the first draft, I changed the name. After all, I’d had my imaginary revenge, and putting that behind me, could focus on finding the right name for the character. The revised name was much better anyway. I’m glad to say that the story meant more to me than revenge.

The character name checklist

Here’s a checklist to use when you are sketching characters, and after you’ve finished your first draft:

• Check for similarity: Do they have the same first initial? Is there alliteration? Do they have the same suffix?
• Read each name aloud individually. Not just once. Several times. Are they difficult to say?
• Read all the names aloud together. How do they sound as units? Does one or more stick out — and if so, do you want that character’s name to stand out?
• Type your names — and notice how you type them. Do you frequently misspell them? That might be an indication they are too complicated.
• Sketch personalities. Write down each name and a few keywords next to the name that describe their personality. Does the name feel like it matches the character’s persona?
  

Final words on names

Finally, as I said at the outset, don’t worry. Don’t let naming characters stop you from writing. I’ve written drafts where some characters only had initials (“P. opened the door to the car”). Often, I’ve discovered the right names only after completing a manuscript draft, when I got a bird’s-eye view of the entire story and how the characters had developed — then I knew what names felt right or wrong.

I used to be a “pantser,” writing by the seat of my pants, discovering the story sentence by sentence. Eventually, I would have a messy first draft that I could sift through to find the heart of the story, if there even was one. Then I would revise and revise and revise until it took shape. It was daunting. And for novels, it felt impossible.

Once I became a “plotter,” someone who outlines the plot of the novel before crafting that first sentence, my writing underwent a transformation. I learned quicker. I finished my work. Yet, I continued to see outlining as a novelist’s trick.

I’m here to tell you that outlining can be applied to any length of fiction, including the compressed form of a short story. In fact, plotting can help you surface problems with compression before you get started on your first draft.

Why outline a short story?

Unlike a novel, a short story is short enough to be drafted in one sitting. This means you can have an idea, sit down with pen and paper (or laptop), and scribble furiously until you reach the end. Then you can assess whether that mess of a draft contains a real story or not.

And this is precisely where outlining can be helpful. Before you invest precious time in drafting, outlining can:

• Test a premise to see if it works
• Highlight opportunities to constrain the elements of the story (characters, setting, time, etc.)
• Provide ideas for ratcheting up the conflict in the story

Imagine if you take a moment to sketch what will happen in your story before you begin writing. Your premise? A stepmother helps her young stepdaughter through her wedding day, though intriguing, lacks energy.

All popular stories require conflict, but looking at your story idea, you see that the two characters you had in mind couldn’t be in conflict. Or, in any case, you don’t want them to be. The main character’s stepmother acts as a mentor, guiding her through a difficult time. So, you introduce a third character, the biological mother.

Now you have an interesting character triangle, suggesting what their conflicting desires may be. The stepmother wants her stepdaughter’s day to be perfect. The biological mother resents the presence of the stepmother and wants her daughter for herself. The daughter wants everyone she loves to get along.

More questions arise as you look at this fleshed out premise.

What will happen between the characters? How do you distill the action and the setting, so they fit the short story form and don’t go rambling off into a novella or novel?

The three characters are in the daughter’s hotel room, you decide, waiting for the maid of honor and bride’s maids to arrive and help with the dress. Their presence will change the dynamic in the story, and so their scheduled arrival sets the clock ticking, naturally restricting the events of the story.

You decide you’d like a big, emotional moment to happen in the middle or right at the end of the story. How do you get the story to that point? You begin to sketch out the beats of the story, imagining at a high level what the stepmother, biological mother, and daughter will say and do to raise the tension to the breaking point. And so on.

By the time you’re ready to write, you know what your ingredients are and roughly where you want your story to go. How “roughly” is entirely up to you. Some writers outline in great detail; others create a very high-level sketch. And of course, once that first draft is over, you can change everything in revision. Though, you should find that you’ve already solved some problems ahead of writing. With outlining, the revision process is often shorter.

One big risk with simply putting pen to paper and seeing what happens is that the story might grow and grow and grow, and suddenly, you’re writing a novel. That’s fine if you’re open to writing a novel. But if your intention was to write a short story, you’ve hit a snag.

Knowing a bit about how the short story differs from the novel might help.

What makes a short story different from a novel?

Basically, a short story is short, and a novel is long. The length of a work of fiction changes what’s possible. A short story is usually no more than 7,500 words long. Longer, and it’s called a “novelette.” A novella is about 17,000 to 40,000 words. Anything beyond that is a novel.

Because of its length, a novel is roomy enough to make space for cast settings, intertwining subplots, and multiple viewpoints. Mostly, short stories focus on one plot and one point-of-view character within a restricted setting — often a single location.

The novel can also have a massive cast of characters. Short stories tend to stick to 2-3 rounded characters. Beyond that, the length necessarily grows into a novella to accommodate the characters.

A novel may delay exposition to create mystery. A short story almost always has to get exposition out of the way and move swiftly toward the premise of the story. If there is mystery, the premise itself contains the mystery.

“A great short story is about the fallout from one, shattering moment,” says James Scott Bell. But this might just as easily be the definition of a great novel. Here’s James Scott Bell’s definition of a shattering moment: “…the shattering moment is something that happens to a character, an emotional blast which they cannot ignore. It changes them, in a large or a subtle way…”

If we translate James Scott Bell’s “shattering moment” to “turning point,” then we come closer to a key difference. A novel usually contains several turning points — e.g., the catalyst, the midpoint, the dark night, the climax. But a short story zooms in on just one, in particular one that acts as an “emotional blast” which the character “cannot ignore.” That turning point may or may not occur in the story itself. More on that below.

Where to place the turning point

In How to Write Short Stories and Use Them to Further Your Writing Career, James Scott Bell lists 5 placements for what he calls the “shattering moment” — or what I’ll call the “major turning point”:

The beginning of the story

• The story opens with a major turning point and the rest of the story focuses on the repercussions. This is the classic murder mystery story where the body is found on page 1 or even in the opening sentence.

The middle of the story

• The story builds to a big moment, then shows us the fallout from that moment. This approach can offer the story a kind of mini “act one.” The status quo is established, the catalyst disrupts it, and then the immediate impact of the catalyst plays out (within the strict confines of the short story’s limited cast and setting).

The end of the story

• The story builds to the big turning point at the end, providing an emotional climax or big reveal on the last page. If the intent is to shock the reader at the end with a surprising yet inevitable revelation — a twist — then this may be the most appropriate form.

Before the story begins

• The story deals with the aftermath of a life-altering event, with the impact rippling through the characters’ lives. Literary stories about grief may place the turning point before the action of the story.

After the story ends

• The story leads up to a life-altering event, implying what will happen after the final words of the story, and leaving it to the reader to imagine the impact this will have on the characters. The literary “epiphany” story sometimes relies on this format. The story rises to an emotional crescendo just before a character’s life may actually change. The reader may even sense the significance that still eludes the viewpoint character.

Can a story contain more than one turning point? Yes. For example, a traditional murder mystery short story will follow the same structure as a full murder mystery novel, condensing the plot into a few pages. For example, see “Death by Drowning,” a Miss Marple story by Agatha Christie. This begins with a murder, follows the investigation, and ends with the revelation of who the killer is.

How to become a better outliner and writer of short stories

The best way to become better at short stories is to read a lot of them. Since they’re short, you can get through many stories in a matter of days.

I recommend focusing on top practitioners or masters of the short story form. Anthologies are good for variety, like the annual “Best Short Stories: The O. Henry Prize Winners” or the “Best American Short Stories” series, which publishes fiction collections covering literary fiction, mysteries, and sci-fi/fantasy. You can also find free stories on publisher sites like Tor.com or Clarkesworld (look for publishers and journals covering your favorite genre). Plus, there’s Gutenberg.org, where you can get free public domain ebooks by classic short story authors, such as Anton Chekhov, Guy de Maupassant, Edgar Allan Poe, Katherine Mansfield, Oscar Wilde, and many more.

Here are three stories to get you started:

“The Garden Party” by Katherine Mansfield

“The Diamond Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant

“The Dead” by James Joyce

Finally, I leave you with a recommendation: Write short stories. Even if your main ambition is to be a novelist, the short form forces you to develop focus and conciseness — skills that will make your novels strong, too.

