Thinking About Feelings – Narrative Intention in Storytelling

Ich! Feelings.

I’m terrible at feelings.

I learned the word Alexithymia in 9th grade after a school counselor pinned that label to my chest and returned me to my homeroom.

Today, I’d probably be diagnosed with some form of autism, landing somewhere on the spectrum, but I’ve chronically had problems interpreting people’s feelings. It’s an issue that still plagues me today, in work and recreation, and translates into my writing.

“She’s not a Vulcan — she has feelings, right?” wrote an editor after receiving Diaspora for publication. “Rewrite it. Have the character feel something.”

But I’m like, what? I show her panicking. I show the character’s shock at seeing corpses littered with flowers … what do you want from me, man?!

Pshsh, I thought. I don’t care what my readers feel. They should just read my cool sci-fi story and enjoy it. Yeah, that’s a cool feeling that’ll get me nowhere.

Ultimately, the editor was right (pro tip: editors are always right): I wasn’t showing my protagonist’s feelings; I was telling the reader how she reacted. I concentrated on writing a good sci-fi, not necessarily how my reader should feel when reading my story. I didn’t think about how my protagonist's feelings directly translate into what my reader feels.

Maybe you’ve been there. Ever finish a story and feel... nothing? It might’ve had a great plot, sharp dialogue, and a killer twist — but if it didn’t make you feel something, it didn’t stick. That’s the power of narrative intention: knowing how you want your readers to feel and shaping the story to get them there.

Because of my emotional blindness, I struggle with this. I get caught up in the mechanics of writing a story — who does what, where, and when, how to write a story, its nuts and bolts — but I’ve learned the emotional core of a story matters just as much as the unfolding events or mechanical underpinnings. Whether you want readers to feel tension, sorrow, hope, or dread, you have to think about feelings from the start and portray them in your characters.

Tone and Atmosphere

A story's tone and atmosphere are closely related yet distinct elements that shape how readers emotionally experience the narrative.

Tone. The tone is the author’s attitude toward the subject matter, characters, or audience. It’s conveyed through word choice, sentence structure, dialogue, and description. Tone can be:

• Humorous – lighthearted, playful, or sarcastic

• Serious – solemn, thoughtful, or intense

• Dark – grim, unsettling, or ominous

• Hopeful – optimistic, inspiring, or warm

• Ironic – detached, wry, or contradictory

The tone is how the story “sounds” when read — like hearing a storyteller's voice in your head. Do you hear Bridget Jones reading to you from her diary? Or a whispy, feminine voice like at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings movies?

Atmosphere. The atmosphere is the emotional environment or mood of the story. Sensory details, setting, and pacing shape it. Think of it as the feeling the story evokes in the reader.

• Mysterious – foggy streets, dim lighting, whispers in the dark

• Romantic – candlelight, soft music, a warm summer breeze

• Tense – fast pacing, sharp dialogue, sudden noises

• Eerie – abandoned houses, unnatural silence, flickering lights

A story’s tone can influence its atmosphere, but they aren’t the same. For example:

• A horror story may have a serious tone but an eerie atmosphere.

• A romantic comedy may have a playful tone but a warm atmosphere.

Both tone and atmosphere combine to immerse the reader and shape their emotional response to the story. But how do you plan it, shooting for Edgar Allen Poe’s “unity of effect?”

What’s the Emotional Target?

Before I draft my outline, I’ve learned to ask myself: What do I want my reader to feel by the end? Some stories are meant to haunt, some to inspire, and some to entertain, but I think understanding this intention will shape everything — your tone, pacing, and even your word choices. These choices lend to a story’s atmosphere.

• Are you shooting for Horror? Create dread with slower pacing, ominous descriptions, and uncertain outcomes.

• Are you capitalizing on Sadness? Use small, intimate moments to show loss rather than outright stating it.

• Are you giving Hope? Give your characters struggles, but let them find a path forward.
  

• Are you crafting Suspense? Keep the stakes high, layer in unanswered questions, and use short, punchy sentences to build tension.

• Are you aiming for Whimsy? Play with language, exaggerate details, and invite the reader into a world where the unexpected feels natural.

• Are you evoking Nostalgia? Use rich sensory details, familiar settings, and a reflective tone to transport readers to a meaningful past.

Make Emotions Organic

Nobody likes being told how to feel.

“She was heartbroken” doesn’t hit as hard as “She traced the last text he sent her, the words already fading from the screen.”

• Show, don’t tell. Let emotions reveal themselves in actions and subtext.

• Leverage description. Use setting and sensory details to enhance mood (a sunlit café feels different from a cold, empty diner).

• Express emotion. (My failing in Diaspora) … Let characters naturally express emotions — through dialogue, body language, silence, or avoidance — to illustrate their changing emotional states. Don’t just tell the reader, “She screamed,” as I did. Instead, let her voice crack, her breath hitch, or her hands tremble as she clutches her chest — let fear ripple through her entire being.

Match Structure to Emotion

A story’s structure is a powerful way to shape the reader’s emotional experience. How you arrange sentences, paragraphs, and scenes can enhance tension, deepen sadness, or create a sense of inevitability.

• Fast, choppy structures. Creates urgency, anxiety, or excitement. Short sentences. Quick scene changes. Rapid dialogue exchanges. This is great for thrillers, action-packed moments, or high-stakes decision-making.

  • Example: “He ran. The door slammed. A shadow moved — closer, then up against the wall. His pulse hammered.”

• Slow, flowing structures. It feels contemplative, dreamy, or sorrowful, written with longer sentences and rich imagery in a rhythm miming deep thought or nostalgia.

  • Example: “The sky stretched endlessly, a watercolor of pastels bleeding into the horizon. She stood barefoot in the sand, tracing patterns with her toes, remembering.”

• Linear progressions (with a clear beginning, middle, and end) build momentum and resolution, which is ideal for growth, redemption, or triumph.

• Circular structures (ending where it began) reinforce loops like fate, nostalgia, or tragic inevitability. Perfect for stories about cycles, lessons unlearned, or deep reflection.

• Fragmented or nonlinear storytelling creates a sense of disorientation, loss, or mystery. Works well for stories about trauma, memory, or unreliable narrators.

Let Emotional Moments Breathe

Successful emotional storytelling isn’t just about conveying a character’s reaction. How long you let the moment linger is just as important.

If you’re writing a heartbreaking scene, don’t rush through it. Let the character pause, hesitate, reflect, use silence, use subtext. Let the reader sit in the moment's weight and stew in its juices.

Example:

Instead of: ”She read the letter and started crying."

How about: "Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the letter, the paper worn at the creases. She read each line twice and again as if the words might change. Her throat tightened. The ink blurred. She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes."

Feel that? That hanging on, that waiting, that dramatic pause? By aligning structure with emotion, you guide the reader through the story and the experience of feeling it.

Finally, Trust the Reader

You don’t have to spell out everything. Trust that readers will fill in the gaps and bring their own emotions to the table. Sometimes, what’s left unsaid is more powerful than what’s on the page.

When done right, a story isn’t just words on a page but an experience. So next time you write, don’t just explain, “What happened?” Ask, “How will this make the reader feel?”

R

Structuring Short Stories: Finding the Beginning, Middle, and End in Limited Space

Sometimes, writing a short story can feel like fitting an elephant in a shoebox. The idea’s there, but how should you structure it in a way that makes sense, keeps the reader hooked, and delivers an impact — all in just a few thousand words? Where do you start?

Well, let’s begin by doing a bit of navel-gazing.

Who Are You?

Don’t worry; it’s a rhetorical question. I won’t go all woo-woo on you, but I want you to consider how you approach writing.

They say there are two types of writers: Pantsers and Plotters.

A Pantser writes by the “seat of their pants.” They’re unscripted. They’re in the moment. They write as an act of discovery to see what comes next. They don’t work off an outline — they let characters inform them where the story should go. Pantsers get lost in a story. Who knows where the wind will take them?

A Plotter, on the other hand, thinks about the story ahead of time. They detail the characters, the setting, and the scenes they want to capture. They might noodle over the central conflict and think about their themes. They might even map out the tension they want in the story, generating an outline of how it will generally progress before they start writing.

I’m not here to pass judgment on either approach. Do what works for you, boo.

However, I believe short stories are written with intention. Intention, by definition, requires forethought, which is some degree of planning to achieve an overall “unity of effect.”

A story's “unity of effect” is the determination of the effect you’d like to have on a reader and carrying that effect through all of the story’s elements. Its effect on the reader is essentially the purpose of the work. Edgar Allan Poe wrote about the unity of effect in his essay, 'The Philosophy of Composition'.

Achieving a “unity of effect” requires understanding a story’s themes, characters, setting, and scenes, the symbolism of objects and events, the tension flow, the conflict and resolution, the overall story arc, and its meaning.

In my mind, I cannot understand how someone arrives at a “unifying effect” by randomly, haphazardly, stumbling upon these details. Where the Plotter efficiently charts a course to their destination, the Pantster must hone these attributes from the raw marble, chiseling away during editing to refine these elements after the fact, wasting effort and risking tons of time reworking the piece to achieve the desired effect.

It’s my opinion that good short stories must be crafted with intention. I’d recommend anyone who writes short stories to spend some time writing down its bones. It doesn’t have to be elaborate (the source I cited even said there’s a middle ground, a Plantser), but you need some idea of where you’re going and what you’re trying to say.

Therefore, I submit that you must know and understand the gist of your short story before you begin writing it. You research the setting, the time period, write down the characters and their motivations — you outline the piece from beginning to end, and think about how the character’s actions address the central conflict and drive the story home. You wouldn’t build a house without a plan. I feel the same should be said about a short story.

The Beginning: Hook Fast, Set Up Quick

Short stories are short. They don’t have time for long-winded prologues or slow exposition. You need to drop readers into the story and immerse them fast. That doesn’t mean you have to start with a car crash or a gunshot (though it helps!), but you should introduce something intriguing immediately.

• Start in the middle. If you’ve followed my advice and outlined your story, you likely created a structured, linear outline of events. Look at the middle and begin with an action or an interesting situation. Think about how you can incorporate some of that backstory in dialogue. That lands the hook quickly and helps move the story along. Plus, it is an economic strategy that reduces the time it takes to tell the story.

• Conversely, when writing flash (stories < 1500 words), I generally consider writing “as close to the end as possible.” Where short stories are constrained, flash is unforgiving — every word counts — and you must dive into a specific moment, usually the story's climax.

• Establish your main character early. Who they are and what they want. Give your reader someone to hold on to. That reader connection is essential, whether empathy, sympathy, or recognizing themselves in your character — that relationship is the hook.

• What are the stakes? Remember stakes? Writing about the protagonist, who they are, and what they want is one thing, but what will happen if they don’t get it? Or do get it? The stakes are the emotional, physical, or existential risks that drive a story. Now’s the time to explore them.

• Where are we? Stories usually don’t take place in a vacuum. Give your reader enough context to ground the reader without overwhelming them.

Example:

Instead of describing a small town with five paragraphs (which might be your first natural inclination), start with, “Mira never meant to steal the cursed locket, but here she was, sprinting down Main Street with a banshee on her heels.”

The Middle: The Core Conflict

This is where things get tricky. If you’re like me, writing that hooky, opening scene is the easy part. Now you have to tell the story. You have room for side plots and deep character exploration in a novel. However, in a short story, every sentence must serve the central conflict, illustrate a theme, move the story along, or provide characterization. If it doesn’t do any of that, consider killing the sentence — it doesn’t need to be there.

• Keep the tension constantly moving up. This could be an external threat (a monster, a rival, a deadline), an internal struggle (fear, guilt, love), or an existential threat (an army or meteor is on its way, adding urgency). The last thing you want to do is successfully hook the reader with a bang only to allow the middle to wither on the vine, to become unpalatable, dry and dull. Keep pushing that tension by adding in layers of intrigue, emotion, and depth.

• Limit your cast. Too many characters will clutter the space. There’s too many cooks in the kitchen! This is a short story. Stick to one or two strong figures. If you have more than three, it’s probably too much.

• Introduce a choice. By the story’s midpoint, your character should be facing their main obstacle head-on. Remember what I’ve written about when it comes to agency. Your characters should be presented with a choice. If there’s no choice or obstacle, then it’s like they’re walking down a hallway with no challenges, doors, or barriers, eventually giving the protagonist what they want. It’s an outcome that feels unearned. We expect the protagonist to struggle, so now’s the time to show their struggle.

• Explore your themes. What’s your story about? How do these themes inform the central conflict? How do the choice, your character’s reactions to that choice, and the dialogue illustrate the themes? Now’s the time to start thinking about how you’re painting the story so it addresses the larger, intentional concepts you’re trying to explore. Are they shining through? Do they resonate? Are you layering in meaning?

• Linear storytelling is a choice, not a requirement. If you’ve got the gist of the story thought out, now you get to think critically about how you want to tell it. How can shuffling the scenes (like a deck of cards!) spice up its delivery and improve the unity of effect? I recently outlined and linearly wrote Somewhere Between, but its first draft ended up with a lot of “tell” and was a relatively dry read. I found that breaking up the story with non-linear progressions and foreshadowing improved its tension, created a more dynamic quality to the narrative, and, through cut-scenes, I could re-write those elements I “told” about to show the reader. I shuffled the deck, re-inserted the elements I wanted to capitalize on, and threw out a card to hone its message. Think about that.

Think of the middle as the story’s meat — no fluff, no garnish, just the core struggle that will drive the reader to the climax.

The End: Sticking the Landing and Making It Count

Short stories don’t always need a neat, crisp resolution but need a sense of completion.

• Resolve the conflict. Tie up the central conflict (even if it’s open-ended).

• Resolve the character arc. Your protagonist started the story wanting something; did they get it? Even if it’s not the outcome the character desired, it’s still an outcome.

• Allow it to linger like oak and honey on the tongue. Have you ever heard anybody say something like that during a wine tasting? You know, they sip the wine, slosh it around a bit, breathe in air from the corners of their mouths, and then spit the fluid into a spitoon to finally offer, “Ahhh, yes, hints of hickory,” or some equally creative and witty expression to convince you of their discriminating palate? Your short story should end like that. It should end, yet linger. It should say something, forcing the reader to think about that message. Always end on a strong image, twist, or emotional note that stays with the reader and continues the story off the page.

• Avoid over-explaining. Authors, sometimes, will insert exposition into their narrative or — Gods help us — write it into their character’s dialogues to help explain an ending to the reader. It’s like the author elbows the reader in the ribs and asks, “Hey! Did you get it? My spectacular ending?” Sometimes I imagine Velma Dinkly and Fred Jones summarizing the whole plot to Shaggy and Scooby Doo. These things are a bit on the nose and are unnecessary. Let the reader fill in the blanks. Allow what you present to be absorbed in the reader’s way, not your way. If you had a good “unity of effect,” that lingering aftertaste should be present regardless of your explanation.

• Ambiguity is your friend. Uncertainty taps into the imagination. It’s the horrors of our imagination that scare us most. Sometimes, a story can end effectively on an ambiguous note without a clear resolution. Think about how ambiguity might work in your favor.

