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.

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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?

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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

Fluffy Cats

I’ve written about Cats and Oranges.

Cats are adorable stories you’d love to pull into your lap. Everyone wants to pet a cat. They’re attributes most likely to appeal to a generalist reader or judge.

On the other hand, Oranges are a story’s technical attributes — its cadence, form, delivery, mechanics, techniques, and specific terminology related to the genre — the overall use of technical attributes that might make the composition stand out from a competitor. Oranges are writing techniques that might appeal to a judge who admires your command of a genre or appreciates your application, elevating your story above a competitor.

In the context of the “art” of writing, I argue that these two ideas contend against each other. Overly technical stories might alienate a generalist, peer-judged audience, whereas advanced techniques might draw the eye of a professional judge looking for a distinctive voice.

Lately, I’ve encountered outcomes in peer-based judging that favor flowery, overwrought descriptions, where I’ve lost by a relatively small margin (one point) to stories that are exceptionally saccharine-rich with descriptions.

The Fluffy Cat vs. The Short-Haired Cat

I’ve come to realize that I favor writing short-haired cats. I like telling tight, succinct stories with embellishments in essential places that might appeal to a broader audience. I strive for efficiency and word economy and, in so doing, avoid flowery descriptions, balancing the product at 50% cat and 50% orange: a story with strong plots, a relatable character arc, and a concrete transformation/resolution at the end of the story, combined with strong efficiency in the prose. I’ve successfully submitted short-haired cats with a couple of stories in professionally judged competitions like NYC Midnight.

• Bottomfeeder, a 1,000-word flash, came in #1 in its cohort and leveraged that balance between word economy and description.

• I employed the same technique in The Miller’s Wife, a 2,500-word short story that also came in #1 in its cohort.

• The Monsters We Know, a 500-word flash that came in at #3 in its cohort, was my first trial with this style. I suppressed flowery descriptions until I got to the most relevant parts of the story.

But this short-haired cat thing doesn’t translate well into peer-based judging.

• Seng of Titan was an overtly technical (Orange-heavy) sci-fi story that failed to gain traction in Writing Battle. Figuring my audience was into sci-fi as much as I was (wrong!), I wrote over their heads and alienated the audience.

• Under the Knife missed the Writing Battle finals by one contest out of ten, scoring a seven and receiving an Honorable Mention. It was highly efficient and spared description to deliver a comprehensive horror in 500 words.

• Similarly, my latest Writing Battle with The Baker of Bogwollow, it missed the finals by one contest out of ten, scoring a six and, once again, receiving an Honorable Mention. Another short-hair, it was highly efficient with overt areas where I poured on the description to yank an emotional response out of the reader.

I seem to be mastering the art of barely getting into the finals by not convincing one person — just one more person — to like my story. I lost to stories with a fluffier cat, offered with more description.

However, it’s not just the peer-judged competitions. This year, I’ve found that I underperform in NYC Midnight contests when I lean too heavily into the short-haired cat.

• Loose Ends, a 500-word flash, was an extremely short-haired cat where I was all about the technical delivery of a complex espionage story. I sacrificed a lot of description in favor of dialogue and internal monologue. In the 1st round, it didn’t place but received an Honorable Mention. It did worse than I expected it to.

• Skyward Horizons 424, a 1,000-word flash, was all dialogue, no descriptions; a pure short-haired cat if there ever was one. I tried to make the dialogue funny and relatable, using a lot of dialect to help drive character description (a good Cat), but the delivery fell flat. The judges wanted more description. It came in 12th in its cohort.

• The Last Train Out of Viena was a third-round NYC Midnight that received a good technical critique from the judges but lacked emotional punch. It was nearly all dialogue and overly ambitious for 1,000 words. It didn’t place or move on.

So, okay, I can’t escape it! I must add more description! I need a fluffier cat!

The Argument for the Fluffy Cat

I believe that writing contests (peer-judged or professional) desire an immediate emotional impact from a fictional story. This is different from academic or technical writing or scoring. This isn’t an essay, and it’s not non-fiction; we don’t need to weigh its evidence or argument critically. Judges are looking for that sugar high, “How did this story make me feel?” So you must present a Cat. In some way, the story must be emotionally connected and resonant to stand out.

I presume peer judges speed-read entries and rely more on their initial gut reactions. Flowery, poetic language evokes strong visuals and emotions in fewer seconds than it takes to appreciate the layered precision of efficient prose. Saccharine-laced descriptions are like neon signs screaming “Feel something!” in a crowded street, and it immediately grabs the mind. It overwhelms. This is the fluffy cat in action, and since the amateur isn’t likely to re-read the story, they’re left with what they felt at the end.

The Argument for the Short-Haired Cat

Meanwhile, I presume professional judges will take an initial read and then re-read the work several times, critically identifying its merits and flaws. I imagine them dissecting a story, examining its entrails, weighing its organs (the critique is part of their job), and are less influenced by the “fluffiness”. Sure, they want to feel something from the story, but the emotional resonance is just one aspect of a rubric. A short-haired Cat presents succinct descriptions, perhaps timed with the emotional waves of a story.

Leaning Fluffy or Short-Haired

But here’s the catch. While efficiency alone might not win contests, precision in storytelling builds pace, sharpens tension, and creates memorable, distinct characters with arcs that wrap to a conclusion. That’s one of my biggest grievances with Fluffy Cats. They seem to go nowhere. You’re immersed in a vivid world, but the world itself isn’t the story.