Morning pages, a concept described by Julia Cameron in her book The Artist’s Way, are a daily practice intended to unleash people’s creativity. Any people, in fact, not just writers. But for writers, in particular, this stream-of-consciousness, free-writing exercise can be a real game changer — helping you build a healthy writing routine.

Since Julia Cameron published her book in 1992, her morning pages have become so popular that you’ll find BuzzFeed articles about the exercise. Even writers who haven’t heard the term “morning pages” may have done a similar exercise as part of a writing seminar.

The idea is that with daily practice, you can get in touch with your creativity and build confidence. Let’s look at how to do morning pages and how they can help your writing practice.

1. Write first thing every morning

Every morning, ideally before you do anything else, sit down and write your morning pages. Your mind is full of yesterday’s detritus and last night’s dreams. The morning pages are meant to clear your mind, so you are entirely open to the day’s creative practice.

2. Find comfort and privacy

Sit somewhere comfortable. You may want to sit away from your regular writing space, where your mind is likely to be telling you to “get things done” or even offering helpful suggestions on sentence or fiction craft. Prop yourself up on a pillow on the couch. Make sure you won’t be disturbed. Now go ahead and write.

3. Write three pages longhand in a notebook

Morning pages revel in analog tools. Computers and the other devices we may use to write are full of distractions (messages, emails, popups, tempting apps, etc.). So, treat your morning pages as a separate space where you write three pages by hand in a notebook specifically dedicated to the task. If you are unable to use your hands, and you usually write by dictating, then that’s how you should do your morning pages, too.

There are also some scientific studies that suggest writing longhand may be beneficial for the brain and creativity, encouraging that feeling of “flow” more than when we type. Apparently, it increases neural activity in the brain similarly to meditation (see this paywalled WSJ article).

Find notebooks of similar size and feel, so it becomes as familiar as the rest of your routine. And a word of advice: You’re going to fill up many notebooks. Save your expensive Moleskine or LEUCHTTURM1917 notebooks, or else increase your stationery budget accordingly.

4. Don’t pick a topic

Often, free-writing follows an exercise or writing prompt. Morning pages are the antithesis to prompts. Don’t sit down with an intention other than to open yourself. Don’t describe a specific dream or fiddle with an anxiety you’ve been wanting to untangle. If any of these elements come up naturally, that’s fine. But avoid sitting down with a task in mind.

5. Don’t worry

Like many other free-writing exercises, morning pages are not about perfection. They’re not even about coherence. Forget writing rules, including grammar. The idea is to break down the critical or self-doubting barrier between your creativity and the page. You’re putting your raw self onto the page. With practice, you should get into a flow where you forget the world around you as your thoughts pour out.

6. To reread or not?

Morning pages are purely about the moment of connecting your inner creativity with the page. So, even though you keep the result in a journal, the point is not to revisit the morning pages. But as a writer, you may discover that your unconscious has let loose some interesting images or sentences. However, the risk is that if you trawl your morning pages for good material, you may begin to think critically as you write in the mornings.

Here’s my suggestion: When you are starting out, resist the urge to reread. Just write. Then, after you’ve established a routine over a couple of weeks, take a peek at your journal. Copy any passages you like into another journal. Has this hunting for good passages affected your morning pages? If the answer is no, go ahead continue to write and then, a couple of days or weeks later, you can revisit the journal. If you sense resistance or self-criticism building, stop. Protect your morning pages.

And, of course, don’t let anybody else read your morning pages, either.

7. Stick to the daily practice

The benefits of morning pages come over time. You may feel that magical flow the very first morning. Or it may take days or weeks before you can access your raw emotions and pour them straight onto the page.

But over time, you should see an effect on your wellbeing. It acts as a form of morning meditation. You may feel calmer, more centered as you move ahead with your day.

Yeah, yeah, you say. But what about my “real” writing?

Here’s the deal. Morning pages build your ability to offer up your inner self without restriction. Combining this skill with your drafting skills can result in a powerful ability to silence your inner critic and put the most creative version of your imagination onto the page before that pesky critic in your head interferes.

For some writers, the mere act of committing to writing every day can build the habit of writing. If you’re pressed for time, you could consider transitioning from morning pages to a free-write (see below) and then, finally, to your daily novel or short story writing.

An alternative to morning pages: the morning free-write

Julia Cameron assures us that with morning pages, there’s no right or wrong:

“Morning Pages are three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages – they are not high art. They are not even “writing.” They are about anything and everything that crosses your mind – and they are for your eyes only. Morning Pages provoke, clarify, comfort, cajole, prioritize and synchronize the day at hand. Do not over-think Morning Pages: just put three pages of anything on the page…and then do three more pages tomorrow.”

– Julia Cameron

With that in mind, I’d suggest that the writer who’s not interested in establishing the meditative practice of morning pages, should consider a daily morning free-write instead. Apply the same principles above, except in this case you can — and should — pick a topic. Find a writing prompt the night before your morning free-write, so you’re ready to write.

Here are some writing prompts for a morning free-write:

Fill three pages of longhand describing a situation in which…

• A person steals another person’s shoes.
• A non-believer is stuck in a room with only a holy book to read.
• A person shopping recognizes another shopper’s face, but can’t remember who that person is.
• The cake at a wedding melts away.
• A person wakes up in the morning and discovers they have a tattoo — but no recollection of getting it.
  

Happy writing.

To tell a good story, you need more than plot, worldbuilding, and well-crafted prose. You need compelling characters. What makes a compelling character? Flaws, goals, and needs.

Flaws, goals, and needs help us set up opposition and conflict, which are what make stories gripping.

Let’s say you’re writing a murder mystery. A novice detective lives in the shadow of her police chief father. She becomes obsessed with a cold case he failed to solve before he died, and finding a new clue, decides to catch the killer herself. In opposition to this, the killer (the villain) wants to continue to evade the police.

The detective and the killer’s goals put them in direct opposition to each other. 🤜💥🤛

But often two opposing goals aren’t enough. So, let’s add another opposition: The detective struggles to investigate because of her meddling boss, the antagonist. The detective wants to devote all her time to the cold case, but the boss demands she focus on other work.

In the case of sidekicks, mentors, and other allies, the goals may align with the main character’s, but then, ideally, flaws will conflict — or at least contrast. On the flip side, an ally’s strengths may complement the main character’s flaws or provide a skill that the main character doesn’t have.

For example, in our murder mystery example, the detective continues to work the cold case on the sly, disregarding her boss’s orders. In fact, the detective trusts no one, and would rather keep her investigation a secret than confront her boss. But she hits a snag when she must reluctantly form an alliance with one of the victims’ mothers. The mother steps into the role of sidekick as she turns amateur sleuth. Let’s say the mother is a retired police detective herself. In fact, someone who once worked with the hero’s father. Her vast knowledge of police work makes her not only a sidekick but a mentor, helping the hero detective not only purse the killer but also learn her life lesson — that she must trust not only herself but others in order to succeed as a detective.

In the example above, I’ve sketched a main character with a flaw, a goal, and a life lesson she needs to learn.

Now it’s your turn. Start by opening a new document in your word processor, note-taking app, notebook, or wherever you want to sketch your characters.

Let’s get started. 👇

1. Select the character’s role in the story

Choose a character you want to sketch. What role will that character play in the story?

✅ Hero / main character
✅ Sidekick
✅ Mentor
✅ Antagonist
✅ Villain (sometimes also the antagonist)
✅ Love interest
✅ Other secondary character

2. Describe the character

Next, write 4-6 lines about your character. Don’t go overboard. You can flesh it out later — right now, you don’t need a full page description. Consider these aspects of your character. 👇

• Name, gender, age
• Appearance (eye color, hair color, clothing, etc.)
• Distinctive traits in dialogue (e.g. certain words they will or won’t use or phrases they will repeat)
• Distinctive gestures (e.g. they play with their wedding ring when they’re nervous, they stand very close to people in conversation, they avoid eye contact)
  

3. Pick the character’s backstory “shard of glass”

This key piece of backstory is the pain that keeps the character from fulfilling their destiny or finding happiness. It’s the reason for the character’s flaws. To learn the life lesson (see below), the character will need to pick out the shard of glass. You may not even need to reveal the shard of glass in the story, but this important piece of backstory will help clarify who your character is.