Example:

Instead of wrapping everything in a bow for the reader, you could end with, “Mira turned the locket over in her palm. The banshee had stopped screaming. She glanced into the mirror. Maybe that was worse.”

Why Structure Matters

A well-structured short story sticks with readers long after they finish. It pulls them in, keeps them engaged, and leaves an impact — all without wasting words. Mastering structure makes you a better storyteller; it helps you achieve Poe’s “unity of effect.” So, start strong, tighten the middle, and leave them with a lingering aftertaste … something to remember.

R

What is a Short Story?

So, you want to write a short story? Great!

But let’s be honest: figuring out what makes a short story short (and still good) can be tricky. Is it just a tiny novel? A long anecdote? A flash fiction piece that went rogue?

If you’ve ever stared at a blank page, wondering how to cram plot, character, and emotion into a few thousand words, you’re not alone.

A short story isn’t just a compressed novel or an extended joke. A short story is a standalone narrative that delivers a punch. Short stories are the espresso shot of fiction: concentrated, bold, and powerful, but how do you craft one that works?

Let’s go into the weeds and get real, real basic.

What is a Story?

A story is the oldest and most powerful form of human communication. Long before written language, before books and scripts, stories were spoken, sung, danced, carved into stone, and painted on cave walls. They were how humans made sense of the world and passed down knowledge to connect generations through time.

• Telling a story originated as an oral tradition. In ancient cultures, stories were told around a fire, under the stars, in temples, and within marketplaces. The griots of West Africa, the skalds of the Norse, the bards of the Celts, and the shamans of indigenous tribes all used stories to preserve history, teach lessons, and entertain. When you convey a story — in oratory, reading aloud, improvising on the fly, or even role-playing — you participate in a timeless tradition unique to the human experience. These oral traditions emphasized rhythm, repetition, and symbolism, ensuring that stories could be remembered and retold accurately across centuries.

“In the beginning…”
“Once upon a time…”
“Long ago, there was a great hero…”

These phrases echo across countless cultures because they mark the start of something ancient and sacred — the passing of wisdom through words. Think about that every time you put your pen to paper.

• A story is structured for meaning. At its core, a story is a structured experience. While different cultures shape their stories in unique ways, most follow a fundamental pattern:

• A character (often a hero, trickster, or divine figure) encounters …

• A challenge or conflict (a journey, a trial, a transformation) that leads to …

• A resolution (a lesson, a victory, a warning)

This structure reappears everywhere, from myths and folktales to modern novels and films. The Hero’s Journey, famously outlined by Joseph Campbell, mirrors the epic tales of Gilgamesh, the Odyssey, and the Mahabharata — proving that storytelling traditions are deeply rooted in human psychology.

• A story is a way to teach. Stories were the first classrooms. Before laws were written and moral codes were codified, people learned right from wrong through fables, legends, and cautionary tales.

• Aesop’s fables taught morality through animals with human flaws.

• The Bhagavad Gita blended mythology with spiritual guidance.

• The Dreamtime stories of Australian Aboriginals explained the origins of the world.

• Religious tomes like the Bible, Quran, and Torah use parables and allegories to instill faith and ethical principles.

Stories didn’t just entertain. They preserved knowledge and related history, kept traditions alive, and warned of dangers so the next generation might benefit from collective, cultural wisdom.

• A story is a bridge between the human and the divine. Dude, epic! Ancient stories were about mortals-transcendent: anthropomorphized gods, spirits, and unseen forces shaping the world. Mythology wasn’t considered “fiction” in the way we think today. It was a sacred truth, a way to understand the mysteries of life and death.

• The Greeks explained the seasons through Persephone and Hades.

• The Norse prepared for Ragnarok, the great end of days.

• Native American tales spoke of the Great Spirit and creation.

These myths weren’t just “stories.” They guided living, parenting, understanding fate, wrestled with the enormousness of the universe, and grappled with the unknown.

• A story is both a mirror and a portal. A good story reflects who we are: our desires, struggles, and dreams. It captures an element of the human experience and transforms it into something timeless. Stories are portals, a magical way to step into the past, imagine the future, or walk in someone else’s shoes. Whether in the form of a myth, a novel, a film, or even a bedtime tale, stories transport us, reminding us that we are part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Stories are more than words on a page. It is an inheritance — a tool passed down to you from the ages — an offering, a thread woven through time. Whether carved into stone by ancient hands or typed into a glowing screen today, a story is humanity’s oldest way of saying:

“I was here. This is what I saw. Remember.”

So, What is a Short Story?

A short story is a brief, self-contained narrative that typically focuses on a single conflict, character arc, or theme, delivering a meaningful impact in a limited word count.

Unlike novels with room for multiple subplots and extensive character development, short stories zero in on a specific moment, decision, or transformation in a character’s life.

And before writing one, it might be easier to think about what a short story is not.

A short story is not just a condensed novel, a summary, or an anecdote. Instead, a short story is a structured, self-contained narrative with a clear purpose. Short stories convey meaning, a moral, or a reflection on an experience.

Here’s what doesn’t qualify as a short story:

1. A short story is NOT a novel or novella cut down to meet a desired word length. Where a novel has room for multiple subplots, deep world-building, and extensive character arcs, a short story doesn’t. Simply chopping down a novel’s word count won’t make it a short story. The pacing will be off, and it’ll feel rushed or incomplete.

2. A short story is NOT just a single scene or a vignette. A beautifully written slice-of-life moment can be evocative, but if it doesn’t have a beginning, middle, and end (or at least a narrative arc), it’s a vignette, not a short story. A proper short story presents a conflict, development, and resolution — even if that resolution is ambiguous and open-ended.

3. A short story is NOT a joke or anecdote. A joke or anecdote might tell an amusing or interesting event, but it's not a short story if there’s no more profound emotional impact, character change, or thematic weight. Think of it this way. Take the anecdote: “Once, I got locked in a bookstore overnight. It was fun.” Now, make it a short story. A character gets locked in a bookstore, discovers a hidden letter in an old book, and must make a choice that changes them forever. There’s an arc, a theme, a central conflict, a transformative event, a resolution.

4. A short story is NOT just a description. A story isn’t just words on a page; short stories are shared experiences. If your writing only describes a setting or a moment but doesn’t have characters, conflict, or movement, it’s an exercise in prose, not a short story.

5. A short story is NOT aimless. Even in literary fiction, where endings can be ambiguous, a short story still has a purpose. If a reader finishes your piece and asks, “So what was the point?” it might not be a fully realized short story.

6. A short story is NOT poetry. A short story is not poetry because it is fundamentally a structured narrative, while poetry is often focused on expression, rhythm, and imagery rather than plot and character development. While both forms use language artfully, they serve different purposes and follow different conventions. The prose in a short story might be described as poetic or lyrical, but it’s all about intent. Poetry is about capturing a moment, emotion, or idea — it doesn’t need a plot, characters, or a structured arc. A poem can be a fleeting impression, a reflection, or even a striking image. On the other hand, a short story tells a story: it has a beginning, middle, and end, often featuring a protagonist, conflict, and resolution. Even if the ending is ambiguous, there’s still a sense of movement or change.

A short story is a complete, compact narrative that delivers a strong impression, emotion, or transformation in a brief time. It’s not a snippet, scene, or just a collection of pretty words — it’s a journey in miniature.

Common Characteristics of a Short Story

• Length. A short story typically ranges from 1,000 to 5,000 words. Anything under 1,000 words is often called flash fiction.

• Focused Narrative. There’s one primary plot; no complex subplots, elaborate characterization, or sprawling world-building. Stop that.

• Character Limits and Development. A short story might only have one or two main characters, but they still undergo some form of change or revelation. Short stories don’t have the time to delve into a character like a novel might, so we often deal with narrative archetypes and stereotypes with short stories.

• Concise Writing. Every word must serve a purpose. There’s little room for lengthy exposition, so the story quickly jumps into action.

• A Strong Ending. The ending should impact the reader, whether it’s a twist, a resolution, or an open-ended conclusion.

Why Write Short Stories?

Short stories help train writers to be economical with words, develop strong character arcs quickly, and deliver memorable emotional punches in a short span. They’re also great for experimenting with style, genre, and voice without the commitment of a novel.

Think about it. Let’s say you commit yourself to improving your physical lifestyle, and the very next day, you go on a crash diet and try to run a marathon. A marathon is a novel in the writing world, but you try your hand at it because it’s what you think you should be doing. You’re not going to be successful, and you might be highly discouraged by the experience, enough to throw your pen across the room and vow never to write again.

A marathon takes training. It takes doing small things to amount to a larger goal. Training for a marathon is a test of physical, mental, and emotional endurance. Very few people can just wake up and decide to run one. The same is true for writing.

Writing short stories is pumping iron — it’s exercise — and it’s one of the best ways to sharpen your craft, explore different ideas and distinct genres, and build your confidence. Why?

1. You learn to write with precision. Short stories force you to be concise. Every word matters. There’s no room for filler, unnecessary exposition, or meandering subplots. You must quickly establish your character, introduce conflict, and build toward a resolution. This teaches you discipline in storytelling — a skill that will serve you well regardless of what form you’re writing.

2. You can experiment without a huge commitment. Don’t let NaNoWriMo convince you otherwise — a novel takes months (or years) to write. A short story? A few days or weeks. You can try new genres, voices, and structures without investing years into a single project. Want to see if you can pull off horror? Try a short ghost story. Thinking about writing sci-fi? Test a concept in a brief form first. Short stories let you fail fast and learn quickly. You’ll discover what works (and what doesn’t) without spending months on a dead-end novel.

3. You improve your ability to craft a complete narrative. One of the biggest struggles for new writers is finishing a story. A novel is a marathon, and it’s easy to lose steam. Short stories give you manageable timelines and structures. You learn how to begin a story with intrigue. You practice building a tight, engaging middle. You discover how to end with impact. Mastering this on a smaller scale will make tackling larger projects much easier.

4. You develop stronger characters, faster. With a limited word count, you can’t spend 30 pages explaining your character’s backstory. You must reveal who they are through specific actions, dialogue, and small, meaningful details. This makes you a better writer because it teaches you how to show, not tell.

5. You build a portfolio (and get published sooner!). Many literary magazines, websites, and anthologies actively seek short stories far more than they seek first-time novelists. Publishing short stories helps you build your author credentials and create an author’s platform; you can gain valuable experience working with editors; you can start connecting with readers to build an audience. Even if your long-term goal is to write novels, having short stories published will help you establish yourself as a writer.

6. You train yourself to write with purpose. In a novel, it’s easy to get lost in world-building and unnecessary tangents. A short story, however, must have a clear goal. Every scene, every line, and every detail must serve the story. Learning this will strengthen your storytelling instincts, making future novels tighter and more engaging.

I like to think of short stories as a writing gym: they strengthen your craft, teach you storytelling fundamentals, and give you the satisfaction of actually finishing projects. Whether you plan to write novels, scripts, or more short stories, starting with short fiction is one of the best ways to become a better writer, faster.

Things to Remember About a Short Story

1. Brevity is Key. Short stories typically range from 1,000 to 5,000 words, though you’ll find some stretching to 10,000. Every word has to earn its place. No long-winded exposition. No unnecessary backstory. If it doesn’t push the story forward, cut it.

2. One Core Conflict. Novels can juggle multiple subplots, but short stories thrive on simplicity. What’s the central issue your protagonist is facing? A decision, a realization, a life-altering moment? Keep it focused.

3. A Defined Beginning, Middle, and End. A short story doesn’t have the luxury of meandering. Establish the setting, introduce the character, and drop them into action quickly. The ending should be satisfying — a twist, a resolution, or an open-ended question that lingers with the reader. There’s a full story arc.

4. Character Depth in Minimal Time. You don’t need a full character biography. A few well-chosen details often make a character memorable. A nervous habit, a distinctive way of speaking, or a quirky behavior can bring them to life. Let the reader infer the rest. Archetypes and stereotypes are shortcuts.

5. A Lasting Impact. The best short stories leave readers thinking. Whether it’s an emotional gut punch, a haunting image, or a surprising turn of events, make sure your story resonates, vibrates — hums! — at the end. Short stories resonate with a reader with a more powerful message; it’s more than the sum of its parts.

Why Writing Short Stories Will Make You a Better Writer

Short stories teach discipline. You learn to craft tight dialogue, create tension fast, and master pacing. They’re also perfect for experimenting, a place to try new genres, unique structures, or unexpected narrative voices without committing to an entire novel. And hey, they’re easier to finish! A short story is a satisfying win if you’ve ever abandoned a novel halfway through, like I have. Six, seven, eight times? Sigh. They collect digital dust in my file system, and it saddens me. (Sniff, sniff, I’m all verklempt.)

So, er … what are you waiting for? Take an idea, trim the fat, and tell a story that lingers long after the last sentence.

R

Common Spelling Mistakes in the Era of Autocorrect

Autocorrect has revolutionized our writing, offering quick fixes for typos and misspellings. However, for authors, over-reliance on technology can sometimes backfire. Spelling mistakes can slip through when autocorrect either doesn’t catch them or, worse, corrects them to the wrong word entirely. As a writer honing your craft, understanding these pitfalls is essential. Technology can’t be entirely trusted.

Why Autocorrect Isn't Always Your Friend

Autocorrect is designed for convenience, not perfection. It’s fantastic for texting or jotting down quick notes, but it’s more of a frenemy when crafting a story. Here’s why:

1. Context Matters: Autocorrect doesn’t always understand context. It might change “their” to “there” or “compliment” to “complement” without considering the sentence’s meaning.

2. Homophones: Words that sound the same but are spelled differently (“your” vs. “you’re”) often escape its grasp.

3. Overconfidence: It’s easy to trust autocorrect blindly, which can lead to errors slipping past your final draft.

Commonly Misspelled Words Autocorrect Will Miss

• Affect vs. Effect: Affect is usually a verb; effect is a noun. Context is key.
  

  • The new law will affect small businesses.

  • The new law had a significant effect on small businesses.

• Loose vs. Lose: Loose means not tight; lose means to misplace.
  

  • His shoelaces were loose, so he tripped while walking.

  • If you don’t keep track of your keys, you might lose them.

• Defiantly vs. Definitely: Autocorrect loves to swap these two, and the results can be unintentionally hilarious.
  

  • She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at her teacher.

  • I will definitely be at the meeting tomorrow.

• Separate: Often misspelled as “seperate,” even though autocorrect sometimes misses it.

• Its vs. It’s: Its is possessive; it’s is a contraction for “it is.”

How to Improve Your Spelling Skills

1. Turn Off Autocorrect (Sometimes): When drafting, try turning autocorrect off to force yourself to catch mistakes manually. It’s a great way to train your brain to recognize errors.

2. Read Aloud: Hearing your words can help you spot errors that your eyes might skip over.

3. Use a Dictionary: Yes, the old-fashioned kind! Or a reputable online one. Look up words when you’re unsure.

4. Proofread Twice: Once for content and flow, and again for spelling and grammar.

5. Learn From Your Mistakes: Keep a list of words you frequently misspell and practice them.

Taking Responsibility

Only you can prevent forest fires.

It’s not just wisdom dispensed from anthropomorphic bears.

It’s about taking responsibility for your craft and not leaving it exclusively to the computer.