Complete this sentence to add the shard of glass to your character sketch:

✏️ I am in pain because…

4. Describe the character’s flaws and strengths

Flaws are usually concrete behaviors that other characters can perceive as either positive or negative. For example, a character may be fanatically devoted to a cause. Other characters may perceive this as positive, because they’re perceived as steadfast, a real strength. In some cases, a flaw can be a problem, such as bad situation a character finds themselves in (e.g. crushing poverty, a world overrun with zombies).

Strengths are the positive flip side of flaws. Again, other characters may perceive strengths as either positive or negative. For example, an unselfish character who loves to help may be vulnerable to others taking advantage of them, leading them down the wrong path. If the flaw is more of a problem, then the strength may be a skill gained as a result of that problem (e.g. the character’s poverty has taught them frugality, self-reliance, and the importance of kindness to strangers).

A behavioral flaw may help the character reach their short-term goal, but it will serve as an obstacle to achieving the life lesson (see below). When you are considering your character’s strengths and flaws, consider how they connect to the lie and the shard of glass (see below).

Sketch out the flaws and strengths for your character:

✏️ My flaws are…

✏️ My strengths are…

5. What is the the lie the character tells themself?

As a result of the pain the shard of glass causes, the character covers it up by telling themself a lie. That lie stands in direct opposition to the life lesson (see below). In contrast to flaws, the lie is usually concealed from other characters, and even if the character expresses their lie, it will probably be a vulnerable confession.

Examples include (each one matches a life lesson below):

• I’m not strong enough to face my fears…
• Nobody could ever love me after what happened…
• The world is cruel and kindness is for losers…
• Everyone else has it better than me…
• What I did is unforgivable and disqualifies me from happiness…
  

✏️ The lie I tell myself is…

6. Identify the character’s long-term motivation

A desire or vision for the (distant) future. This could be highly ambitious desire, like “I see myself rising from the mailroom to become the CEO of the company” or “I see myself no longer single and poor, but with a big family in a big house where we want for nothing.” This vision may be unrealistic, even a false vision of what will make the character happy. Or it may be possible, if the character achieves their life lesson.

✏️ In the future, I see myself…

7. Pick the character’s short-term goal

A goal that, according to the character’s logic, leads to the long-term vision. But, in fact, this goal contrasts with the life lesson below, putting the two in conflict and stopping the character from advancing toward their long-term desire. An important difference between the long-term desire and short-term goal is that the latter must be a tangible action that the character can get started on right here and now. For example, if the character dreams of becoming the CEO, they may want to prove to their boss in the mailroom that they’re exceptionally hardworking and talented, and therefore deserve a promotion to assistant mailroom manager. This kind of tangible, short-term goal can help us set the first scene goal. It’s also likely to change as the story advances (e.g. because the mailroom manager gives the promotion to someone else).

✏️ Right now, I want to…

8. What life lesson does the character need to learn?

The character’s need or life lesson sets up the climax of the story. Once the character realizes what they need — rather than the short-term wants they’ve been pursuing — they will have a new set of strengths that will allow them to overcome the final obstacles in the climax of the story. These strengths should contrast with the flaws from earlier — replacing or eclipsing them.

✏️ I need to learn…

✅ To forgive myself or someone else
✅ To love — myself, my friends, my family, or a romantic interest
✅ To respect myself, my choices, and my principles
✅ To ask for what I want and need, asserting myself
✅ To show kindness and act kindly, even in a world full of meanness and negativity
✅ To seize the moment — carpe diem — and cherish life in the present
✅ To have fun, laugh, and find joy in life, instead of lingering on negative, pessimistic views
✅ To be patient, not rushing through things
✅ To accept who I am, the life I’ve been given, the people around me — even my destiny
✅ To express myself, sharing my bottled-up emotions
✅ To free myself from envy, cultivating gratitude for what I have
✅ To take responsibility for my own future, not allowing others to decide for me
✅ To have faith or trust in myself or other people
✅ To be courageous, overcoming my fear of the thing that is holding me back
✅ To fight for my survival or even regain the will to live
✅ To embrace humility and selflessness, e.g. overcoming greed and sacrificing my wants for other people’s needs
✅ To accept blame and atone for past wrongs
✅ To let go of the past (often related to e.g. forgiving myself or others)
✅ Other life lesson…

✏️ When I learn my lesson, I will overcome these flaws and/or gain these strengths: …

Combining the elements

Once you have completed all the information above, you should begin to have a sense of your character. Do the flaws logically grow out of the shard of glass? Would the life lesson allow the character to pluck out that shard of glass and address one or more of their flaws? Do the strengths complement the flaws — or maybe intensify them?

Take a look at the elements of the character’s personality, ensuring that the pieces fit reasonably well together. Keep in mind, though, that this character sketch doesn’t need to be exhaustive. In fact, I’d argue you’re better off treating it as a sketch, not a finished portrait. Because once you start drafting, the character is likely to evolve.

Plotter vs. pantser character creation

Once you have 3-5 sketches of the most important characters, make sure you decide on which character will hold the point of view (POV). Will this be a first-person POV narrative? Or will we get the main character’s thoughts filtered through third-person POV? Will some chapters give us access to the POV of secondary characters — or even the villain?

Once you’ve chosen the POV, your character sketches should help you build a story outline using the story structure I’ve provided. Even if detailed plotting doesn’t work for you, you may want to consider creating a few character sketches before you begin writing — it’s one thing to discover what the story is about and another to discover whose even telling the story.

And even if you sketch out your characters and outline in great detail, keep in mind that the people in your story may evolve as you write. If they do, make sure you revise the character sketches to keep track of how they actually behave on the page.

Good luck creating your characters — I hope to read about them in your fiction soon. 😊

For most beginning writers, a simple word processor will meet their needs. In fact, beware of spending too much time learning how to use more complicated apps. First, establish a strong writing practice. After you’re in a groove, you can investigate how to hone your writing process — including through more advanced apps.

Let’s take a look at a few writing apps that may meet your needs.

The classic workhorses: Microsoft Word, Apple Pages, Google Docs, and LibreOffice

These four word processors all offer the same core features. You can type and format text and then save and print files. There’s also a built-in spellchecker. Each app has features that set it apart from the others, but if you’re writing fiction, they all meet the writer’s basic needs. Which one you choose depends partly on your computer’s operating system.

I have a Windows computer.

• Microsoft Word — an Office 365 subscription usually costs money
• Google Docs — free via a browser
• LibreOffice — open-source and free
  

I have an Apple device.

• Apple Pages — free with your Apple account
• Microsoft Word — an Office 365 subscription costs money
• Google Docs — free via a browser
• LibreOffice — open-source and free
  

I use Linux on my computer.

• Google Docs — free via a browser
• LibreOffice — open-source and free
• Word and Pages also have browser versions
  

I’ve used all four apps at various times, and with different computers. They all work well. Yet, LibreOffice has had some stability problems in the past. Google Docs, I’ve heard from other writers, can get iffy with large books (the trick there is to break your big manuscript into smaller bits — for example, a Google Doc for each chapter).

Word is the industry standard, and if you expect to send your manuscript to editors or agents, they will likely expect a Word file. Google Docs, LibreOffice, and Apple Pages will all create a Word file for you, but keep in mind that any time you export to a different file format, you run the risk of introducing formatting issues.

The next level: Ulysses and Scrivener

Compared with the apps above, Ulysses and Scrivener offer more features for organizing your writing. But while Scrivener’s strength lies in its complexity, Ulysses’ lies in its simplicity.

Ulysses, which is only available on Apple devices, provides a distraction-free environment. In contrast to Microsoft Word and its kin, the interface is clean and simple. With a simple swipe, you can clear away navigation menus, so all you see is the writing field.

Ulysses also uses what’s called Markdown. It’s a simplified code language that allows you to format text directly on the page. This means you don’t need a big ribbon menu with commands. Also, even if you copy-paste the text to another app where the formatting is stripped, the code ensures the formatting isn’t lost. This may sound complicated, but once you get the hang of it, it becomes easy. Plus, Ulysses relies on the usual shortcut keys of italicizing, bolding, etc., so you’ll probably never write the code, anyway.