Autocorrect is a valuable tool, but it’s no substitute for a writer’s careful eye. Spelling mistakes can distract your readers and undermine your credibility. You can improve your writing by recognizing common pitfalls while honing your spelling skills.

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Inclusive Language in Fiction Writing

Let’s push back on the Trump administration’s desire to promote white male hegemony and talk about an essential part of modern literature: inclusive language.

Inclusive language in literature isn’t about forcing D.E.I. and representation into our work. It’s about dismantling tired tropes and broadening the scope of storytelling. Fantasy stories, in particular, have long promoted white male protagonists as the default heroes, relegating others to sidekicks, villains, or mystical guides, and, by extension, elevated the voice and visibility of white male authors.

But why should white male narratives be the norm? A world shaped by magic, myths, and the unknown should be as rich in diverse identities, cultures, and perspectives. When we make space for protagonists of different races, genders, and backgrounds, we create stories that resonate more deeply, reflecting the true complexity of the world. We stretch the limitless possibilities of our imaginations. And we invite diverse voices and perspectives to join us on the journey.

Octavia Butler shattered the barriers of speculative fiction in the 1980s, proving that fantasy and science fiction could be powerful tools for elevating Black women's voices. Her works, such as Kindred and Parable of the Sower, centered on Black female protagonists who defied convention, navigating worlds shaped by oppression, resilience, and transformation. Butler’s legacy challenges today’s writers to step beyond the expected and craft fantasy worlds that reflect the richness of diverse experiences. By following her lead, we can move away from narratives that uphold white male hegemony and instead create inclusive, immersive stories where Black women — all people of marginalized voices — take their rightful place as heroes.

But Octavia isn’t alone. Here are five contemporary authors who, like Octavia Butler, have pushed against the dominance of white male narratives in fantasy fiction over the last twenty years:

1. N.K. Jemisin. A three-time Hugo Award winner for The Broken Earth trilogy, Jemisin has redefined modern fantasy with her complex, deeply political worlds that center on Black characters and challenge systemic oppression

2. Rebecca Roanhorse. A Native American author whose Between Earth and Sky series and Trail of Lightning incorporate Indigenous mythology and perspectives, breaking the Eurocentric fantasy mold.

3. Tasha Suri. British-Indian author of The Books of Ambha and The Burning Kingdoms, who weaves South Asian history, folklore, and feminist themes into her lush, immersive fantasy worlds.

4. P. Djèlí Clark. An Afro-Caribbean writer known for A Master of Djinn and The Black God's Drums, blending historical fantasy with steampunk and Afrofuturism to challenge colonialist narratives.

5. Marjorie Liu. Author of Monstress, a fantasy comic series that subverts Western fantasy tropes, centering Asian-inspired worldbuilding, complex female protagonists, and themes of war, trauma, and resistance.

These modern authors, like Butler, are expanding the fantasy landscape by telling stories that embrace diverse identities, histories, and mythologies, challenging the old defaults of the genre.

Reading Inclusively

As a white male fantasy author, I can be an ally by consciously incorporating diverse voices, perspectives, and themes in my work while being cognisant of avoiding stereotypes or tokenism.

Writing inclusively begins by reading authors of different backgrounds to learn how they craft characters and worlds outside the Eurocentric norm. One of the best things that happened to me as a 17-year-old kid in the Pacific Northwest was a World Literature class from an ex-CIA agent named Bledsoe. Bledsoe fed me Central American poetry and African fiction; I dined on Portuguese essays and devoured decadent desserts of Vietnamese magical realism. How do we write inclusively? We begin by reading inclusively.

Reading diverse voices expanded my perspective. It challenged my ingrained biases and enriched my storytelling by exposing me to cultures, experiences, and viewpoints outside my own. It helped me recognize the limitations of traditional fantasy narratives at an early age and introduced alternative worldbuilding techniques, character archetypes, and thematic concerns.

Engaging with diverse authors allows us to see how they weave identity, history, and cultural nuance into their work. This exposure enables us to challenge outdated tropes — such as the white savior or the exoticized, sexualized "other" — by creating nuanced, multidimensional characters of all races, genders, and cultures. Therein, we write with greater authenticity, moving beyond token representation to develop characters and worlds that feel real, lived-in, and inclusive. Most importantly, we can use our platform to uplift marginalized voices, promote their work, and advocate for a more inclusive literary landscape.

How Do We Write Inclusively?

Writing inclusively isn’t about ticking boxes. It’s about crafting richer, more meaningful stories that reflect the complexity of the real world. Yes, I emphasize the word real here because of the oxygen being sucked out of the room by white nationalists. Now, more than ever is the right time to delve into and promote diverse voices. We can respect and elevate others if we react intelligently — with intention.

1. Read Widely. Immerse yourself in works by diverse authors to understand different perspectives, storytelling traditions, and cultural nuances.

2. Examine Your Biases. Reflect on the assumptions you bring to your writing. Are your characters defaulting to white, male, straight, or able-bodied without reason? Challenge yourself to break these patterns.

3. Develop Complex Characters. Avoid stereotypes or one-dimensional representations. Give marginalized characters depth, agency, and meaningful arcs rather than making them sidekicks or background figures.

4. Research with Care. Do a thorough research if you’re writing about cultures, identities, or experiences outside your own. Engage with primary sources, historical records, and firsthand accounts. Don’t assume: talk to people (real people) about their own lived experiences.

5. Use Sensitivity Readers. If your story includes characters from backgrounds you don’t personally share, work with sensitive readers to ensure respectful and authentic representation.

6. Diversify Your Fantasy Worlds. Rethink Eurocentric medieval settings. Draw inspiration from global histories, mythologies, and philosophies to create fresh, inclusive fantasy landscapes.

7. Challenge Traditional Tropes. Rework common fantasy tropes that reinforce exclusionary narratives. Avoid the "white savior" trope. Stop using exoticized or villainized nonwhite characters. Show the power of women. Stop the erasure of LGBTQ+ identities.

8. Amplify Marginalized Voices. Beyond your writing, advocate for inclusivity by recommending books by BIPOC, LGBTQ+, disabled, and other underrepresented authors.

Embrace Gender Neutrality

Traditionally, English has leaned heavily on gender-specific pronouns (“he” or “she”) or clunky phrases like “he or she” when the subject’s gender isn’t specified. Not only can this feel outdated, but it can also alienate readers who don’t identify within the binary. Gender-neutral writing ensures your work resonates with a broader audience and better reflects the diverse world we live in.

One of the simplest ways to write inclusively is to use the singular “they.” It’s versatile, grammatically correct (even the experts at Merriam-Webster agree), and widely understood. For example:

• Instead of: A writer must find his or her inspiration.

• Try: A writer must find their inspiration.

Alternatives to Gendered Language

Some words and phrases carry implicit gender bias. Words like “chairman” can easily be replaced with “chairperson” or just “chair.” Similarly, avoid defaulting to masculine terms like “man-made” (“artificial” or “human-made” works great) or “fireman” (“firefighter”).

For characters or individuals whose gender is unknown, consider neutral descriptors or omit unnecessary gendering altogether. For example:

• Instead of: The nurse adjusted her clipboard.

• Try: The nurse adjusted the clipboard.

Punctuation Considerations

Punctuation plays an underrated role in gender-neutral writing. Parentheses and slashes (e.g., he/she) are often used to accommodate gender diversity, but they can interrupt the flow of your writing. Instead, rework the sentence:

• Instead of: Each student should submit his/her assignment.

• Try: All students should submit their assignments.

It reads cleaner and more inclusive, right?

Making It All Flow

I refuse to believe embracing inclusive language means sacrificing style or story. In fact, I feel it challenges us to think creatively and write more precisely. Avoid overcorrecting or awkward phrasing—your goal is seamless inclusivity. Only white male authors churned fantasy books off bookshelves in the olden days because the consumer was predominantly white, young, and male. Today, fantasy readership flips that assumption on its head, and it’s never been easier to write inclusively, mindful of our evolving audience.

Why It Matters

Inclusive language isn’t just about grammar — it’s about empathy.

As writers, we hold the power to shape worlds and reflect realities. By adopting gender-neutral language, by promoting LGBTQI+, by elevating the voices of women, by embracing cultural diversity in what you read and consume, you’re sending a clear message:

Everyone is welcome here.
I acknowledge mine is not the only voice that matters.

So, the next time you sit down to write, take a moment to consider the words you choose. Are they inclusive? Do they invite every reader in? If not, now’s the perfect time — the perfect time! — to make that shift.

Go, and consciously make your stories more inclusive and impactful.

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Dissonance in Literature

Have you ever been pulled out of a story because something just didn’t feel right? Maybe the protagonist made a baffling choice, or the plot swerved in a way that left you scratching your head. That jarring moment, my friends, is dissonance—a reader’s feeling that something in your story doesn’t make sense or feels off.

As a new author, understanding dissonance can be both a challenge and an opportunity. When used unintentionally, dissonance can frustrate and alienate readers. But when wielded with care, it can deepen your narrative and evoke powerful emotional responses. Let’s dive into what dissonance is, how to spot it, and how to use it effectively in your writing.

What is Dissonance in Literature?

In literature, dissonance refers to a disruption in the story’s flow, logic, or emotional resonance. It’s that nagging sense of “Wait, what?” readers feel when something in the narrative doesn’t add up. While some level of intrigue or mystery can keep readers engaged, dissonance usually breaks immersion instead of enhancing it.

Dissonance can occur in many forms, such as:

• Character actions that defy established traits.

  • Example: A brave hero suddenly cowering in fear without a compelling reason.

• Plot twists that feel unearned.

  • Example: A deus ex machina solution to a complex problem.

• Inconsistencies in world-building.

  • Example: A society with advanced technology inexplicably using medieval tools.

• Dialogue that rings false.

  • Example: A street-smart character suddenly using academic jargon.

Why Does Dissonance Matter?

Dissonance matters because it impacts the reader’s trust. Readers enter your story ready to suspend disbelief and follow you on a journey, but when something feels off, they can’t help but pause. These moments pull them out of the narrative and make them question your story’s logic or coherence.

However, dissonance isn’t inherently bad. In fact, intentional dissonance can create tension, provoke thought, or highlight contradictions in a character or society. The key is knowing when and how to use it.

Common Causes of Unintentional Dissonance

Unintentional dissonance often stems from:

1. Underdeveloped Characters:

   • If your characters’ motivations or backstories are unclear, their actions may feel inconsistent.

2. Rushed Plot Development:

   • A plot that leaps from point A to point Z without stopping at B can leave readers confused.

3. Inconsistent Tone:

   • Switching from lighthearted banter to grim tragedy without a clear transition can feel jarring.

4. Ignored Rules of the World:

   • When you establish rules for your world, breaking them without explanation disrupts the story’s internal logic.

How to Spot Dissonance in Your Writing

Spotting dissonance requires stepping back and viewing your story from a reader’s perspective. Here are some strategies:

1. Beta Readers:

   • Fresh eyes can pinpoint moments that don’t make sense.

2. Outlining and Reverse Outlining:

   • Mapping out your story can reveal gaps or inconsistencies.

3. Consistency Checks:

   • Create a character and world-building bible to ensure continuity.

4. Question the “Why:”

   • For every major plot point or character decision, ask yourself, “Why does this happen?” If the answer isn’t clear, you may need to revise.

Using Dissonance Intentionally

When used deliberately, dissonance can be a powerful tool. Here’s how:

1. Create Tension:

   • Let dissonance heighten suspense by making readers question a character’s reliability or motives.

2. Highlight Themes:

   • Use dissonance to underscore thematic conflicts, such as the clash between tradition and innovation.

3. Challenge Reader Assumptions:

   • Shake up expectations to keep your story unpredictable and thought-provoking.

4. Evoke Emotional Reactions:

   • Introduce moments of discomfort or unease to engage readers on a deeper level.

Examples of Intentional Dissonance in Literature

• Jay Gatsby’s Mysterious Persona (“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald):

  • The dissonance between Gatsby’s glamorous image and his desperate yearning creates a poignant tension.

• Unreliable Narration (“Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn):

  • The conflicting narratives of Nick and Amy keep readers guessing.

• Moral Ambiguity (“Breaking Bad” in Screenwriting):

  • Walter White’s transformation from a sympathetic teacher to a ruthless criminal challenges viewer loyalties.

Fixing Unintentional Dissonance

To fix unintentional dissonance, follow these steps:

1. Clarify Motivations:

   • Ensure every character’s actions align with their goals, fears, and personality.

2. Pace Your Plot:

   • Allow time for events to unfold naturally.

3. Respect Your World’s Rules:

   • Stick to the logic you’ve established.

4. Refine Your Tone:

   • Smooth out tonal shifts to maintain consistency.

5. Seek Feedback:

   • Don’t underestimate the value of honest critique.

Practice Exercise

Think of a story you love that had a moment of dissonance. What threw you off, and how would you fix it? Conversely, consider a story where dissonance was used effectively. How did it enhance the narrative?

Mastering dissonance means striking a balance. Whether you’re tightening up your plot or crafting intentional disruptions, the key is to keep your reader engaged. By understanding the power and pitfalls of dissonance, you can elevate your storytelling to new heights.

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The Power of Conflict in Short Stories

Imagine picking up a short story where nothing happens — there’s no tension, no stakes, and no conflict.

Sounds pretty dull, right?

That’s because conflict is the lifeblood of storytelling. Without it, stories lose their power to captivate readers.

But if you’re a new author just dipping your toes into the world of short fiction, you might wonder, why is conflict so important? What purpose does conflict serve, and how can you craft compelling conflicts that elevate your writing?

Let’s unpack these questions and explore why central conflict is the beating heart of your short story.

Why Conflict Matters in Literature

Conflict is the engine that drives your story forward. It creates stakes, informs the character’s emotional journey, and keeps your readers hooked.

Whether it’s a character wrestling with their past (an internal conflict) or their race to battle against the forces of evil (an external conflict), conflict introduces tension that demands resolution.

Readers are naturally drawn to conflict because it mirrors real life. We all face struggles, and seeing characters navigate their challenges resonates on a human level.

Here are some key purposes conflict serves in literature:

1. Reveals Character. How characters respond to conflict reveals their strengths, weaknesses, fears, and desires. Conflict strips away facades, giving readers an intimate look at who your characters truly are.

2. Drives Plot. Conflict is the catalyst for action. Without it, your story’s plot would stagnate. A strong central conflict propels your characters into decisions and actions that shape the narrative.

3. Creates Engagement. Tension keeps readers turning pages. When readers care about the outcome of a conflict, they’re invested in your story.

4. Offers Resolution. Resolving conflict provides closure. Even in stories with ambiguous endings, the resolution of the central conflict often satisfies readers.

Understanding Central Conflict

So, what exactly is a central conflict? It’s the main problem or struggle around which your story revolves. In short forms where space is limited, the central conflict needs to be clear and impactful. Conflict is the thread that ties your narrative together, giving it purpose and direction.

A story without a central conflict is easy to spot. Imagine a long hallway, and you place a wind-up toy (your protagonist) at one end of the hall. Released, the toy waddles to the other end of the hall unimpeded. There’s no obstacle to their path; they make no choice that actively steers the plot; they arrive effortlessly at the end. The protagonist’s agency is non-existent: they exist solely to be a passive witness to events and make no decisions. This is what a story without a conflict feels like.

Take a look at this 250-micro.

The sunlight spilled through the wide kitchen window, painting the wooden table in warm hues of gold. Grandma Rose hummed softly to herself, her hands deftly kneading dough. The aroma of yeast and the faint sweetness of cinnamon filled the air, wrapping the room in comfort.

Lila sat on the counter, her legs swinging, a book resting open on her lap. She wasn’t reading. Instead, her eyes followed the rhythm of Grandma’s hands. The soft thud of dough against the floured counter created a steady beat, almost musical.

“Why do you always make bread on Sundays?” Lila asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Grandma smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s not just bread, darling. It’s tradition. My mother made it every Sunday, and her mother before her. A way to start the week with something warm.”

Lila tilted her head, considering this. “So, it’s like magic?”

“Exactly.” Grandma laughed, sprinkling flour on Lila’s nose. “Magic you can eat.”

The timer on the oven dinged, and Lila hopped down to help. Together, they lifted the loaf onto the cooling rack, its crust glistening and perfect. Grandma cut a thick slice and handed it to Lila.

The first bite was soft, buttery, and alive with the love of a hundred Sundays past. Lila smiled, crumbs on her chin, and thought, This is what happiness tastes like.

The sunlight lingered as if it, too, wanted to savor the moment. No hurry. No rush. Just now.

Do you see it?

Awww … it’s so pretty … and so pointless! Gag!

This story lacks a central conflict because it focuses entirely on peaceful moments, shared traditions, and sensory details rather than challenges, obstacles, or tensions. Nothing happens. The protagonist makes no choice. There’s nothing for the protagonist to overcome. Everything is perfect and entirely uninteresting.

Types of Conflict

Central conflict typically falls into four categories:

• Internal Conflict. A struggle within a character, such as battling self-doubt, grappling with a moral dilemma, fighting addiction, or overcoming trauma. Sometimes, it’s helpful to think of a conflict in terms of an archetype like Man vs. Self. These kinds of conflicts reflect an internal struggle the protagonist must overcome to meet their goal or transform into something else at the end.

• External Conflict. It is a struggle between a character and an outside force. Good examples include Man vs. Man, Man vs. Society, Man vs. Technology, and Man vs. Nature. The protagonist must overcome these obstacles to arrive at their objective.

• Philosophical Conflict. A clash of ideas or beliefs. While less common in short fiction, philosophical conflicts can add depth and nuance to a story. Man vs. Supernatural, or Man vs. The Divine, or Man vs. Fate.

• Others. Man vs. Time or Man vs. the Unknown are other conflicts commonly found in fiction.

Too Many Conflicts

Stories with too many conflicts are more difficult to spot than stories without one. The story can feel overwhelming, confusing, unfocused, and lacking narrative cohesion. Tackling too many ideas, the reader may feel bombarded with issues. The obstacles feel insurmountable, and the stakes become muddled — too much is at stake! To resolve the problem, it’s up to the author to select the most compelling conflict for their story.

Take a look at this 250-word micro.

The rain hammered down as Clara fumbled with her broken umbrella, juggling her phone that wouldn’t stop buzzing with urgent work emails. She groaned when her boss called for the third time.

“Clara, the client is threatening to walk. Fix it!” His voice crackled through the downpour.

“I’m—” she began, but a deafening honk cut her off. She jumped back as a car splashed through a puddle, drenching her in muddy water.

Her hands trembled as she stepped into the coffee shop, hoping for a brief reprieve. Ordering, her ex-boyfriend, Tim, sat at the counter, grinning as if they hadn’t broken up two weeks ago. “Hey, Clara!” he said, cocking a brow. “You look… moist.”

Before she could respond, the barista whispered, “Ma’am, your card was declined.” She flushed, rifling through her bag, only to realize her wallet was missing.

And then her phone beeped — another message from her sister:

Mom fell. Call me.

Panicked, Clara ignored Tom and darted back into the rain, colliding with a man carrying a stack of papers, sending them fluttering into the storm.

“Seriously?” he shouted, glaring. She apologized profusely but couldn’t stop her foot from slipping on the wet sidewalk. She landed hard, twisting her ankle.

Her phone clattered to the ground, the screen shattering. Clara wanted to scream, cry, or laugh, but instead, she sat there in the rain, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of everything falling apart.

Finally, crawling along the sidewalk in the rain, a stray dog ran alongside Clara and dragged her broken umbrella away into the storm.

Broadly, the story's central conflict is Clara’s struggle to maintain control and composure in the face of an unrelenting cascade of external challenges: her demanding boss (Man vs. Man), balancing her emotional discomfort upon seeing her ex (Man vs. Self), financial and logistical setbacks — a declined card, missing wallet, shattered phone, and a sudden family emergency. Then there’s the dog (Man vs. Monster)! There are too many ideas and too many conflicts; for Christ’s sake, pick one! But which one to pick?

Crafting Compelling Conflicts

To create a compelling central conflict, follow these tips:

1. Make It Personal. Your conflict should matter deeply to your protagonist. The stakes need to be high enough to make readers care.

2. Establish Stakes Early. In short fiction, you don’t have the luxury of a slow build-up. Introduce your conflict early to hook readers.

3. Keep It Focused. With a limited word count, avoid cluttering your story with multiple conflicts. Stick to one central conflict and develop it thoroughly.

4. Add Layers. Even in short fiction, a multi-faceted conflict is more engaging. Support your conflict with rich detail, action, and dialogue.

5. Show, Don’t Tell: Instead of telling readers what the conflict is, show it through your characters’ actions, dialogue, and decisions.

The Role of Conflict in Resolution

Conflict isn’t just about the struggle but also the resolution. The way your story’s conflict resolves should feel earned and meaningful. It doesn’t have to end happily, but it should provide some sense of closure. This is especially important in short fiction, where every word counts.

Here are some questions to consider when resolving your story’s conflict:

• Does the resolution align with your characters’ arcs?

• Is the resolution consistent with the tone and theme of your story?

• Does it leave readers satisfied or with something to think about?

Okay, so let’s rewrite Clara’s story by emphasizing Man vs. Self, which is something personal. Clara must overcome her relationship with Tim.

The rain pattered softly against the coffee shop windows as Clara sat at a small table in the corner, nursing a cup of cooling tea. She stared at her phone, glossing over the email drafts and unanswered texts. She couldn’t bring herself to work or to call her sister back. Everything in her life felt stuck, tangled, and heavy.

Then the door jingled, and in walked Tim.

Clara froze, her stomach lurching. He looked the same as ever — disheveled, roguish, charming — brimming with that easy smile that had once made her heart race. Now, his smile only twisted something in her chest.

He spotted her immediately. “Clara!” he said, sliding into the seat across from her without asking. “Wow, it’s been a while.”

She forced a thin smile. “Two weeks isn’t that long.”

Tim laughed, oblivious to her tone. “Come on, don’t be like that. I was thinking about you just the other day.” His voice softened. “You know, we could grab dinner tonight? Talk things through?”

The temptation tugged at her — a flicker of hope, a wish that things could be simple again. But then she remembered the fights, how she always felt small when she was with him, and the excuses she’d made.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Tim blinked, his smile faltering. “Clara, we were good together—”

“No, we were not.” Her voice was firm, though her hands trembled. “Please leave.”

Shrugging, Tim stood. “Have it your way.” He left the cafe without ordering anything and didn’t look back. Not once.

Clara watched the rain streak down the windows, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Okay, let’s re-examine the story.

• The story’s central conflict is Clara’s struggle to overcome the emotional pull of her past relationship with Tim (Man vs. Self).

• Struggling to move on, the story’s emotional stakes concern her well-being and personal growth; falling back into a relationship with Tim risks returning to a cycle of feeling small, stuck, and unhappy.

• Exploring themes like self-empowerment, recovering from a toxic relationship, hope, and renewal, the story captures a poignant moment when Clara sticks up for herself and what she wants from a relationship. It’s a turning point, a new chapter in her life.

• Clara’s decision reflects her agency: she prioritizes her emotional well-being by rejecting Tim’s attempt to rekindle their relationship.

• Clara’s journey’s emotional depth should instantly be relatable to any reader, fostering reader immersion.

C’mon, it was easier to read, right? Less chaos, more structure — details that support the central conflict?

The Relationship Between Conflict and Agency

Agency refers to a character's ability to make choices and take actions that influence the story's outcome. It reflects their capacity to act with intention rather than merely react to events, showcasing their autonomy and values that drive the narrative forward.

Literary conflict and character agency are deeply intertwined. Conflict drives the story forward, while agency defines how characters navigate it. Conflict creates obstacles that demand choices, revealing the depth of a character’s personality, values, and growth.

A strong sense of agency allows characters to confront their challenges actively, making their actions purposeful rather than passive reactions.

Without agency, conflicts feel hollow as characters merely drift through events. Conversely, without conflict, agency lacks a proving ground, leaving characters without meaningful development.

Together, conflict and agency shape compelling narratives that resonate with readers and feel authentic.

Why Conflicts Matter

If you’re new to writing short form, mastering conflict is one of the most valuable skills you can develop. You don’t have chapters like in a novel — you have a paragraph at most. Conflict makes your stories more compelling, more relatable, more … more. By analytically exploring different types of conflict and learning how to spot character agency in addressing those conflicts, I feel you’ll gain a deeper understanding of character development, pacing, and narrative structure.

Final Thoughts

The central conflict is the heartbeat of your short story. It grabs readers’ attention, keeps them invested, and leaves them thinking about your story long after they’ve finished reading.

So, don’t shy away from conflict — embrace it! Experiment with different types, dig deep into your characters, and use conflict to make your short stories click.

Okay, get back to work.

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Tension in Storytelling: The Secret Sauce

Let’s be honest: stories without tension are like pancakes without syrup — flat, chewy, and hard to swallow.

As a writer, your job is to keep your readers on the edge of their seats, flipping pages late into the night. But tension isn’t just about dramatic plot twists or heart-stopping cliffhangers; it’s a multi-flavored sauce that can spice up every type of story, from nail-biting thrillers to cozy romances.

So, what types of tension are out there, and how can you use them to keep your readers hooked? Let’s dive in!

1. Dramatic Tension: The Classic Cliffhanger

Dramatic tension is the bread and butter of storytelling. It’s all about unanswered questions and stakes that make your readers anxious to know what happens next. Think of it as the relentless "what if?" that drives your narrative.

Example: Will the hero defuse the bomb in time? Can the protagonist prove their innocence before being thrown in jail?

How to Build It:

• Raise the stakes: The higher the cost of failure, the more gripping the tension.

• Use time pressure: A ticking clock keeps readers engaged.

• End chapters on cliffhangers: Give your audience a reason to keep turning pages.

2. Romantic Tension: The "Will They, Won’t They?"

Whether it’s forbidden love or a slow-burn relationship, romantic tension is all about building chemistry and leaving readers yearning for resolution.

Example: Two characters clearly attracted to each other, but circumstances or misunderstandings keep them apart.

How to Build It:

• Create barriers: Miscommunication, external pressures, or personal flaws can delay the inevitable.

• Use subtext: A glance, a touch, or a loaded conversation can say more than explicit dialogue.

• Delay gratification: The longer you make your readers wait, the sweeter the payoff.

3. Dreadful Tension: The Creeping Sense of Doom

Dreadful tension is a slow burn that builds suspense and fear. It thrives on the reader knowing something bad is coming but not when or how it will strike.

Example: A character walks into a room, and the reader knows the killer is hiding in the closet.

How to Build It:

• Let readers in on the danger: Foreshadowing is your best friend here.

• Play with pacing: Slow, deliberate scenes heighten the sense of inevitability.

• Use sensory details: Creaking floors, flickering lights, or a sudden chill can set the tone.

4. Interpersonal Tension: Sparks Flying Between Characters

Interpersonal tension isn’t just for romantic relationships. It’s any clash of personalities, goals, or values that creates conflict and fuels your story.

Example: Two characters with opposing goals forced to work together on a dangerous mission.

How to Build It:

• Establish clear stakes for each character: What do they want, and why can’t they have it?

• Add friction: Let them challenge and frustrate each other.

• Resolve (or not): The tension can simmer or explode, depending on your narrative needs.

5. Existential Tension: Questions That Keep You Up at Night

This type of tension revolves around big, life-altering questions. It’s perfect for philosophical or introspective stories.

Example: A character struggles with their purpose in life or their place in the universe.

How to Build It:

• Present moral dilemmas: Choices with no easy answers create tension.

• Use internal conflict: Let your characters wrestle with their doubts and fears.

• Explore the unknown: Mysteries about existence or reality can add a layer of intrigue.

6. Situational Tension: When the Environment Becomes the Enemy

Situational tension arises when external circumstances force characters into precarious or dangerous situations.

Example: A group of strangers trapped in a snowstorm, each with their own secrets.

How to Build It:

• Limit options: Trap your characters in a setting they can’t easily escape.

• Introduce unexpected challenges: Raise the stakes with twists or obstacles.

• Highlight the cost: Show how the situation wears down your characters, physically or emotionally.

7. Mystery Tension: The Urge to Solve the Puzzle

Mystery tension thrives on unanswered questions and the promise of a satisfying reveal.

Example: Who killed the wealthy socialite at the dinner party?

How to Build It:

• Drop breadcrumbs: Provide clues, but keep the solution just out of reach.

• Red herrings: Mislead readers with false leads to keep them guessing.

• Build to a reveal: Make the payoff worth the wait by tying up loose ends.

8. Emotional Tension: The Heartfelt Rollercoaster

Emotional tension is all about pulling at your readers’ heartstrings. It can be a powerful tool for making your story resonate on a deeper level.

Example: A parent must choose between saving their child or a group of strangers.

How to Build It:

• Make it personal: Readers need to empathize with the characters’ struggles.

• Layer emotions: Combine joy, grief, anger, and hope for a complex, relatable experience.

• Resolve thoughtfully: Don’t rush the payoff; let it feel earned.

Bringing It All Together

Great stories often blend multiple types of tension to keep readers engaged. For instance, a mystery novel might include dramatic tension (Will the detective catch the killer?), interpersonal tension (The detective and their partner don’t get along), and emotional tension (The detective’s struggle with a personal loss).

Experiment with these different flavors of tension in your writing. Mix and match to suit your story’s tone and genre, and don’t be afraid to push your characters to their breaking points. After all, tension is what makes a story worth telling.

R

Creating Suspense and Layering Tension

Suspense!

It’s the edge of the cliff, the half-open door, the unanswered question.

It’s what keeps readers turning pages late into the night.

But crafting suspense isn’t about dropping a bombshell every paragraph or chapter. It’s easy to think about suspense as nonstop action. But genuine suspense is quieter. It whispers, teases, and lingers like an unspoken. It’s about creating a simmering tension that slowly builds until your audience is hooked.

The Problem of Flat Tension

A story with no tension feels flat, aimless, and unengaging. Without tension, readers lack a reason to care about what happens next or feel emotionally invested in the characters and their journey. Here’s how to recognize it.

• Events unfold without surprises, obstacles, or stakes. Things happen, and it’s all too easy.