Ulysses’ navigation with drag-and-drop “groups” makes organizing your novel easy. It serves as both a word processor and a note-taking app. And its goal-tracking provides handy stats on your writing progress. Finally, when you’re done, you can export files to many formats, including Word, PDF, and ebook (or connect your account to your blog and publish a post directly).

Ulysses has excellent support and also a large community of users who create free templates.

Scrivener is the most powerful of all the apps. It’s often recommended as the best option for writers, and understandably so. Scrivener, which was built specifically for writers, provides an impressive range of features — from a corkboard for plotting to formatting tools for your final manuscript. A distraction-free function removes the rather cluttered interface, so you can focus on drafting. There are ways to track your goals and writing history. There are also templates with pre-populated sections for e.g., fiction vs. non-fiction. And because so many writers use Scrivener, you can find others who have created their own templates that you can buy or download for free.

The downside to Scrivener’s wealth of features? Complexity. Learning how to use the app can take time. Some find it daunting. But there are plenty of tutorials out there, so if you have the time and interest, you can find all the information you need.

Note-taking for writers: Microsoft OneNote, Apple Notes, Google Keep, Evernote

Note-taking apps can be your best friend as you sit at your desk or on the go. Let’s say you’re waiting in line at the supermarket. Daydreaming, you realize how your hero will succeed at the story’s climax. You open your phone’s note-taking app and, hey presto, add your thoughts.

Could you do the same with a small notebook and a pen? Absolutely. In fact, going analog can be a healthy choice, given how much time we writers tend to spend staring at a screen.

There’s a plethora of note-taking apps out there. Choose one based on the devices you use and the interface. OneNote, Notes, Keep, and Evernote all look different. The way you organize information differs, too. If you subscribe to Microsoft Office, you’ve probably already got OneNote. If you have an Apple device, you’ll have Notes. With a Google account, you can try out Keep. Evernote works across platforms.

I mentioned Ulysses above as an option for word processing, but you can also use that app for note-taking. Or both.

My advice is to start with a free option, since there are plenty of them out there, and then see what works for you. I use Apple products, and I like the way Notes seamlessly syncs across my devices. I use it for personal notes, as well as note-taking from my reading or podcast-listening. My story planning notes go into Ulysses.

Proofreading software: Grammarly, Hemingway, and ProWritingAid

When you’ve finished a draft and revised it, you may want to share it for feedback. Before you do so, you should run it through proofreading software to catch most of the style and grammar issues. And whether you are submitting to agents/editors in traditional publishing or you’re self-publishing, you’ll need to use proofreading software. In fact, you’ll need to use this software as well as a human proofreader, ideally a professional.

So let’s take a look at three of the most popular proofreading apps out there.

Grammarly, Hemingway, and ProWritingAid all do a good job of catching grammar errors and typos. They’ll also provide recommendations for how to fix an error or style issue. But if you run two or more of them on the same text, you may find that they offer slightly different suggestions. Usually, it’s because a style question may not always have a single correct answer. Or the suggestion may be wrong, since these apps can’t always fully comprehend the context you’ve created in your prose. That’s why some authors will use two or more of the services to check their writing. That’s also why your own proofreading skills will matter. When Grammarly, Hemingway, or ProWritingAid recommend a change, you will need to assess whether you agree with that suggestion, or ignore it.

ProWritingAid has the widest range of reports and features, and its recommendations can be tailored to the type of book you have written. Which makes it ideal for novelists. Grammarly seems stronger at online and email copy. Finally, Hemingway has a clean, clear interface — and its online version is entirely free.

My recommendation? Take the three apps for a test drive and see which ones you like (they all have free online versions). Pick a primary proofreading app that you will turn to in most cases, and then a secondary, if you have the appetite and the means, so you can double-check your work.

Choosing the right writing tools for you

In the end, you need to evaluate whether the features and the interfaces of the apps appeal to you. What matters most to you? Distraction-free writing? Collaboration with others? Author-centric features?

As I mentioned above, I work on Apple devices and enjoy using Notes. But my app of preference for my stories is Ulysses. In fact, I use Ulysses to plot, draft, and revise my stories and novels, non-fiction, blog posts, and newsletters. The distraction-free interface helps me focus. I also love how easy it is to organize scenes and chapters, while keeping files for revision notes and my story bible nearby.

Though Word has great features, I can’t stand its interface — to me, it screams “corporate” rather than “creative.” I prefer Apple Pages and Google Docs, but they more or less cover the same ground.

I own Scrivener and have written novels in the app before, but for my purposes, the interface feels too cluttered and complicated, and apart from the wonderful corkboard, I don’t use half the features it offers.

When I’m done with my writing, I run it through Ulysses’ built-in spelling and grammar checker, then ProWritingAid. If I need a Word file, I use Apple Pages to export to DOCX. For formatting the ebook and print editions, I use Vellum, an incredibly useful app for easily creating final files for uploading to bookstores and distributors, though it’s only available on Mac.

My personal preferences are based on many years of writing and testing out apps to see what works for me. Will my current setup stay the same forever? Probably not. As we evolve as writers, our tools may change, too.

But they don’t have to. Many successful authors have stuck with the same tools for decades, some preferring to work in Microsoft Word because that’s their sweet spot. My point is this: The “fancier” writing apps might not be the best for you simply because they have more features.

Try out some apps. See what fits. But don’t sacrifice writing sessions to test apps — then you’re better off using your precious time to write with whatever tools you have at your disposal.

How does cause and effect — or action and reaction — create page-turning fiction?

The excerpt below is from Green Rider by Kristen Britain, the first novel in a fantasy series. This inciting incident or catalyst happens in chapter two, the first chapter with our protagonist. All you need to know is that Karigan, who’s run away from boarding school, has vowed to travel to her distant home before her father can learn that she’s been expelled. She’s walking along a road in the forest when she hears an ominous crashing sound.

From “Dead Rider”:

She drew a ragged breath. Whatever the nameless beast was, it charged her way, and fast.

It burst from the woods in an explosion of branches. Karigan’s breath hissed in her throat like a broken whistle.

The creature loomed huge and dark in the tree shadows.

It huffed with great wheezings through flared nostrils like some infernal demon. Karigan closed her eyes and stepped back. When she looked again, a horse and rider, not some evil dragon of legend, staggered onto the road. Twigs and leaves fell from them to the ground.

The horse, a long-legged chestnut, was lathered with sweat and huffed as if from a hard run. The rider slumped over the chestnut’s neck. He was clad in a green uniform. Branches had lashed trails of blood across his white face. His broad-shouldered frame twitched with fatigue.

He half dismounted, half fell from the horse. Karigan cried out when she saw two black-shafted arrows impaled in his back.

‘Please …’ He beckoned her with a crimson glove. She took one hesitant step forward.

The rider was only a few years older than she. Black hair was plastered across his pain-creased brow.

Blue eyes blazed bright with fever. With the two arrows buried in his back, he looked as if he had fought off death longer than any mortal should have.

He was of Sacoridia, Karigan was certain, though the green uniforms were far rarer than the black and silver of the regular militia.

‘Help …’

Each step she took was shaky as if her legs could no longer support her. She knelt beside him, not sure how she could aid a dying man.

Before we dive into how this scene works, let me point out that before the incident above begins, Karigan, via the third person narrative, has stated a clear goal: She wants to get home.

This is crucial.

You should start your scene by stating the viewpoint character’s goal. Then introduce opposition to that goal to create conflict. And finally ending the scene in disaster (i.e. denying the viewpoint character her goal).

Every action must have a reaction

Back to Karigan. Her simple goal — to get home — is about to be disrupted.

First, we get her emotional reaction to whatever horror is coming her way:

She drew a ragged breath.

Followed by her thought:

Whatever the nameless beast was, it charged her way, and fast.

This order is important. When something happens to a character (action), there must be a response (reaction), and that response will usually follow this order: body, mind, choice.

You don’t always need all three. In a moment of action, like the one we’re reading here, the main character may not have time to think or make a choice. It’s implied that the action is too fast or else she’s frozen, and that adds to the reader’s fear of what will happen next. We, like Karigan, are watching the horror draw nearer, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.