• Outcomes feel inconsequential; there’s no sense of risk or reward.

• There’s no emotional pull to make readers care about the character(s) or their struggles.

• The story feels like a series of random events strung together without purpose or urgency.

• Characters remain static (unchanged) because tension drives their growth and development. No tension, no change = boring.

• Without tension, the story fails to leave a lasting impact because it doesn’t provoke curiosity, excitement, or reflection.

A story with no tension is a missed opportunity. Tension is the heartbeat of storytelling — it ignites curiosity, creates stakes, and makes readers feel. Without it, a story may have beautiful, floaty prose, a twisty plot, or an intriguing premise, but it risks falling flat because it lacks the push and pull — the ups and downs — that keeps readers reading.

Confusing Chaos for Tension

New writers might mistake chaos for tension.

Imagine this scenario: your protagonist sprints through a dark forest, pursued by a relentless monster. Their phone blares an ominous ringtone, lightning splits the sky, and a ferocious storm looms on the horizon; lightning flashes across the sky.

Dramatic? Absolutely. But the effect quickly dulls if every moment feels like an unrelenting cacophony of action and peril. Readers stop feeling the stakes because the constant intensity leaves no room for contrast or buildup.

This happens when tension is dialed up to 11 at all times — it flattens into monotony. To truly captivate, consider tension a dynamic experience, like a rollercoaster ride. You need heart-pounding action peaks balanced with eerie stillness valleys where unease lingers. The quiet moments are just as critical as the loud ones — they allow your readers to catch their breath and brace themselves for what comes next, amplifying the impact of each twist and turn.

Different Types of Tension

Not all tension is created equally. Here are key types of tension commonly found in storytelling:

• Conflict Tension stems from opposition between characters, forces, or goals. A hero facing off against a villain, lovers torn apart by societal expectations, or an internal struggle between a character's desires and morals.

• Mysterious Tension revolves around uncovering secrets or solving puzzles. Investigating a crime, decoding an ancient prophecy, or unraveling a family’s dark past are great examples.

• Dramatic Tension results from high-stakes, immediate circumstances. A protagonist trapped in a burning building or racing against time to stop a catastrophe.

• Moral or Ethical Tension emerges when characters face dilemmas that challenge their values. A soldier chooses between following orders, saving civilians, or a thief deciding whether to betray their partner for personal gain.

• Internal or Emotional Tension draws from the internal emotional struggles of characters. A character grieving a loss while trying to remain composed or dealing with unspoken love in a fraught relationship.

• Atmospheric Tension is evoked by the setting and mood, creating an ominous or foreboding tone. A creaking house in a thunderstorm or a desolate battlefield scattered with eerie remnants of war.

• Romantic Tension is the emotional and psychological pull between characters that creates anticipation, excitement, and often frustration for both the characters and the audience. It is the "will-they-or-won't-they" dynamic that keeps readers invested in the development of a romantic relationship.

Step 1: Start with a Question

Suspense thrives on curiosity and flourishes when curiosity takes root. Start with a question that lingers in your reader's mind, drawing them deeper into your story. Why does the old woman avoid the attic with such fear? What dark secret is the detective desperately concealing? These unanswered questions act like breadcrumbs, leading readers forward as they search for the truth. The trick is to keep the answers tantalizingly out of reach — close enough to intrigue yet distant enough to compel them to turn the page. This balance keeps your audience hooked and gets their imaginations racing to fill in the gaps until the big reveal.

Step 2: Drip, Don’t Dump

Pacing is everything. Reveal your story’s secrets one drop at a time. Imagine a faucet dripping water onto a rock; each drop matters, building momentum without giving everything away. For instance, hint at the antagonist’s motive through subtle clues: a smudged photo, a cryptic phone call, or a nervous glance.

Step 3: Conflict

Tension thrives on conflict, whether external (protagonist vs. antagonist) or internal (character vs. self). Time constraints also create conflict.

Step 4: Heighten the Stakes

Tension escalates when there’s something meaningful at risk. The consequences of failure are dire. Ask yourself: what does my protagonist stand to lose? Maybe it’s their reputation, their family, or even their sanity. Embellish! Readers connect to high stakes; the more personal they are, the better.

Step 5: Unbalance the Reader

Put characters in precarious situations or settings that unsettle the reader. Don’t underestimate the power of your setting to create a mood (atmospheric tension). A dimly lit room, dripping water, or even a cheerful, perfectly sunny day that feels too perfect can add layers to your tension. Details that engage the senses pull readers deeper into the suspense.

Step 6: Pacing, Pacing

Slow down moments of suspense to heighten the reader’s anticipation, then deliver bursts of action or revelation. Consider a character inching toward a locked door as footsteps echo behind them. Draw it out to draw them in.

Step 7: End with a Cliffhanger

Want your readers to keep going? Leave them dangling. Delay their resolution — end scenes or chapters (or even short stories) with unanswered questions or unresolved conflicts. But don’t overdo it. A cliffhanger works best when readers are emotionally invested and need to know what happens next.

Mapping Tension

Tension mapping analyzes a story from the perspective of its ebb and flow of tension. Mapping out the tension of a story helps authors structure their narrative to sustain reader engagement and ensure a satisfying payoff. Here’s how an author might do it:

1. Start with a Narrative Arc

• Identify Key Moments: Use the classic story structure—beginning, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution—to pinpoint where tension will peak and ebb.

• Mark Turning Points: Decide on pivotal scenes (e.g., inciting incidents, major confrontations, revelations) that will drive tension forward.

2. Plot the Tension Curve

• Visualize the story’s tension as a graph:

  • Horizontal Axis: Represents time or narrative progression.

  • Vertical Axis: Represents the level of tension.

• Highs and Lows: Alternate between peaks (high-intensity scenes) and valleys (quieter moments) to create a dynamic rhythm.

I created a tension map once, analyzing a story for an author critique in a writing group. Let’s take a look at it.

Review the tension map to ensure peaks don’t come too early or frequently. Make sure quiet moments aren’t dragging on. Adjust the pacing to keep readers engaged.

Final Thoughts

Crafting suspense and layering tension takes practice, but when done right, it’s like holding your reader’s hand and leading them into the unknown.

Remember, suspense isn’t just about what happens next; it’s about making readers feel the anticipation in their bones.

Now, grab your pen and start building those deliciously tense moments.

R

Avoiding Top-Heavy Stories: The Problem with Front-Loaded Descriptions

When I start writing a short story or a chapter for a novel, I often feel the urge to cram in all the details right away. With an exciting setting or an epic backstory, sharing everything upfront is tempting. I’ve learned that doing so leaves your story feeling unbalanced and weighed down.

Why It Happens

I feel our tendency to front-load descriptions often comes from a genuine desire to immerse readers in the world we’re building. As writers, we want to convey the richness of our settings, the depth of our characters, or the intricacies of our plot right from the start.

However, new authors sometimes overdo it by overwhelming readers with too much sensory detail, lengthy character backstories, or dense world-building all at once. While these elements are crucial, piling them into the opening paragraphs can backfire by slowing the pacing and overshadowing the story’s immediate action or emotional hook. Instead of drawing readers in, it risks creating a barrier that makes it harder for them to connect with the characters or understand why they should care about the stakes.

To illustrate this madness, here is the original opening I wrote for The Knave of Nodderton, chapter two.

The Alberding Bridge was an engineering marvel. Made of granite blocks and a concrete consisting of limestone and sand, it spanned over twelve hundred feet across the Wych: a broad, fast-moving river running from the highlands to the sea. It consisted of three vaulted tiers and was built as an aqueduct to bring fresh mountain runoff to Nodderton. Its topmost deck was redesigned as a bridge wide enough to allow for a single lane of travel and shunted water into a thick ceramic pipe that ran under the floor of the third tier. Although narrow and sometimes congested, it was the only bridge crossing the Wych for eighty miles and was an important thoroughfare for trade and foot traffic.

Yawn — are you still here?

If I could speed this up to include the following five paragraphs where I divulge its engineering, history, and function as an aqueduct, I think you’d see my point. Eventually, around paragraph seven, I introduce my main character. Yikes!

The Problem with Top-Heavy Stories

Starting a story with an overload of information is like beginning a hike with an overstuffed backpack — you’re weighed down before you’ve even taken your first steps. Similarly, readers diving into a story burdened by dense exposition or elaborate world-building can quickly feel fatigued. Instead of sparking curiosity or drawing them into the narrative, they’re left wading through a mire of details they haven’t had time to invest in yet.

This is especially detrimental in short fiction (nano, micro, and flash), where momentum is everything. The compact nature of the format demands that every sentence propels the story forward. If an info dump at the start grinds that momentum to a halt, it stalls the action and makes it difficult for readers to connect with your characters or grasp the stakes. The result? You risk losing your audience before they’ve had a chance to care. A strong opening should engage and intrigue, inviting readers to organically discover your world and its complexities as the story unfolds.

How to Spot It

Take a moment to reread your opening paragraphs and think about my “bridge to nowhere.” Are you meticulously describing every feature of your setting, down to the color of the curtains and the sound of distant birds? Have you launched into a detailed family history of your protagonist before any action takes place? If your opening reads more like an encyclopedia entry than a story, you’ll likely front-load all the “need-to-know” information. This is a classic sign of a top-heavy tale where the desire to explain everything upfront bogs the narrative’s flow.

How to Fix It

A balanced opening intrigues the reader with immediate conflict or action, allowing details to unfold naturally as the story progresses. Prioritize what’s essential to hook readers —introducing stakes, emotions, or action — while gradually layering in the backstory and setting.

When you find that top-heavy factor at work in your story, consciously:

1. Have the main character do something. This advice came to me from a great indie-press author, Jon Casper. Whenever I start a story or chapter that doesn’t somehow focus on my protagonist, I miss an opportunity to connect my character with the reader. I’m obstructing that chance for connection, and I should get out of the way!

2. Rewrite your story to weave in details throughout. Let your descriptions unfold naturally as the story progresses. Trust your reader to pick up on clues.

3. Focus on the action. What’s happening right now? That’s what matters. Start there and let the scene build organically.

4. Prioritize what’s essential: Ask yourself: “Does the reader need to know this right now?” If not, save it for later.

5. Use dialogue or action to reveal info: Avoid “telling.” Instead of describing a character’s personality in the opening, show it through their decisions or interactions.

The Beauty of Brevity

Short stories and other brief forms of fiction aren’t novels. In a novel, you might have the luxury of a leisurely build-up, weaving in rich exposition and complex backstories over several chapters. But in short-form fiction, every word must pull its weight. Your opening is valuable real estate; how you use it can make or break your story.

I often encounter this issue when judging micro and flash fiction. Authors tend to front-load their scene descriptions, devoting too much space to setting the stage. They realize they're running out of room as they approach the word limit. Rather than revising to weave the description more naturally throughout the story, they cling to their initial details out of emotional attachment — they like what they’ve written and don’t want to start over. This leaves them scrambling to fit in dialogue and rushing the ending, disrupting the story’s pacing and balance. Half the story is stage-setting, whereas the other half presents the conflict and a rushed resolution.

Instead of bogging down your beginning with a history lesson or excessive detail, hook your reader with a compelling moment that demands their attention. Kurt Vonnegut famously suggested, “Start as close to the end as possible.” By diving straight into the action or a striking scene, you invite readers to engage immediately, creating intrigue and momentum.

Short fiction thrives on immediacy and focus. Your opening should introduce something that sparks curiosity — a conflict, an unusual event, or a vivid image — while leaving some questions unanswered to draw the reader in. Think of it like planting a seed: you don’t need to show the whole tree immediately, just enough to make the reader want to see how it grows.

Brevity doesn’t mean sacrificing depth. It means being deliberate. Intentional. Use your limited space to build emotional resonance and propel the story forward, ensuring every detail serves the bigger picture. Done right, brevity can make your story sharper and more impactful. The best short stories are lean and engaging (read: efficient), pulling readers into the action and revealing the world piece by piece.

So, go ahead — lighten your load. Take that backpack off and get out of the way.

R

Getting Into Their Head: Selecting the Right POV for Your Story

As a new author diving into storytelling, you've likely never wrestled with the question: which point of view (POV) should I choose?

If you’re anything like me, when I started writing, I gravitated to one POV (the one used by the authors I enjoyed reading) and emulated their style. You stuck with that POV and hadn’t given it a second thought … until you took a writing class to learn how POV is used.

That’s when you learned POV is a technical decision — a tool that shapes how readers connect with your characters and experience their emotional journeys. Pick the wrong one, and your story might feel distant or disjointed. Pick the right one, and readers will be glued to your every word.

The Role of the Narrator

A narrator in a story is the voice or persona through which the story is told. The narrator provides information about characters, events, and settings, shaping how the story is presented and understood. The narrator can be a character in the story, an outside observer, or even an abstract, omniscient presence.

The narrator plays a critical role in shaping:

• Perspective. The narrator determines what the reader knows and sees.
  
  

• Tone and Voice. The narrator influences the emotional and stylistic feel of the story.
  
  

• Reliability. The narrator dictates whether the reader can trust the information presented.
  
  

• Connection. The narrator affects how closely the reader relates to the characters or events.
  
  

One of the more critical technical concerns in writing fiction is the question, “Who will be the narrator?” The narrator is not just the storyteller but also a lens through which the story is interpreted. Your story may have anywhere from one, three, eight, or seventy characters. Which character, however, is the best suited to tell your story? Whose story is this, and how should it be told? How much should the narrator know and be capable of relating to the reader?

• Limited narrators constrain the reader’s knowledge to just one character’s perspective, heightening tension and fostering empathy.
  
  

• Omniscient narrators can explore multiple characters' thoughts, histories, and motivations, creating a broader and more dynamic narrative.

This choice relates to whether the story feels personal, expansive, focused, or sprawling, but it can also convey its overall tone.

• A sarcastic narrator like Holden Caulfield (The Catcher in the Rye) infuses the story with humor and cynicism.
  
  

• A detached, objective narrator (like a reporter) can lend an almost journalistic tone to the narrative.
  
  

• A child narrator might highlight themes of innocence or the unreliability of perception.
  
  

• An omniscient, otherworldly narrator might explore existential themes by juxtaposing characters’ inner struggles with a broader cosmic view.

Some narrators go hand-in-hand with the genre. Examples:

• The noir narrator. The narrator for a noir story is typically characterized by a gritty, hard-boiled, world-weary perspective infused with cynicism, sharp wit, and a jaded view of humanity. This narrator embodies the tone and atmosphere of the genre, which is often shadowy, morally ambiguous, and steeped in tension. The reader expects this narrator to be present if you're writing a noir; your POV choices are limited. "It was the kind of night that wrapped itself around you like a cheap suit — tight, uncomfortable, reeking of regret.”
  
  

• The Gothic horror narrator. The Gothic narrator often carries a deep sense of sorrow or emotional turmoil. They may be haunted by personal loss, guilt, or existential dread. Let’s lay it on thick with, “The shadows in the room seemed alive, whispering the secrets of a past I could not escape, though I had tried with every ounce of my failing will.”
  
  

• The epic fantasy narrator (my favorite!). This narrator’s tone often carries an elevated, almost reverential quality, reflecting the importance of the story’s events in a vast, interconnected world. This narrator usually has a sweeping view of the world and its history but may focus closely on the perspectives of key characters. “Long before the stars were named and the mountains bore their crowns of snow, the fate of kingdoms was written in blood and fire.”
  
  

Finally, there’s the question of reliability — how much we should trust the narrator and what they tell us.

• The reliable narrator is honest about the events they experience. They’re honest about the story, the characters, and the events.
  
  

• An unreliable narrator isn’t as straightforward. They may deliberately try to misdirect the reader's understanding of the story. An unreliable narrator may have lost credibility due to ignorance, poor insight, personal biases, mistakes, or dishonesty.

Choosing the right narrator is a cornerstone of storytelling. The narrator determines what is told, how it’s told, and why it matters. This choice affects every narrative aspect, from the plot’s structure to the reader’s emotional engagement.

However, where the choice of narrator determines who tells the story, the choice of POV defines how the story is told. They jointly shape the narrative scope, tone, and the reader’s emotional connection with the story.

The POV Rundown

First-Person (1P) POV: This is the "I" perspective. The narrator is a character in the story, using pronouns like "I," "me," and "we." First-person drops readers directly into the character’s head. It’s perfect for stories driven by voice and raw emotion. However, you’re limited to what the character knows and experiences — no bounding into other heads or unseen events. You’re restricted to what the POV character sees, feels, and experiences. There are two types of 1P:

• First-Person Central: The narrator is the protagonist. “I walked into the room and immediately felt uneasy.”
  
  

• First-Person Peripheral: The narrator is a side character observing the story. They may witness the events of a story but aren’t the main character. “I’d always admired Gabriel from a distance, watching as he navigated the city with a confidence I could never muster. He never knew I existed, but when he stepped into that dark alley, I followed and saw him draw the blade—sharp, gleaming, and deadly.”
  
  

Second-Person (2P) POV: Rarely used but highly immersive, second-person addresses the reader as "you." Example:

“You step into the dark alley, and footsteps echo behind you.”

The narrator addresses the reader directly, using pronouns like "you" and "your." It can pull readers into a character’s skin like a “Choose Your Own Adventure,” but it risks feeling gimmicky if it isn’t handled carefully.

Third-Person (3P): The narrator is outside the story and refers to all characters using third-person pronouns like "he," "she," "they," or "it." There are three types of 3P:

• Third-Person Limited: A specific type of third-person narration where the narrator focuses on the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of one character at a time. You can describe the character’s thoughts and emotions in detail while maintaining narrative flexibility. This makes it a popular choice for emotional journeys. “Sophia hesitated, her heart pounding as she stared at the locked door. She had no idea what was waiting behind it, but the faint whispers made her blood run cold.”
  

• Third-Person Objective (My Usual Choice): Here, the narrator observes and describes the story's events without accessing any character’s internal thoughts, feelings, or motivations. The narrator acts as a neutral, unbiased observer, reporting only what can be seen, heard, or inferred from external actions and dialogue. The narrator does not interpret, explain, or provide insight into the inner workings of the characters’ minds; the narration is strictly limited to observable details. “Sarah stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She hesitated, glancing at the clock on the wall. The man sitting at the desk didn’t look up. She cleared her throat, and he finally raised his head, his expression unreadable. ‘You’re late,’ he said.”
  
  

• Third-Person Omniscient (3PO): The narrator is all-knowing, with the ability to access the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of multiple characters. While it allows for broad storytelling, it’s less effective at creating a deep emotional connection with one character. “Evelyn smiled, though her heart was heavy with doubt. Across the room, Robert watched her, convinced her smile was meant for someone else. Unbeknownst to either of them, the letter that would change their lives forever was already on its way, carried by a messenger through the stormy night.”

Stream of Consciousness POV: A narrative style that presents a character's thoughts, feelings, and sensory impressions in a free-flowing, often disjointed manner. It creates a deep, intimate connection with the character's inner world, but may be difficult for the reader to follow. “The clock ticks, louder, louder—why is it so loud?—her breath catches, a tangle of whispers in her mind.”

Epistolary POV: The story is told through letters, journal entries, emails, or other documents. Dracula by Bram Stoker is written as a series of journal entries and letters. This POV creates immediacy and realism and allows multiple perspectives, but it can feel fragmented or disjointed if inappropriately integrated.

Framed Narrative POV: A story within a story, often with a narrator recounting events that occurred to them or someone else. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley uses a framed narrative structure, adding depth and layers to the story and allowing for multiple narrative voices. But a box within a box can be confusing.

The Problem of Emotional Distance

So, let’s play these structures out.

Your story’s central conflict revolves around surviving an abusive relationship (Person vs. Person). Your protagonist will experience wrenching emotions and heartbreak in a story exploring themes such as intimacy vs betrayal, the loss of trust, and the importance of agency and self-love. The emotional stakes are clear: despite the harm inflicted upon her by a lover, she must persevere and thrive or risk wallowing in self-pity, missing an opportunity to grow. You want the reader to empathize with the character’s feelings and feel their struggle. You want the readers to feel an ache in their chest, a lump in their throat.

• Choice of Narrator. Well, it’s not going to be the ex. It’s not likely to be your character’s best friend. Your best choice is the character who’ll be experiencing those emotions. Writing standard fiction, you’re not limited to a specific tone, but you do want the reader to trust your narrator and their lived experiences.

• Choice of POV. 3P Omniscient or Objective isn’t the way to go; both are too detached. 2P would shift focus to the reader and their suffering, which wouldn’t make any sense. A Stream of Consciousness, Epistolary, or 1P Peripheral might offer a unique, compelling POV (more oranges!) that could add layers of narrative complexity, but a straightforward 1P Central or 3PL will be your best choice.

• Choosing the Right POV. So, after narrowing down our choices of narrator and possible POVs, let’s compare the POVs we’re considering in the context of emotional impact:

There it is. Probably 1P Central.

Striking the right balance is key.

Ask yourself:

• How much do I want the reader to know or feel?

• Do I need the reader to experience events as the character does?

• Is my story more about personal emotion or larger themes? Is locking yourself in to just one character the right way to explore those themes?

Experiment and Play

Although some say stories should never be told in 2P, or warn authors from 3PO because it can’t be used “effectively,” there’s no correct, right answer, only the best fit for your story. Don’t be afraid to rewrite a scene from different POVs to see what clicks. You might be surprised at how a shift from third-person to first-person breathes life into your character.

Ultimately, choosing the right POV isn’t just a technical decision; it’s an emotional one. It’s about making readers feel every heartbreak, triumph, and quiet moment of reflection, but it’s also about who you connect with most as an author. So take a deep breath, dive in, play, and let your characters guide your way.

R

Bang! Crash! Splat! Is That Really Writing?

There you are, immersed in your world, writing out an action sequence when —

Bang!

And you stop.

What’s that you wrote?

It’s onomatopoeia.

Onomatopoeia are those delightful little words that mimic the sounds they represent. Examples of onomatopoeic words include "buzz," "sizzle," "hiss," "clang," and "roar" — words that evoke the sound of actions, objects, or phenomena they describe to enhance sensory imagery.

Yeah, it’s a weird-looking word. "Onomatopoeia" derives from the Greek roots:

• "onoma" (ὄνομα), “name."

• "poiein" (ποιεῖν), "to make" or "to compose."

"Onomatopoiía" (ὀνοματοποιία) means "name-making" or "word-making."

Onomatopoeia can do wonders, whether the ominous creak of a haunted house door or the cheerful pop of champagne at a celebration. Aside from comic books, it’s often found in poetry, children’s books, and fiction, so it’s no wonder where new authors picked it up from: they’ve been exposed to it their whole lives.

But too much of a good thing can turn even the best writing into a caricature of itself. Overusing it can cheapen your prose, making it feel more like a Saturday morning cartoon than the compelling narrative you’re striving for.

Abusing Onomatopoeia

Excessive onomatopoeia can feel gimmicky or juvenile. “Serious” literary works prize subtlety, and the use of onomatopoeia may clash with a refined, introspective tone. If the sound effects overpower the narrative, weaken the tone and style, and may be received as amateurish. Critics may even perceive it as a cheap trick if it doesn’t integrate smoothly with the text.

The Problem of Onomatopoeia Overload

1. Onomatopoeia Distracts from the Story: Whenever you toss in a "Bam!" or a "Whoosh!", you’re asking your reader to focus on the sound, not the setting or the action; you’re short-cutting describing the scene. Example:
   
   The villain entered the room and ducked — Boom! Pow! His metal footsteps clanked across the floor.
   
   It might sound exciting, but it doesn’t give readers any real sense of what’s happening. Did he discharge a weapon? Was he shot at? By whom? Is the villain stomping? Sauntering? Running? What’s going on here? As authors, we paint pictures with words, not just sounds or images, like comic books might. We write in detail so the reader can better understand what’s happening.
   

2. Onomatopoeia Feels Lazy: Overuse of onomatopoeia can signal to readers that you’re cutting corners. Onomatopoeia provides a quick sensory shortcut, prioritizing immediacy over craft. Instead of describing the squeal of rubber tires on wet pavement, you write:
   
   Screech!
   
   Sure, it conveys the action and sound, but it doesn’t give the reader the context or emotional depth of the moment. Critics might even argue that onomatopoeia missed opportunities for deeper engagement. For instance, instead of writing:
   
   The door creaked open.
   

   First, recognize a cliché when you read it — an over-used phrase that lacks originality. Yawn. It’s dull, boring, trite. Onomatopoeia often leans on universal sounds that are inherently understood, such as “buzz” for bees, “boom” for explosions, or “creak” for doors. While this universality can effectively convey a thought quickly, it may also feel unoriginal. Writers who rely on these stock sounds might be perceived as missing an opportunity to write more fresh, vivid imagery.
   
   So, why write that when you could explore the action with a more thorough, thoughtful description:
   
   Straining, the door protested as I pushed it open. Its rusted iron hinges groaned under the weight of its years.
   

   The latter example uses personification and metaphor, inviting the reader to feel the age and wear of the setting. A tone is set; an emotion is pulled from the experience as the protagonist struggles to enter the room. We’re experiencing a dramatic moment on a broader scale, not just hearing the sound of a door.
   

3. Onomatopoeia Breaks Immersion Overloading your prose with sound words can pull your readers out of the narrative. If your intense action scene reads like: "Bang! Boom! Wham! He fired again," it risks sounding like a comic book rather than a riveting novel. It’s made worse when authors intentionally write onomatopoeia in all-caps like BANG!, BOOM!, and WHAM!, further distracting from the read. It’s even more glaring in short forms (nano, micro, and flash fiction), where its overuse can quickly become a distraction and — in the least — are wasted words.

Finding Balance

This doesn’t mean you should abandon onomatopoeia altogether. Used sparingly and with intention, it can add layers to your storytelling. Here are a few ideas.

• Pair Sound with Description: Instead of just "Clang!", try "The clang of steel against stone echoed through the cavern, sending shivers down her spine."
  

• Choose Moments Wisely: Save onomatopoeia for scenes where it enhances the reader’s experience — a dramatic crash in the climax or the subtle drip of water in a tense moment.
  

• Use It In Dialogue: Onomatopoeia can shine in dialogue. "Did you hear that thud?" feels more natural than a narrator inserting it.

Tips for the Road

• Think of onomatopoeia like seasoning. A pinch of "Boom!" or "Clink!" can elevate a sentence, but overuse will leave readers rolling their eyes and flipping pages.
  

• Think about how its use complements a scene rather than shortcuts a scene.
  

• Think about how onomatopoeia can disrupt the reader’s flow.
  

• Consider if you’re using a trite expression that doesn’t complement the scene's intention, perhaps diminishing the tone or atmosphere you’re trying to create.
  

• Is its use appropriate for the work? Are you writing “serious literature” for a snooty audience or a comedy to be consumed by an everyday Joe?

In Closing

Mastering onomatopoeia is about knowing when to hold back or when to avoid using it at all. Trust your storytelling skills to carry the weight. Get it done — without a single "Kaboom!"

R

Embracing the Zen of Writing Contests

Writing contests might seem intimidating at first.

You might think, “What if my story isn’t good enough? What if someone else’s work outshines mine? What if nobody likes what I write?”

Yeah, you feel that anxiety monster clawing its way to the surface, don’t you?

But here’s what I think.

Writing contests aren’t about beating others.

They’re about challenging yourself.

Let’s Get All Zen About It

Okay, take a long, deep breath, feel the floor under your toes (or your butt in a chair), and slowly exhale, concentrating on the present moment. Accept that …

• Yes, you’ll pay real money to enter a contest. It might be as little as a morning coffee or as much as a night out. Just accept it. It takes labor and materials to put on a contest. The people who do it should be fairly compensated. Accept the fact that you’re going to be out a few bucks. Farewell, sweet money; you were meant to be spent. Kisses.
  

• Yes, there’ll be lots of competition. Most writing contests have hundreds of participants, sometimes thousands, and the likelihood you’ll earn back that money is slim. Like all gambling, don’t spend more than you couldn’t afford to lose.
  

• Yes, you are vulnerable. You’re laying your work on the line for evaluation and critique by strangers. You’re setting yourself up for a fall — disappointment and rejection are tough feelings. It's time to noodle through those, buster. Emotional processing is your responsibility!

• Yes, you’re taking a risk. You’ve real jeopardy here: money, time, the sweet taste of appreciation, and the fear of rejection. You’ll likely receive criticism about your work, not just brainless praise from your friends or aunt. (Uh-huh. Did they read your story, or are they just placating you? Think about it.)
  

Embrace the moment; feel the burn. Realize that you’re doing the same thing you’d typically do if you were trying to publish your work.

1. You spent the time to write a story — time is money.

2. You find a call for submission where your story might fit and submit the work for consideration.

3. You bite your nails and await the verdict. You’re vulnerable, and there’s competition for an editor’s attention.

4. Odds say you’ll receive a rejection, but that makes the acceptance letter even more vindicating.

5. And a risk taken resulted in failure or reward.

Contests Are Practice

By entering a contest, you’re practicing for the real world of writing and publication. Think of writing contests like runners think of 5Ks. It’s not about crossing the finish line first. It’s about pushing your limits, gaining experience, and always learning something new.

For writers, contests are a way to sharpen skills, build confidence, and grow into better storytellers. You’re learning — in the moment — while doing. I don’t know about you, but doing is the only way I know how to improve my writing. Heck, it’s why I write this blog.

When you enter a writing contest, you commit to crafting something within constraints — word count, theme, or genre — delivered in a certain amount of time. These constraints often force creativity to a boil on the stovetop of your brain. You learn to say more with less, to focus your narrative, create compelling characters, and polish your prose until it shines.

But let’s get back to the Zen of it all.

Winning? Sure, it’s a great feeling and elevates the smug in your life, but it’s not the heart of the experience. Go deeper. The real magic lies in showing up and being in the moment, even when you lose.

In performing the acts of writing, editing, and submitting, you learn to quiet the inner critic and let your creative voice flow. Every contest is a stepping stone on your journey to mastering the art of storytelling.