What happens next is more action:

It burst from the woods in an explosion of branches.

Again, we get her immediate reaction followed by her observation:

Karigan’s breath hissed in her throat like a broken whistle.

The creature loomed huge and dark in the tree shadows.

It huffed with great wheezings through flared nostrils like some infernal demon.

Karigan first reacts physically (body); we can infer that she’s afraid, judging by her breathing.

After her “body” reaction comes her “mind.” She observes. This fits with someone in a state of fear. If her mind could coldly analyze the situation, it would be unrealistic or else we’d have a very different character (e.g. a cold-blooded warrior accustomed to monsters crashing through the woods).

Notice the nightmarish quality to her observation, achieved through the words used (“huge and dark”; “huffed with great wheezings”; “infernal demon”), but also through the words not used. What is this thing? Karigan still doesn’t know what this beast is, nor do we readers. It remains unnamed, and therefore more frightening.

Karigan opens her eyes

In the next passage, Karigan forces herself to look and see what the beast really is:

Karigan closed her eyes and stepped back. When she looked again, a horse and rider, not some evil dragon of legend, staggered onto the road. Twigs and leaves fell from them to the ground.

Karigan has made a choice. We get two immediate actions that reveal that choice. The first action, we can guess, comes from fear: She closes her eyes and steps back. But then she looks again.

Juxtaposing the two actions like this shows us who Karigan is: She’s afraid, but she’s also brave enough to look again. A nice bit of characterization.

She’s rewarded with the objective truth (“a horse and rider, not some evil dragon of legend”), and her observations shift from the nightmarish to the real (“Twigs and leaves fell from them to the ground”).

Now that she knows the beast is an ordinary a rider on a horse, Karigan is less fearful. How do we sense that she’s not as afraid? Look at the long observation she makes. It suggests her mind is less distracted by her fear. In fact, she can see clearly now:

The horse, a long-legged chestnut, was lathered with sweat and huffed as if from a hard run. The rider slumped over the chestnut’s neck. He was clad in a green uniform. Branches had lashed trails of blood across his white face. His broad-shouldered frame twitched with fatigue.

It’s a clear image, and although the language is vivid, there’s no action. It’s as static as a portrait. We readers would soon be bored if we got paragraph after paragraph of this stuff. Plus, Karigan made a choice, and got rewarded for it. If a story rewards the protagonist’s choices again and again, there’s no tension or forward momentum.

Which is why the story breaks the stasis already in the next sentence.

Reversed cause and effect — or is it?

He half dismounted, half fell from the horse.

Karigan cried out when she saw two black-shafted arrows impaled in his back.

Again, we get a reaction (“Karigan cried out”). But notice the order: She doesn’t react to the rider falling off his horse — she reacts to the two arrows in his back. Why isn’t it “She saw two black-shafted arrows impaled in his back, and she cried out”? Didn’t she see the arrows first and then cry out? Have cause and effect been reversed?

Yes and no.

With “Karigan cried out,” we get her immediate, instinctual reaction, and it’s physical. She cries out. That alerts us readers to danger or horror — which raises the tension — before Karigan observes what made her react. See? Once again, body reaction first, then mind.

Let’s try reversing the order.

Karigan saw two black-shafted arrows impaled in his back, and she cried out.

Dull. All the tension is gone. We get the shocking reveal an instant before Karigan, so her reaction has no effect.

But — and this is important — the technique only works because the payoff is so close to the setup. The withholding of information happens in an instant. It’s no accident that it’s contained within a single, relatively short sentence. Karigan’s reaction is unconscious and immediate. But if Karigan cried out, and then it took another two sentences for us readers to learn why she reacted, we’d feel manipulated.

Let’s get back to the story…

Karigan chooses a new goal…

After the exciting discovery of the arrows, we get another moment of action. The rider speaks and Karigan reacts:

‘Please …’ He beckoned her with a crimson glove. She took one hesitant step forward.

The rider was only a few years older than she. Black hair was plastered across his pain-creased brow.

Blue eyes blazed bright with fever. With the two arrows buried in his back, he looked as if he had fought off death longer than any mortal should have.

He was of Sacoridia, Karigan was certain, though the green uniforms were far rarer than the black and silver of the regular militia.

Her immediate reaction is to step forward. That suggests she’s brave, curious, and perhaps also compassionate, but it’s a hesitant step: She’s not foolish. She gets a better look at the rider. This time we get more from her mind than just observation. She tries to make sense of what she sees — she guesses his age, the state of his health, and his origins, including the implications of his uniform (military-like, yet not the regular militia).

‘Help …’

Each step she took was shaky as if her legs could no longer support her. She knelt beside him, not sure how she could aid a dying man.

There’s no need to add an attribution to that dialogue (e.g. “‘Help,’ he said”). He’s already said “please” earlier on, and so we know this “help” is related. Karigan’s reaction is to move closer, but it’s not without fear. Then she kneels and the final words suggest she has made a choice: “…not sure how she could aid a dying man.”

That choice is important. This inciting incident has already pushed her opening goal from “get home” to “help the rider.” She’ll be pushed a lot more before the novel is over.

Final thoughts

In the excerpted passage, Karigan experiences significant change. (In fact, that can be one way to define an inciting incident or catalyst: the first significant change in the protagonist’s character arc.) She goes from one goal to another, and along the way, we learn a great deal about her through her reactions.

What pushes her toward a new goal? The zig-zag of action-reaction. Without the action, Karigan wouldn’t need to adapt and change direction. Without her reaction, the action would be meaningless and her character lifeless. There would be no story.

Throughout, the story throws trouble at Karigan and she actively responds. That’s how a story comes alive.

Hope that’s helpful, and thanks for reading this far. 😊

Want to start writing a scene but don’t know where to start? Here’s a simple tip that’s helped me.

Before I summarize the tip, let’s look at what makes a story worth reading. Why do we keep turning pages? When someone tells us a story, why do we listen, wanting to know more?

As human beings, we’re hardwired for storytelling. It’s an important part of our everyday lives. We tell a friend about that funny thing that happened on the way to work the other day or describe the memory of a great vacation we took with our partner, reliving the experience together. Not to mention the internal stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world.

But what makes a story stand out?

Conflict is the writer’s best friend

I saw they had a sale on your favorite potato chips — two for one.

That’s interesting or helpful. Maybe you’ll even rush out to buy the potato chips. But it’s not a story, just information.

I saw they had a sale on your favorite potato chips — two bags for one. I wanted to buy them for you. But there were only two bags left, and as I grabbed one, this guy cut in front of me and grabbed the other.

All right. Now you’re not rushing down to the store. Instead you’re asking, Then what happened?

The reason this second example feels more like a story is that there’s clear conflict. In fact, in a few sentences, we get a viewpoint character with a clearly stated goal ( I wanted to buy them for you), a second character who apparently has the same goal (this guy cut in front of me). Both characters act on their desires, which results in conflict.

Notice that the conflict isn’t simply that the other person grabbed both bags of potato chips and walked out. No, the deal is two bags for the price of one, and since each person grabbed one bag, neither can benefit from the deal without coming into conflict with the other person.

In my example, the protagonist’s experience is that the guy is initiating conflict, because he “cut in front of me.” But depending on your characters and the story you’re telling, the initiative in the conflict could be reversed. That’s up to you.

Playing with point of view

Another tip (two for the price of one!): Experiment with the point of view narration.

The example above is told in the first person point of view (POV), as if one friend were telling another (or spouse or whoever). But it can easily be changed to third person:

At the corner store, Carrie saw they had a sale on Bill’s favorite salt-and-vinegar potato chips — two bags for one. Perfect. A nice little peace-offering after the fight this morning. There were only two bags left, and as Carrie grabbed one, a burly guy in denim overalls cut in front of her and grabbed the other.

Notice that I embellished the character’s motivation and the description of the antagonist. The character’s motivation gives her goal meaning, deepening her desire for the object she wants. Meanwhile, the brief description of the guy as “burly” and “in denim overalls” might conjure a strong, formidable opponent, raising the tension.