And let’s not forget the community. Writing contests bring together people who share your passion. There’s camaraderie in knowing that others are staying up late, wrestling with characters and plot twists, and wondering if they’ve gotten that ending just right. Contests foster an invaluable connection, whether exchanging feedback, sharing struggles, or cheering each other on.

Ultimately, You Are in a Contest With Yourself

Isn’t that true?

Embrace the challenge. Push yourself. Treat every contest as a chance to grow, celebrate storytelling, and practice the craft. You’re not competing against others; you’re competing with yourself to improve, step by step, just like runners prepare for a marathon.

Next time you see a writing contest pop up, don’t hesitate.

Jump.

Embrace the moment.

Write boldly and submit proudly.

No matter the outcome, you’ll come away with something far more valuable than a prize: the satisfaction of knowing you gave it your all. Maybe you’ll get knocked down. Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself. Perhaps you’ll improve? Why, you might even win!

Regardless, isn’t the price for that journey the best $30 you’ve ever spent?

R

The Magic of Symbolism in Writing

Symbolism.

Yeah, it sounds fancy, something that only literary geniuses or coffee-shop intellectuals can pull off.

“Oh, but Beatrice, the appearance of the corvid in chapter seven only reinforces the protagonist’s cleverness and ingenuity.” James slurped his espresso.

“And therein,” Beatrice replied, petting her mink shawl, “the character becomes the bird. Anyone can see that. But did you see the parallel between the character’s nose and the bird’s beak?”

Yawn. Are we done yet?

But here’s the secret: anyone can use symbolism effectively, not just Beatrice and James.

It’s not about being mysterious or complicated — it’s about adding depth to your story in a way that resonates with readers.

Let’s unpack what symbolism is and how you can wield it like the storytelling wizard you are.

What is Symbolism?

Symbolism in literature uses an object, character, or event to represent something beyond its literal meaning. It’s a way to weave your story’s themes into the fabric of your narrative without spelling them out.

Imagine your theme is personal growth. A tree in your story might represent that growth — starting as a fragile sapling and growing into a towering oak.

The beauty of symbolism lies in its subtlety. It doesn’t slap readers in the face; it whispers to them, inviting them to interpret its meaning on their terms.

Is Symbolism Intended or Interpreted?

Okay, I’m ripping this off from a Reddit thread because it’s truly awesome.

In 1963, a 16-year-old student wondered about this. So he wrote to famous novelists and asked. The results were exactly what you'd expect.

Question: "Do you consciously, intentionally plan and place symbolism in your writing?... If yes, please state your method for doing so. Do you feel you subconsciously place symbolism in your writing?"

Jack Kerouac: "No."

Isaac Asimov: “Consciously? Heavens, no! Unconsciously? How can one avoid it?”

Joseph Heller: “Yes, I do intentionally rely on symbolism in my writing, but not to the extent that many people have stated…No, I do not subconsciously place symbolism in my writing, although there are inevitably many occasions when events acquire a meaning additional to the one originally intended.”

Ray Bradbury: “No, I never consciously place symbolism in my writing. That would be a self-conscious exercise and self-consciousness is defeating to any creative act. Better to let the subconscious do the work for you, and get out of the way. The best symbolism is always unsuspected and natural."

John Updike: “Yes—I have no method; there is no method in writing fiction; you don’t seem to understand.”

Norman Mailer: “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for a working novelist to concern himself too much with the technical aspects of the matter. Generally, the best symbols in a novel are those you become aware of only after you finish the work.”

Ralph Ellison: “Symbolism arises out of action…Once a writer is conscious of the implicit symbolism which arises in the course of a narrative, he may take advantage of them and manipulate them consciously as a further resource of his art. Symbols which are imposed upon fiction from the outside tend to leave the reader dissatisfied by making him aware that something extraneous is added.”

Saul Bellow: “A ‘symbol’ grows in its own way, out of the facts.”

Richard Hughes: “[Consciously?] No. [Subconsciously?] Probably yes. After all, to a lesser extent, the same is true of our daily conversation—in fact, of everything we think and say and do.”

Sometimes, a bird is just a bird, and the bird is what we make of it as readers.

With that practical lesson in mind, there’s no doubt symbolism, however, can reinforce themes and elevate a story.

Examples of Symbolism in Action

1. The Red Balloon. A red balloon might symbolize freedom and joy in a story about childhood innocence. But it could mark the end of innocence or a sudden loss when it pops.
   

2. A Broken Mirror. A shattered mirror can symbolize a fragmented self if your story explores identity. Each shard reflects a part of the character they’re struggling to reconcile.
   

3. Rainstorms. Rain can symbolize cleansing, renewal, or even sadness. A character caught in a sudden downpour might find clarity — or sink deeper into their struggles.

Connecting Symbolism to Themes

Symbolism is most potent when it ties directly to your story’s themes. If your theme is love’s endurance, a recurring image of a wilted but resilient flower might do the trick. If your theme is betrayal, a shadow that looms over your protagonist could serve as a constant, foreboding reminder.

The key is choosing symbols that resonate with your theme and subtly repeating them. Too heavy-handed, and it feels forced; too vague, and it feels random. The art of symbolism is finding that light-touch connection.

The New Writer’s Challenge

The biggest hurdle for new writers? Overthinking it. Symbolism doesn’t have to be perfect or groundbreaking. Start small. Pick one symbol that feels meaningful to your story and explore its possibilities. Please pay attention to how it evolves alongside your characters and themes.

Symbolism doesn’t need to scream, “Look at me!” It should feel natural like it belonged in your story all along.

Closing Thoughts

Symbolism is like seasoning for your story. Just a pinch can bring out the flavors of your themes and characters. So go ahead, experiment, and have fun. Before you know it, you’ll create layers of meaning that your readers will savor long after turning the final page.

R

Unlocking the Mystery of Underdeveloped Characters

Have you ever read a story and felt the characters were paper-thin representations of real people who existed primarily to serve the plot?

We call these underdeveloped characters, and they’re the bane of reader engagement.

Underdeveloped characters lack depth, motivation, or backstory, leaving readers disconnected and indifferent. Crafting fully realized characters can seem daunting, but it’s a skill worth honing.

What Are Underdeveloped Characters?

Underdeveloped characters are like cardboard cutouts: they look the part but lack substance. They don’t have precise desires, fears, or conflicts, making it hard for readers to care about their journey. They might only exist to deliver exposition, act as plot devices, or fill stereotypical roles.

Fully developed characters, on the other hand, feel like real people. They’re flawed, complex, and active participants in their story. Readers are likelier to stay invested in your narrative when your characters are compelling. In contrast, underdeveloped characters can significantly undermine a story, stripping it of depth, emotional resonance, and authenticity. Here’s why.

• Lack of Emotional Engagement. Readers connect with stories through characters. When characters lack depth, motivation, or complexity, readers struggle to relate to them or care about their journeys. This detachment diminishes the story's emotional impact, making it harder for the audience to invest in the stakes.
  

• Unconvincing Plot Progression. Characters drive the narrative. The story may feel contrived if their actions or decisions feel forced, inconsistent, or poorly motivated due to underdevelopment. Events unfold without organic causality, leaving readers questioning the logic or believability of the plot.
  

• Flat, Stereotypical Archetypes. Underdeveloped characters often default to clichés or stereotypes, offering nothing fresh or memorable. These archetypes can make the story predictable and uninspired, reducing its ability to stand out or leave a lasting impression.
  

• Missed Thematic Depth. Well-rounded characters often embody or explore the story's themes. When characters lack dimension, the themes they represent may be diluted or unexplored, diminishing the narrative’s potential to resonate on a deeper level.
  

• Weak Interpersonal Dynamics. Relationships between characters are a cornerstone of compelling storytelling. If characters lack depth, their interactions may feel hollow or uninteresting, robbing the story of dramatic tension and emotional weight.
  

• Unrealized Worldbuilding. Characters are the lens through which readers experience the story world. When characters are underdeveloped, their world can feel as flat as their perceptions, conflicts, and experiences fail to bring it to life.

To avoid these pitfalls, authors should give characters distinct voices, flaws, and arcs, ensuring they serve as active, believable participants in the story. The narrative flourishes when the characters are fully realized, drawing readers into a compelling, immersive experience.

Three Examples of Underdeveloped Characters

1. The One-Note Villain: A bad guy who’s bad for no reason doesn’t inspire dread or intrigue. Imagine a villain whose only trait is being “evil.” Instead, give your antagonist a believable motive—maybe they’re trying to save their own family at any cost.
   

2. The Passive Protagonist: This hero seems to wander through the story, letting things happen to them. They lack agency. Instead, make your protagonist an active decision-maker, even if their choices are flawed. This keeps readers engaged with their struggles.
   

3. The Invisible Best Friend: A sidekick who only exists to agree with the protagonist adds little value. Flesh them out by giving them their own goals and challenges. This makes the world richer and more believable.

Why Character Depth Matters in Short Stories

In short stories, every word counts, so underdeveloped characters stand out like a sore thumb. Engaged readers connect with characters who feel alive, even in a brief narrative. Think of characters like anchors; they hold your readers firmly in the story's emotional core. Without them, your story risks becoming a forgettable plot summary.

When you invest time in character development, readers will laugh, cry, and root for your characters. The payoff? They’ll keep turning the page and returning for more of your stories.

Final Tips for New Writers

• Start with a Question. What does this character want, and why can’t they have it? Answering this gives you a foundation for conflict.
  

• Show, Don’t Tell. Instead of saying a character is brave, show them making a tough decision.
  

• Embrace Flaws. Perfect characters are bland and boring — they spoil the soup! — whereas imperfections make them relatable.

Take the time to breathe life into your characters. Make them interesting, give them depth, and refine them.

R

What Makes a Satisfying Ending to a Short Story?

When it comes to short stories, endings hold immense power. A satisfying ending doesn’t just tie up loose ends; it resonates with readers, leaving them thinking, feeling, or imagining long after the final sentence. But what makes an ending genuinely satisfying, especially for short fiction? Come, let us explore.

The Concept of a Satisfying Ending

A satisfying ending doesn’t necessarily mean a happy one. It’s about closure and meaning. In short stories, where word count is limited, the ending should pack an emotional punch, give new insight, or provoke further thought. Crafting such an ending can be tricky for new authors — how do you avoid making it feel rushed or disconnected? The key lies in weaving the ending into the story’s core theme or conflict.

A satisfying ending in literature, particularly in short stories, culminates events, themes, and character arcs, leaving readers with a sense of resolution or meaningful closure. While the specific elements of satisfaction can vary depending on the story's genre and purpose, a satisfying ending typically achieves the following.

1. Resolves the Central Conflict. Every story revolves around a conflict, whether internal (a character grappling with emotions or choices) or external (a battle against an antagonist or environment). A satisfying ending addresses this conflict, showing how it is overcome, resolved, or left as an inevitable part of the character's world.
   

2. It feels Earned, Not Contrived. The resolution should arise naturally from the story's preceding events and character decisions. It shouldn’t rely on coincidence, deus ex machina, or other artificial devices that undermine the story’s integrity.
   

3. Delivers Emotional Payoff. The ending should evoke a strong emotional response: joy, sadness, relief, or thought-provoking ambiguity. It should resonate with the reader, creating a lingering impression.
   

4. Reinforces the Story’s Themes. A satisfying ending ties back to the core ideas or messages explored in the story. For example, a tale about the cost of ambition might end with a character achieving their goal but at great personal expense.
   

5. Provides Closure (Even When Ambiguous). Closure doesn’t necessarily mean every question is answered or every subplot is tied up neatly. Instead, the reader feels they’ve reached a natural stopping point, even if the ending is open to interpretation.
   

6. Surprises, But Feels Inevitable. The best endings often combine unpredictability with a sense of inevitability. Upon reflection, the reader sees how the clues and groundwork led naturally to the conclusion, even if they didn’t anticipate it.
   

7. Fits the Story’s Tone and Genre. The tone of the ending should align with the story as a whole. A dark, somber tale might end on a haunting note, while a comedic story might leave the reader chuckling or feeling light-hearted.

In short stories, the ending carries even more weight. Because the narrative is concise, the conclusion is often a concentrated moment of revelation or impact — a twist, epiphany, or poignant resolution that gives the story its whole meaning. Examples of satisfying endings in short stories might include:

• O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi": A twist that underscores the theme of selfless love.
  

• Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery": A shocking, thought-provoking conclusion that leaves readers grappling with its implications.

Ultimately, a satisfying ending reflects the writer's intent and provides readers with a sense of fulfillment, whether that fulfillment comes from answers, emotional resonance, or intellectual stimulation.

Three Types of Satisfying Endings

1. The Full-Circle Ending. In this type, the story concludes by reflecting the beginning, creating a sense of completion. For example, if your story starts with a character standing in a train station debating whether to leave, it could end with them back at the station — now resolute in their decision. This technique provides emotional resonance and thematic unity.
   

2. The Twist Ending. Twists surprise the reader but must feel earned. Imagine a tale about a struggling artist who sells their soul for fame, only to discover their admirer was the devil all along. Twists work best when subtle clues are planted throughout the story.
   

3. The Ambiguous Ending. Ambiguity allows readers to engage their imagination. Consider a story about a character chasing a shadow into a foggy forest. The tale ends with them disappearing into the mist. Did they find what they were looking for? Were they lost forever? A touch of mystery keeps the story alive in readers’ minds. It continues off the page.

Using Ambiguity Constructively

A note on the ambiguous ending. Ambiguity isn’t about confusing readers; it’s about letting them imagine what happens next. A well-crafted, ambiguous ending aligns with the story’s tone and theme while leaving key questions unanswered. This approach is especially effective in genres like speculative fiction or literary tales, where the unknown adds depth.

Why New Authors Should Experiment

Short stories offer a perfect playground for experimenting with endings. Don’t be afraid to try something bold. Maybe the characters don’t get what they want, or their story ends on a poetic, unresolved note. Challenge yourself to think about how the ending reflects the whole story and consider what you want your readers to feel.

Whether your story comes full circle, takes an unexpected turn, or drifts into ambiguity, the goal is to leave your readers with a sense of wonder, satisfaction, or curiosity. So go ahead and write that ending that sticks.

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Crafting Compelling Character Arcs in Short Stories

Writing short stories is like cooking a rich, flavorful stew in a small pot — you need the right ingredients in just the right proportions to make an exquisite dish.

One of those key ingredients? A strong character arc.

But what exactly is a character arc, and how do you make it work in the limited space of a short story?

Here, try this. [Urging you to sip hot broth from a wooden spoon.]

What’s a Character Arc?

A character arc is the internal journey a character takes throughout a story. It’s how they grow, change, or understand something new about themselves or the world.

While novels often have the luxury of sprawling, gradual character development, short stories demand precision. Every word counts, and so does every choice your character makes.

Character arcs make your story resonate with readers. They provide depth and emotional payoff, ensuring your audience feels like they’ve been on a meaningful journey — even in a few thousand words.

Three Examples of Character Arcs

1. The Redemption Arc. Imagine a character who starts self-centered or morally compromised. By the story’s end, they’ve had an epiphany or taken a selfless action. For example, a grumpy old fisherman might begrudgingly take in a stranded traveler, only to risk his life to save them during a storm. The arc shows the fisherman’s transformation from selfish to selfless.
   

2. The Revelation Arc. This is when a character discovers a truth about themselves or their world. Picture a young scientist trying to save her town from a mysterious illness, only to realize her experiments caused it. Her arc lies in accepting responsibility and finding redemption.
   

3. The Tragic Arc. Not every arc ends happily. A character might strive to change but fail, highlighting their flaws or the inevitability of fate. Consider a detective who sacrifices everything to solve a case, only to learn the truth destroys him. The resolution is poignant yet satisfying because it feels earned.

Character Resolution in Short Stories

The resolution should tie directly into the character’s arc in a short story. Did they achieve their goal? Did they fail? Did they change — or stubbornly refuse to? Whatever the outcome or transformation, the journey must feel authentic.

For example, if your story centers on a thief who decides to turn over a new leaf, the resolution could involve them returning a stolen artifact, even if it means getting caught. The resolution shows how the arc concludes and leaves the reader with closure.

Tips for New Authors

1. Start with the End in Mind. Before you write, decide how your character will change. Knowing the resolution helps you shape the arc.
   

2. Focus on One Key Transformation. There’s no room for multiple arcs in a short story — zero in on one significant change. If you have multiple arcs, hold up and question yourself: are you muddling the water? Which is the most critical transformation to convey at this moment?
   

3. Use Small Moments to Show Big Changes. A single gesture, thought, or line of dialogue can speak volumes about your character’s growth. Show their processing. Show their transformation.

Hmm. Character arcs. Delicious.

Crafting a character arc in a short story might seem daunting initially, but with practice, you’ll discover it’s one of the most rewarding ways to connect with readers.

R

Showing the Stakes in Flash Fiction and Short Stories

Flash fiction and short stories are like roller coasters: short, exhilarating, and unforgettable. But what makes the ride thrilling? The gamble — the stakes!

Stakes are the emotional, physical, or existential risks that drive a story. They keep readers glued to the page, biting their nails to see what happens next.

So, let’s explore that more. What are stakes?

Stakes are the consequences of a character’s actions or inaction.

Stakes answer the question: What happens if this character fails or succeeds? Without stakes, even the most creative story ideas can fall flat. Stakes don’t just raise tension; stakes make readers care about the outcome.

Stakes in storytelling are the elements that give a story its tension, urgency, and emotional weight. They represent what’s at risk for the characters and can take many forms — personal, emotional, physical, societal, or even existential.

Stakes answers the question: Why should the reader care about what happens?

The Role of Stakes in Storytelling

1. Creating Tension and Conflict. Stakes drive the conflict in a story. They establish what the characters stand to gain or lose, whether it’s their life, love, reputation, or even their soul. High stakes keep readers invested because they want to see how the conflict will resolve.
   

2. Motivating Characters. Stakes fuel character motivations. A protagonist fighting for a clear, compelling goal because of significant stakes — like saving a loved one or redeeming themselves — becomes relatable and engaging.
   

3. Driving Plot. Stakes influence the trajectory of a story. They help to shape the plot by giving purpose to the characters’ decisions and actions. The higher or more personal the stakes, the more gripping the narrative becomes.
   

4. Establishing Emotional Investment. Stakes tap into universal fears, desires, or dreams, making the reader emotionally invested in the outcome. If readers identify with the stakes, they are more likely to connect deeply with the characters and the story.

Exploring Stakes in Your Story

In short-form fiction, every word counts. You don’t have time to meander or build slow-burning tension. Stakes should be clear and impactful right away. Here’s how you can explore them:

• Tie stakes to character goals. What does your character want? What stands in their way? Make the potential fallout personal and meaningful.
  

• Show the consequences. Don’t just tell us what’s at risk — show it. What does failure look like? What does success cost?
  

• Keep it relatable. Even if your story features alien planets or talking raccoons, stakes grounded in universal emotions — like love, fear, or survival — resonate best.

What Happens if Stakes Are Unclear?

If your readers don’t understand what’s at risk, they’ll struggle to connect with the story. Imagine a tale where a character rushes through an obstacle course without explanation. Why are they running? Are they trying to save someone? Win a prize? Stay alive? Without stakes, there’s no urgency, no tension, no reason for readers to care.

Examples of Stakes in Action

1. The Clock is Ticking. In a flash fiction piece, a scientist must disable a bomb before it destroys a city. The stakes are crystal clear: lives are at risk. But what makes it personal? The scientist’s daughter is in the blast zone. Now, the stakes aren’t just global—they’re heartbreakingly personal.
   

2. Emotional Fallout. A short story about a teen deciding whether to come out to their family might not involve explosions, but the stakes are no less gripping. Acceptance, rejection, and the risk of losing relationships make readers invest in the outcome.
   

3. Existential Threats. In a surreal tale, a man trapped in a dream must escape before his body dies in the real world. The stakes are life or death, but the twist of time running out in a dreamscape adds tension.

Closing Thoughts

When the stakes are clear, your story becomes a page-turner. Readers must see the risks, feel the tension, and root for your characters.

So, before you hit “publish,” ask yourself: What’s at stake? Is it coming across clearly in the story?

R

Why Emotional Engagement Is the Hallmark of Great Fiction

Hey!

Okay, you’ve crafted an exciting plot, a twisty-turny story with dazzling prose. You’re ready to have it reviewed.

Yet, when your beta readers return with your manuscript, their feedback is sullen and lukewarm.

“I didn’t feel connected to the characters,” they say.

Ouch.

Okay, what’s missing? Emotional engagement.

Readers want to feel.

They crave moments that tug at their heartstrings, make them laugh, or even grit their teeth in frustration. Without that emotional connection, even the best plots can fall flat.

So, how do you write stories that resonate with your readers?

First Off

I’m terrible at this. I originally started writing as an academic and turned technical writer; the name of my game back then was Milk Toast. That kind of writing doesn’t do emotion.

Even today, I stumble over what a character might feel at a specific moment in my story, and I’ll ask my betas, “Er, what do you think is happening here? What’s this character feeling?” Believe me, I’d much rather write a fun sword & sorcery action scene than process what somebody is feeling. Yuk. Who cares? Look at this cool dragon.

Now, please don’t think of me as emotionally stunted, disconnected, or ambivalent. I’m just not very good at identifying emotional responses to problems. I’m a very clinical and analytical person. I’m not a Vulcan, but I'm rooted in a worldview involving more data than emotional processing.

So, first, I’ve learned to ask for help. Maybe you’re like me and have trouble recognizing emotions. Ask your betas for help clarifying what your characters might be feeling. If you need to, ask for help identifying that emotional connection.

Let Them Speak Their Truth

Dialogue and monologue are the lifeblood of emotional engagement. What your characters say — and what they leave unsaid — reveals their inner worlds.

For instance, a character confessing, “I’m fine,” while clenching their fists tells us they’re anything but fine. In my short story, The Baker of Bogwollow, Griselda continuously wrenches her scarf in the first act. She’s nervous and afraid and doesn’t have words to convey her anxiety, but her body language expresses all the reader needs to know.

Here’s another example from Baker:

Across from Griselda’s stall, Pleasance Hogmeadow brought a warm lemon cranberry scone to her mouth, positioning her other hand to catch its crumbs. Chewing, Pleasance’s eyes fluttered, and a smile played at the corners of her lips.

Griselda looked away. Mother insisted they tasted best in the fall. Dry autumn leaves scattered across the weathered pier while the bakery’s aged wooden sign swayed from rusted chains overhead.

Griselda avoids eye contact with Pleasance, and her senses turn to rustling leaves and a swaying sign overhead. She suspends the moment to remember something about her mom. This subtext might tell you something about the character. Use subtext to convey emotional depth and keep the dialogue authentic. When emotions are high, people stumble, look away, interrupt themselves, and hesitate. Let your characters do the same.

Monologue, whether internal or spoken, is where the raw feelings spill out. It’s where a character wrestles with their guilt, fear, or joy. Instead of telling us, “She was scared,” show us the racing thoughts, the self-reassurances, or even the irrational leaps her mind takes.

Body Language Speaks Volumes

Humans are physical beings, and emotions often manifest in the body. A furrowed brow, trembling hands, or a character stepping back during an argument tells us more than words ever could. Layer body language with your dialogue to make emotions vivid.

For example:

“I don’t care what you do,” he said, but his voice cracked. He turned away, shoulders hunched, his fists stuffed into his pockets.

We feel his conflict because we see it. The author doesn’t need to tell us about it.

The Problem With Flat Emotions

Readers won't stick around if your characters are emotionally unavailable or their reactions feel generic. A character weeping inconsolably after a breakup might be realistic, but without context — what did that relationship mean to them? — it’s just noise. Emotions must feel earned and rooted in the character’s journey.

How to Bring the Emotion Home

1. Know Your Characters Deeply: What are their fears, joys, and regrets? Every emotional reaction should stem from their unique perspective.
   

2. Use Dialogue Wisely: Avoid clichés and let characters express emotions in a way that feels true to them.
   

3. Lean Into the Physical: Combine words, tone, and body language to paint a complete emotional picture.

Emotional connections with characters in fiction are at the heart of good storytelling. When readers feel invested in a character’s journey, the story becomes more than just words on a page — it transforms into an immersive experience. Here’s how this connection elevates storytelling.

1. Engagement Through Relatability. Characters with relatable emotions, desires, and struggles allow readers to see themselves or someone they know within the story. This relatability creates empathy, pulling readers into the narrative and making them care deeply about the outcomes. A character struggling with self-doubt may resonate with readers who have faced similar feelings, making their triumphs or failures profoundly impactful.
   

2. Emotional Stakes Drive Plot. A story becomes gripping when readers are emotionally invested in a character's goals. Tension rises as readers root for the character’s success or survival, even when obstacles seem insurmountable. A protagonist racing against time to save a loved one creates urgency because the emotional stakes make the outcome matter.
   

3. Creating Memorable Moments. Moments of joy, heartbreak, triumph, or sacrifice hit harder when readers feel connected to the characters experiencing them. These emotional beats often linger with readers long after the story ends. A character sacrificing their happiness for someone else becomes a powerful, unforgettable scene if readers are deeply attached to their motivations.
   

4. Connection Fosters Reflection. Readers often process their own emotions through a character’s journey. This connection can inspire introspection, helping them explore their beliefs, fears, and values in the safety of a fictional context. A character grappling with moral dilemmas can challenge readers to think about their own ethical boundaries.
   

5. It Makes the Story Universal. Emotional connections transcend cultural, historical, or genre-specific boundaries. Love, loss, ambition, and fear are universal experiences, making characters who embody them resonate widely.

Final Thoughts

Writing emotional engagement isn’t about making readers cry on every page; it’s about making them care. Good storytelling thrives when readers care. By crafting characters with depth, authenticity, and vulnerability, writers tap into a shared human experience, ensuring the story resonates personally and profoundly. Whether your protagonist is a hero, antihero, or villain, readers need to see their humanity — their highs, lows, and everything in between. Show us their hearts, and you’ll capture ours.

R

Writing Stories with Characters Who Have Limited Agency

What Is Agency, Anyway?

Agency in storytelling is the ability of a character to make meaningful choices that influence the direction or outcome of the story. Characters with agency actively pursue goals, solve problems, and adapt to challenges. Think about your favorite protagonists — Katniss Everdeen, Frodo Baggins, or Elizabeth Bennet: they don’t sit on their backsides waiting for something to happen.

They act.

But what happens when your characters don’t have agency? It’s a common pitfall for new writers: a character drifts through the plot — they might even be paralyzed, simply an observer in a world unfolding around them — reacting passively to events rather than making choices that cause outcomes. Instead of shaping their journey, characters without agency allow the story to happen to them. And readers notice.

Character agency is a character's capacity to make decisions. It’s a fundamental element in writing short stories and flash fiction because it defines how the character drives the narrative forward and interacts with the plot and themes. Agency:

1. Engages the Reader: Agency creates dynamic characters who actively shape their destiny rather than passively reacting to events. Readers are more likely to connect with characters who demonstrate initiative and resolve.
   

2. Drives the Plot: In short stories and flash fiction, where space is limited, every action must serve a purpose. Character agency ensures that the protagonist's choices efficiently propel the story toward its climax and resolution.
   

3. Develops Character Depth: Characters with agency reveal their motivations, values, and flaws through their decisions. This allows writers to craft memorable characters, even within the constraints of shorter works.
   

4. Strengthens Themes: Character decisions often reflect the story’s central themes. A character’s agency can be used to meaningfully explore moral dilemmas, societal issues, or personal growth.
   

5. Builds Tension and Conflict: Agency introduces stakes. When a character’s decisions have visible consequences, it creates tension and a sense of urgency, keeping readers invested in the story.

Agency in Short Stories and Flash Fiction

In short forms where every word counts, character agency is particularly critical.

For example, a protagonist might face a pivotal decision determining the story's trajectory. Their response not only moves the plot but also encapsulates their personality and arc within the story’s brief span. Their decision may encapsulate the entire premise of the story.

Characters with agency are the engine of compelling storytelling. By focusing on their ability to act, choose, and affect change, writers create short stories and flash fiction that resonate profoundly and linger in readers' minds.

Why Lack of Agency Feels Weak

Characters without agency can come across as shallow or uninteresting. It’s hard to root for someone along for the ride. When characters don’t drive action and outcomes, your story loses momentum and risks becoming predictable or dull. The reader wonders, “Why should I care about this person if they don’t seem to care about themselves?”

Let’s say you’re writing a story about a young wizard, Aria, who’s been chosen to save the kingdom. If Aria spends most of the story shuffled from one mentor to another, listening to advice but never stepping up to make a critical decision, she feels less like a hero and more like a plot device. Nobody wants to read about Aria.

A character can be stripped of their agency — locked up in a cage, incapable or unwilling to make choices — but even thought is a choice. Even thinking about escaping the cage adds momentum to a story.

How to Fix It

1. Give Them Choices. Even if your character is constrained, there’s always room for choice. These don’t have to be monumental decisions; small moments of agency can still create impact.
   

2. Align Goals and Obstacles. What does your character want? What’s stopping them? Make their choices meaningful by tying them to the plot.
   

3. Embrace Failure. A character doesn’t need to succeed at everything, but their attempts to solve problems should drive the story forward.
   

4. Balance Powerlessness with Growth. If your story requires your character to have limited agency, make it a thematic choice. Maybe their arc is about reclaiming power or learning how to assert themselves.

Make Limited Agency Work for You

Sometimes, limiting a character’s agency can serve a story’s purpose — like highlighting oppressive systems or exploring themes of helplessness. In such cases, focus on internal agency, like that thought I mentioned earlier, or have them perform an act of resistance. Even if your character can’t control external events, show how they process, resist, or adapt internally.

For instance, a protagonist stuck in an authoritarian society might be unable to topple the regime, but they can make small rebellions or wrestle with their beliefs. That act of contention (conflict) while processing their beliefs is also agency. The key is making them feel active even when their circumstances restrict them.

Final Thoughts

Remember that readers connect with characters who try.

Even when your character’s agency is limited, and all hope is lost, let your characters struggle, make choices, and grow. That’s what makes them feel alive. That’s what makes them relatable.

R