One of the great things about playing with POV is that it can inspire your imagination to discover new things about the scene.

This trick works if you’re writing an entirely new scene without characters in mind, but it’s also a great tool for revising a manuscript-length draft or a short story. If a scene isn’t working, try rewriting it in a different POV. Even if you plan to revert to the original POV, the rewrite may give you the perspective you need on the scene to fix the problems or it may spark your creativity and give you new insight into your characters.

But who gets the potato chips?

The example above isn’t an entire scene. So how do we move things along after the conflict begins?

We make things harder for the characters. We raise the stakes. Let’s stick with our third-person POV:

At the corner store, Carrie saw they had a sale on Bill’s favorite salt-and-vinegar potato chips — two bags for one. Perfect. A nice little peace-offering after the fight this morning. There were only two bags left, and as Carrie grabbed one, a burly guy in denim overalls cut in front of her and grabbed the other.

If the guy’s a sweetheart, he hands her the bag of potato chips and says, “Don’t worry about it, I can find another snack,” and we don’t have much of a story. So let’s make both characters dig into their positions:

“Hey, that’s mine,” she said.

“Forget it, lady.”

The guy spun around.

They’ve both dug into their positions, and now the guy is showing, with his body language, that he’s ready for a confrontation. But let’s raise the stakes further by making this scene about something much more meaningful to Carrie than a couple bags of potato chips:

An invisible hand grabbed Carrie’s heart and squeezed it. She took a step backward, the bag of potato chips pressed against her chest.

This was no stranger. It was Pete, her ex-fiancé.

“Pete.”

Peter’s look of surprise was a flash. Then his face darkened.

“You.”

Voila. Carrie’s annoying encounter over a bag of potato chips got escalated when she realized her antagonist is her ex-fiancé. Now it’s personal. The stakes are higher.

Where will this encounter end? Carrie went into the supermarket to get a treat for Bill after having a fight with him; let’s say we end the scene with Pete discovering where she lives now, which is a true disaster for Carrie. She’s been avoiding him for the past year. Why? Carrie panicked and left him at the altar, replacing him with Bill, the safe choice that her parents like, but whom she truly doesn’t love. Though she won’t admit that to herself yet.

Today, I’m going to rely on the wisdom culled from other writers to dive into the kinds of habits that transform aspiring novelists into published novelists.

(Or at least novelists who have completed a novel… publication presents its own set of challenges).

Start small

I’m going to start by paraphrasing Walter Mosley from his MasterClass on Fiction & Storytelling. He advises writers to start simple, because complexity will come naturally as you add details and complications.

Another way to think of this: If you write a novel one scene at a time, the demands of a solid scene will naturally add complexity — e.g., foreshadowing an event happening in the next chapter, the dialogue that brings characters to the brink of open conflict, the description of the setting and how it affects the characters.

So beware of adding tons of complexity to your plot — your characters, if you bring them to life, will flesh out the plot’s bare bones. And since your first draft will be rough anyway, you can count on revisions to add even more meat.

“The first draft of anything is suspect unless one is a genius.”

— Bernard Malamud

You should also “start small” if you are attempting to establish a writing routine alongside a busy day job or family responsibilities or other demands on your time. It’s easy to get discouraged and not write at all. Some might think, “If I can’t carve out three hours of solid writing time, it’s not worth it.”

But Anthony Trollope urges us to set aside small chunks of time every day. Each minor effort will add up to a larger result. Trollope was famously productive — even as he worked a time-consuming job for the postal service.

“A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules.”

— Anthony Trollope

Stay disciplined

Anthony Trollope’s modest efforts require discipline. In my experience, when I’ve had 15 minutes to write on my lunch break, it was considerably easier to make excuses than when I set aside two hours on a Sunday morning. Steve Higgs, an indie author who might be as prolific as Trollope (if not more), applies his military training setting goals.

“Set a word count target and if you haven’t hit it, don’t go to bed.”

— Steve Higgs, indie author

This is a different approach from measuring your accomplishments in blocks of time. Decide what works best for you. But whether you set goals based on time or word count, the most important thing is that you sit down and write. Don’t wait for inspiration to strike.

“The muse visits during composition, not before.”

— Robert Ebert

I don’t entirely agree with Robert Ebert’s claim above. In my experience, the muse visits at the strangest times. Going to the bathroom at 1 am. Picking out tomatoes at the supermarket. Stopping on the sidewalk to tie my shoelaces. But one thing is for certain: Only when we devote time to our writing does inspiration transform into story.

Give what you have

I’ve sabotaged my writing practice many times. Days, weeks, months, even years would go by, and I would dream of writing that novel, but I’d find an excuse not to get started. The list of excuses was impressively long:

• I’ll just finish watching this series on Netflix.
• It’s Friday night, I’m going to hit the town. (Related: It’s Saturday morning, I’m too hungover to write.)
• I’m too tired to write well.
• I’ve got too much work.
• I don’t know where to start.
• I should read more books, do more research, outline more before getting started.
• I don’t have the right tools — there’s got to be something than Word or Scrivener or my Moleskine notebook.
• I’ve got chores to do. Have you seen the state of the bathroom?
• The world is falling apart. Who needs another fanciful story?
• Nobody will want to read this. Nobody will want my story.

Let’s look at the last one. I’m going to let Longfellow address it:

“Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.”

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Netflix may be to blame for the silent death of millions of creative projects, but the self-doubt expressed in “nobody will want this” is maybe the most pernicious excuse. Whenever I’ve voiced it, I’ve had plenty of “evidence” to back it up. Look at how many great novels are released every year. Look at how shitty my drafts are. Even my ideas are unoriginal.

But Longfellow’s advice is spot on. We shouldn’t compare ourselves to the writers we admire. It tends to be a recipe for disaster. Instead, draw inspiration from their books, and write a story in your own words using the skills you have now, not the ones others possess (and which you yourself may have in 5 or 10 years). Will your book live up to Madame Bovary or Middlemarch? Probably not. But is that the goal with your first book? Instead, it may bring delight or insight to someone out there who isn’t looking for Gustave Flaubert or George Eliot.

“I have the thought: Ah! How I’d like to write like X! Too bad it’s completely beyond my capabilities! Then I try to imagine this impossible undertaking, I think of the book I will never write but would like to read, to put beside other beloved books on an ideal shelf. And suddenly some words, sentences appear in my mind…”

— Italo Calvino

Italo Calvino expands on Longfellow’s advice, and if we combine them we have a kind of three-part mantra for discouraged writers:

• Give what you have.
• Think of the book you would like to read. What are some words and sentences that could begin that story?
• Once you’ve written a page, keep going…
  

Final words

Writing is hard. Seeing our shitty first drafts can be discouraging. But even more discouraging is letting a week go by — or a month or a year — in which we write nothing.

So, go give what you have. Many of us will be pleased by what you’ve got inside.

Eventually, the story must end.

The writer’s challenge is finding the right place to stop. So, where should we end our tales? What kinds of endings work or don’t work? And what techniques can help us prepare for a satisfying conclusion — or fix a messy one?

”But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the city’s gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.”

— D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

This ending sucks… but why?

According to an interview in the Paris Review, Ernest Hemingway rewrote the ending to his classic novel A Farewell to Arms 39 times because he was “getting the words right.”

Most often, a weak ending is not about getting the words right. It’s a symptom of a larger problem with the story, and fixing the final scene may not help.

Beware of endless tinkering.

Instead, take a look at the rest of the story. Does cause and effect drive the main character’s arc from one logical scene to the next? Do the scenes support the story’s central question or theme? Have you fulfilled the promise to the reader, addressing the story question you raised at the beginning, or have you sidestepped the big conflict?

Let’s take a look at some elements that make an ending good or bad.

”Presently the wind began to blow and we struck out seaward to double the long sheltering headland of the cape, and when I looked back again, the islands and the headland had run together and Dunnet Landing and all its coasts were lost to sight.”

— Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs

The do’s of ending a story

At the end of a story, the character’s transformational arc must reach its logical end. What happens after this, we can’t predict. The character has pursued the story question as far as it can go, and although the future may be full of challenges, they don’t relate to the central question you set up at the beginning of your story.

A few tips on endings:

Mirror the beginning

According to Christopher Vogler in The Writer’s Journey, Western and especially American culture prefers circular stories, where the ending is closed (I have my doubts; more on that below). In technical terms, a closed ending benefits from mirroring.

On the surface, the final image can be nearly identical to the opening image, or some element can be repeated. The repetition can be the setting or a piece of dialogue or an action or particular words. Even an object.

Whatever the repetition is, it should serve to measure the transformation that has happened since the story began. For example, in stories where the main character goes on a journey and then returns, home may look no different, yet her transformation has been profound, and she sees the familiar in a new light. The reader, having seen her change, also experiences it differently, and that makes her transformation tangible.

Fix the beginning

If your ending works well, but you feel your opening is weak, look to the end for inspiration — rework the beginning to mirror the end. That’s what’s great about revisions: the end of the story can teach us what the beginning should be.

Hint at the future

The story’s central question has been answered, but that transformation sets the characters up for a new reality. Give us a hint at what that reality may be. This might even be a flash forward or the characters anticipating what lays ahead.

In Cormac McCarthy’s bleak novel The Road, the ending doesn’t resolve the cataclysm the characters are enduring. The world is still broken. But the characters arrive at the end of their journey, and there is comfort and hope.

In Anton Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Dog,” we end with a new question being introduced that points to an uncertain future:

”How? How?” he asked, clutching his head. “How?”

And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found, and then a new and splendid life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that they had still a long, long road before them, and that the most complicated and difficult part of it was only just beginning.

Chekhov gives us a single sentence hinting at the future, allowing the reader to imagine what happens. We shouldn’t do much more. Resist the temptation to turn the ending into an epilogue that summarizes everything about what happens to your characters in the future. These epilogues invariably drain the strength of your narrative.

It’s OK to leave your reader guessing about what may happen after the end. In fact, it’s ideal. End the story so that it continues in the reader’s imagination.

Cut the ending

In the first draft, overwriting can be helpful. By writing too much, we discover details about our characters that bring them to life. But in revision, we need to cut the fat off the bone. Less is more. Trim so there is room for the reader’s imagination to expand. Often, endings are overwritten, and you’ll need to cut the last line. Or the last paragraph. Or the last scene.

”They made them march in single file along the walkway. Funny! He had turned up his collar like the others! And he had forgotten to look at the window, he had forgotten to think. He would have all the time in the world afterward.”

— Georges Simenon, Dirty Snow

The don’ts of ending a story

Avoid trick endings

Trick endings suck; well-earned twists don’t. Avoid endings where the story reveals a surprise that was not foreshadowed. For example, the narrator or main character has dreamed the entire thing, or she’s not human (she’s a robot, alien, cat, etc.) or she’s dead.

A twist is not a trick. A twist requires meticulous setup. When it works well, it is so deeply embedded in the story’s theme, narrative structure, and plot question that the surprise at the ending feels shocking, inevitable, and well-earned, in equal measures. See, e.g., the book Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk or the film The Sixth Sense by M. Night Shyamalan. In both examples, there are clues along the way and, most importantly, the twist reveals something about the characters, their transformation, and the answer to the story question.

Traditional mysteries rely on a twist at the end: the killer is not who you thought it would be. However, as dedicated mystery readers will tell you, there is such a thing as “fair play.” You must not withhold a key piece of information until the last minute. That’s cheating. If we look back on the story and see no logical trail of clues leading to the final twist, then it’s not a twist, it’s a trick.

“If it was not for death and marriage I do not know how the average novelist would conclude.”

— E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel

Drop the deus ex machina

Another type of trick is the deus ex machina. It’s Latin for “god out of the machine,” and it comes from ancient Greek drama, where actors playing the gods could be lowered onto stage by a machine to provide a last-minute solution to conflict. Even back in Ancient Greece, it was considered lazy writing. It still is. Basically, because it allows the writer to sidestep complications and wrap up the story without doing the tough work of pushing the plot to a hard-earned conclusion.

Some examples: the hero is surrounded by aliens, but right before the long-fanged worms can sink their teeth into him, the army turns up and blows them to pieces; the sadistic kidnapper, who has made the heroine’s prison impossible to escape, has a heart attack, allowing her to get the keys and escape; a flood or earthquake or hurricane wipes out the opposition, resolving the protagonist’s troubles.

Fantasy stories seem especially vulnerable to deus ex machina, perhaps because mythical creatures (like J.R.R. Tolkien’s Giant Eagles) and magic spells are such convenient devices for getting characters out of trouble.

Aristotle seems to excuse it in stories that end with misfortune — presumably because intervention by the gods only heaps more disaster on the tragic hero’s self-inflicted misery. In general, however, you should avoid deus ex machina — it tends to break the willing suspension of disbelief and leave a bad taste in the reader’s mouth.

Avoid moralizing

If there is a moral to grapple with, allow space for the reader to engage with it. Raise the moral quandary, but resist providing an easy answer. The most powerful stories leave us with some ambivalence, even if rationally we know the “right” answer, it’s clearly not a tidy solution to the story problem.

Let’s say the main character must learn that a friendship can be as rewarding as romance, and that she ought to treat her friend with the same respect and attention she heaps on her lovers. The character arc in the story could show us her journey, from neglecting her friend as she chases lovers to prioritizing their friendship at the end. But maybe this happy ending comes at a cost. She regains her best friend, even as she postpones her dream of marrying and establishing a family. As readers, we’ve been rooting for the two friends to reconcile, and we’re pleased by the ending. Yet, we also sense that part of her life remains unfulfilled. The story arc has been resolved; her life hasn’t.

At the end of the story, the writer might be tempted to have the character reflect on her decisions and what she has sacrificed. Maybe in dialogue with a secondary character. If it’s a first-person narrator, the protagonist might even engage in interior reflection, effectively telling the reader what she’s gained and what she’s lost, and why her choices are right. Maybe the writer has an ideological reason for wanting to favor the Platonic over the romantic, and so the ending becomes an opportunity to step up on the soapbox and lecture about it.

Please, don’t. A true dilemma requires a character to make a sacrifice, and that sacrifice will make her story powerful. Show the dilemma, the character making the difficult choice, and the imperfect outcome. But if you tell us why it matters, we’re likely to throw your book across the room.

Did you notice my reference to show and tell? Yes, the old writing advice about showing instead of telling applies here. As with too much telling in a draft, moralizing is often a symptom of overwriting. Cut out all the stuff about learning life lessons, and you’ll probably have a much stronger story on your hands.

This is the end

A few final words on endings.

“Reading a piece of fiction that ends up nowhere — no win, no loss; life as a treadmill — is like discovering, after we have run our hearts out against the timekeeper’s clock, that the timekeeper forgot to switch the clock on.”

— John Gardner, The Art of Fiction

As I mentioned above, Vogler claims that “closed” stories are more popular in the West, in particular in American culture, while the rest of the world prefers “open” endings. That sounds like a gross oversimplification to me. Hollywood’s blockbusters have closed endings, and audiences across the globe flock to see them. Agatha Christie mysteries have closed endings, and the Queen of Crime has sold well over two billion copies worldwide, making her the best-selling fiction writer ever.

Anyway, my examples and tips above focus on closed endings. A deeper dive into open or ambiguous endings must wait for another time.

But let me say this now: The ambiguous ending must, like the plot twist, reflect the structure and theme of the story. If an otherwise straightforward, kitchen-sink-realism novel simply ends mid-sentence, the reader will feel cheated. However, a narrative that has prepared us for fragments, ambiguity, or interruptions may deliver an unresolved ending that feels surprising but inevitable — and provide great pleasure for the reader.

What is the story catalyst?

The catalyst is one of the most important moments in a traditional story.

Also called the inciting incident, character opportunity, call to adventure, story event, or trigger, it’s the event in the main character’s life that pushes them into action. Importantly, it’s never happened to the main character before, and it marks a big — usually life-altering — change.

Often, a stranger arrives and upsets the main character’s status quo. Or it’s the main character arriving in a new place.

Either way, the main character forms a motivation or want — a logical goal that drives them forward. Usually, this want is clear and conscious, though it most often contrasts with a hidden need that the character isn’t aware of yet must understand to achieve full transformation by the end of the story.

Another important thing: The catalyst depends on action by the main character. Yes, it’s a reaction to an event, but unless the character takes action (or answers the “call to adventure”), then the catalyst has not done its job.

The character takes action based on their want, and this will lead the character to the midpoint, when that goal is usually proven inadequate. In fact, characters often react to the catalyst, and then only later in the story learn how to take matters into their own hands, moving from reactive to controlling.

There’s not just one catalyst

The catalyst is the first of several major turning points. In fact, the midpoint is also a catalyst. So is the “dark night” or “dark moment,” which happens when all is lost before another turning point, the climax. Each turning point should be something that has never happened to the character before, each one creates a chemical reaction that destabilizes things even more.

In other words, if your midpoint repeats the catalyst — it’s the same disaster that forced the main character into the story — then you’ve got a problem. When you’re brainstorming your story, try this:

• Write what the catalyst will be, how it disrupts the status quo, and what goal the main character then forms.
• Write what the midpoint will be, how it destroys the main character’s chances of achieving the post-catalyst goal, and what new goal the main character must form.
• Write what the dark moment will be (when all is lost, right before the climax), how it destroys the main character’s chances of achieving the post-midpoint goal (and any other variations of that goal), and what final goal the main character must form now.

Jotting down these three turning points can help highlight problems with your character progression before you sit down to write. (If you already have a draft, no problem — try this as a revision exercise to see how your catalyst differs from your midpoint and dark moment.) Often, when I do this exercise, at least one of my turning points turns out to be weak. For example, my catalyst packs a real punch, but my dark moment feels too light or reminiscent of the midpoint.

Examples

In these examples, a major incident sets the main character on a path to irrevocable change:

• In Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, our hero, Pip, visits family graves in the cemetery, and meets Magwitch, an escaped convict. He helps Magwitch by bringing him food and a file for his fetters, but the convict is caught. This encounter establishes a mystery in the story and sets off a chain of events that will transform Pip’s life.
• In Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, Nora Helmer has a secret: When her husband fell ill, she secretly paid for his treatment by falsifying his signature to borrow money. But Krogstad, an employee at the bank her husband runs, knows — and when he’s fired, he blackmails Nora, setting off a reaction that results in Nora’s transformation.
• In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet meets Mr. Darcy, and immediately dislikes his haughty manner, setting up the romantic obstacles that follow — and ultimately (spoiler alert!) lead to their happy union.
• In Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne faces punishment by her fellow Puritans for carrying a child out of wedlock. Her husband, presumed lost, has returned, and from where he stands in the crowd, he vows to discover the identity of Hester’s lover, yet she refuses to divulge her secret.
• In Franz Kafka’s “Metamorphosis,” Gregor Samsa wakes one morning to discover he’s been turned into a giant bug.

When should we introduce the catalyst?

The catalyst most often happens in the first act (the first quarter or third of your story, depending on its length and structure) after we have established the main character in the setup.

Why not later? Because the catalyst kicks off the story, and if it appears later, the setup is way too long. The premise of the story — the reason the reader has chosen the story in the first place — happens after the catalyst. A setup that drags on for too long will feel pointless, no matter how much surprise and suspense you cram in to keep it interesting.

Sometimes, the catalyst happens on page 1, maybe even in the first sentence, serving as both the event that starts change and the hook that makes us want to read the story. A body turns up. Girl meets boy. An enemy army appears on the horizon.

Hooking the reader sound great. So why wait until, say, page 15?

Here’s why: If the catalyst serves as the hook in your first sentence, you don’t have time to establish your character or a sense of status quo. The catalyst disrupts. If we don’t know what it disrupts, we may not feel invested enough in the main character to care.

There are exceptions, of course. In Kafka’s “Metamorphosis,” the catalyst occurs right away:

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a giant cockroach.

Short stories and novellas need to introduce the catalyst quickly because of their compressed form — the shorter the form, the sooner you’ll need to reveal the catalyst.

Another exception: In a traditional murder mystery, the genre itself communicates what the status quo is. We don’t need a setup. The status quo is “justice,” the disruption is “injustice,” and by the end, when the detective has solved the crime, we return to “justice.”

This could be the opening of a crime novel:

The freezing temperatures had preserved the man in the lake, and he gazed up, empty eyed, like a wax figure behind glass.

“Guess forensics will give us a clue about what happened,” Roger said.

“Oh, it’s murder all right.” I crouched down and pointed at the body. A red line ran along the neck. “Twenty bucks says that’s a slit throat.”

“Suicide?”

“From one ear to the other?” I shook my head. “Looks like an assassination.”

Having said that, most mysteries still spend time establishing character — even if it’s only briefly — before giving us the murder. In most stories, you’ll want to get the reader invested in the character and their “ordinary world” before disrupting it. It’s what can make the catalyst fun or shocking. You should still use a hook on that first page, though — grab the readers immediately and convince them to keep reading to see what will happen.

Where to place the catalyst may depend on your genre.

• Mysteries or thrillers will front-end it.
• Romances will often introduce the characters first then bring the two romantic leads together for the “meet cute” moment.
• Epic fantasy may hook the reader with an exciting event, maybe foreshadowing the catalyst, then take a more leisurely pace toward the big moment.

Take a look at 3-4 of your favorite books in the genre you want to write in, and consider when the catalyst happens.

The ordinary is rarely ordinary

Don’t mistake “ordinary world” or “status quo” for stability. Most often, the main character feels unhappy, restless, or incomplete. Either consciously or unconsciously. Maybe the character doesn’t see the lack — but we readers do.

The Ordinary World of most heroes is a static but unstable condition. The seeds of change and growth are planted, and it takes only a little new energy to germinate them.

— Christopher Vogler, The Writer’s Journey

In The Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne’s “ordinary world” setup is brief: She’s being punished for her transgressions, according to the narrow-minded morals of the Boston Puritans. Hardly stability. Yet she’s strong, and we get the sense she could weather this storm. Then her husband turns up and takes it upon himself to seek the truth, and the story jolts forward.

Likewise, Nora Helmer in A Doll’s House is suffering anxiety because of the loan she took. Her life isn’t entirely calm and happy. But she’s gradually paying off the loan; her secret appears safe. The story doesn’t kick into gear until Krogstad arrives and blackmails her, pushing her into action.

In both examples, the catalyst is bad news for the protagonist.

Consider these three types of catalysts when you’re planning a story:

• Coincidence: the main character (MC) bumps into another person or witnesses something, and this throws the MC into action.
• Desire or need: literal or metaphorical treasure temps the MC, or they are compelled to pursue an object of desire out of great need — for example, food because of hunger or a cure because of disease.
• Drivers of change: a mentor figure or villain compels the MC into action; often, you can think of the mentor pulling the character into action, while the villain pushes.

What’s so bad about a life-changing event?

Often the catalyst is bad, because in life, there’s nothing like bad stuff to bring about drastic action leading to profound change.

But what seems bad at first may in hindsight turn out to be good. In fact, many stories follow a character through an arc of transformation that is necessary for their personal growth — without the bad thing pushing them to change, the character would stagnate, maybe even perish. For example, in A Doll’s House, Nora’s ordeal leads to her independence. In the end, she has been radically transformed for the better.

When you’re considering your catalyst, consider what it will lead to. What negative event could, through a series of challenges, lead the character to a positive outcome?

And remember this: Don’t be nice to your protagonist. Make things difficult, then more difficult, then impossible. That’s what makes a story memorable.

Final words

When you’re thinking of a story you’d like to write or revise, the amount of details you need to consider can be overwhelming. Here’s something that’s worked for me. Focus on these three elements first:

• Beginning scene: How will you establish your protagonist and their ordinary world?
• End scene: What does your protagonist look like after the story’s ordeals have transformed them?
• The catalyst: What is the big event that will catapult your protagonist from the beginning to the end?

Elizabeth Bennet meets Mr. Darcy — her equal in flaws as well as a positive traits. Poor Pip meets an even poorer convict, whose gratitude will transform the boy’s life from rags to riches. Naïve Nora Helmer faces cynical, crooked Krogstad, who blackmails her.

The catalyst should feel like an inevitable disaster that fits your character’s flaws perfectly and launches them toward genuine change.