Maybe what I’m trying to describe is the difference between a fleeting sugar rush and a lasting, savory meal: where good technique helps deliver a solid story, its emotional resonance makes it memorable. It’s what sticks in the mind.

So, I think the next frontier may be recognizing areas in my writing where I’ve gone too efficient, sacrificing description. Where do I need to add more fluff or remove it?

With peer-based work, I’d hope to see my entries final more often, attracting that one missing vote, whereas, in professionally judged competitions, I may place higher, creating more resonance.

We’ll see!

R

Trimming the Fat: Cutting Unnecessary Words in Your Writing

As a short story and flash fiction author, I sincerely appreciate brevity and conciseness in storytelling. Crafting a powerful narrative in just a few pages, or even a few paragraphs, requires each word to pull its weight.

There’s an art to trimming the excess while still capturing depth, emotion, and character. I love the challenge of weaving a complete world within limited space, where every detail is intentional, and each sentence sharpens the story’s impact. For me, the beauty of short fiction lies in its precision, in saying just enough to resonate—and nothing more.

Here’s an example from a recent short story I wrote for a 2,000-word contest, The Baker of Bogwollow.

“But kind sirs,” Bran continued, rocking on his heels and slipping his thumbs into his waistcoat, “this is no ordinary pie box.”

Think of what I’m conveying in one sentence:

• The mannerisms of my character, Bran, and his tone and formality lend to his ability to charm people with words.

• A description of what he’s wearing.

• His action of slipping his thumbs into a waistcoat depicts confidence.

• Rocking on his heels conveys playful confidence in body language, maybe even a trickster persona, because it’s a stereotyped behavior.

• The dialogue creates suspense, pulling the reader along the story.

Saying less says more.

One of the biggest challenges for new writers is learning to spot unnecessary words that sneak into sentences, puffing them up without adding value. These filler words, phrases, or entire sentences might seem harmless, but they can make your prose bloated and slow.

Think of phrases like “in order to” when “to” alone will do, or “she thought to herself” when “she thought” says the same thing.

The problem with these extra words is that they often muddy the point and dilute the impact of your writing. Readers crave clean, punchy sentences that keep the story moving. If every sentence has fluff, readers can get bogged down, and your story might lose momentum.

The best way to cut unnecessary words is to edit with fresh eyes. Ask yourself: Does each word serve a purpose? Is there a more straightforward way to say this? When you find redundant phrases, try removing them and see if the sentence still makes sense—or even reads better. Trimming a few words often makes a line sharper and gives it more punch.

Writing is about finding that balance: include enough to paint the picture but not so much that readers feel weighed down.

Aim for clarity, word economy, precision, and flow.

R

Keeping Clothing Descriptions in Check for a Stronger Story

One common trap for writers is the urge to detail every item of clothing on every character.

I get it: fashion can reveal a lot about someone. However, if you go overboard describing exactly what each character is wearing, right down to the stitching on their boots, you might lose readers’ attention — fast.

Over-describing can stall the story and slow the pacing significantly if it doesn’t add much to the scene.

The goal isn’t to eliminate clothing descriptions; it’s to use them strategically.

Let’s look at an example.

Elaine walked into the tavern, her emerald green cloak sweeping behind her. The cloak had intricate golden embroidery along the hem and a deep hood lined with soft velvet. Beneath, she wore a fitted leather bodice dyed a rich burgundy, laced tightly up the front with black silk ribbons. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, tapering down to her wrists, where she wore a set of silver bangles. Her trousers were deep brown, tucked into knee-high boots that had brass buckles and small, dark scuffs from frequent travel.

On the one hand, the author dives deep into description to give a sense of the character and their background. It’s meaningful to choose the words “leather bodice” and “rich burgundy” and sleeves that “taper” down to the wrists. Oh, the bangles, too, and the scuffs on the brass buckles of her boots. Nice!

All of these creative layers come to mind as we write physical descriptions, and they’re good stuff. But it’s kind of like Maid and Butler Talk — it’s a massive info dump that slows that story down. It’s just taxing to slog through such a weighty, descriptive paragraph to move the story along. It’s a hallmark of a new writer attempting to get everything about a character and front-load the description.

Ask yourself: does knowing that your character’s cloak is emerald with gold embroidery matter to the story now? Sometimes it does! If that cloak symbolizes status, wealth, or even a magical property, describing it makes sense. But if the details don’t serve the plot or the character, it might be better to leave them out.

When it comes to description, less is more.

Instead:

Elaine strode into the tavern, her emerald cloak swirling behind her.

Great! We see Elaine striding confidently into the tavern with a swirling cloak. Check! Perhaps later, we could introduce another facet, like:

Thymyral eyed the golden embroidery along the hem of Elaine’s cloak. “A merchant marine’s vestment,” he said, gesturing. “You’re a long way from Quisintine, stranger.”

That’s another descriptive layer moving the story along.

“You follow the ways of Maryn, the Sea God?” Father Bynard asked. He lightly touched Elaine’s silver bangles about her wrist. “Yes. I’ve heard tell of their practices, drowning elves and the like.”

Yet another descriptive layer that allows the reader to understand the context. The silver bangles are more than a fashion accessory to Elaine; they’ve got religious meaning, adding even more depth than the original paragraph. But if that’s the setup, here’s the payoff.

Thymyral looked away, disgusted. “I suppose zealotry is its own reward.”

Notice how I used the bangles to set up reaction, dialogue, and conflict. That’s a strategic move by me to help stage the emerging plot.

A few well-chosen details can say more about a character than a whole paragraph. Instead of listing every item in their wardrobe, pick one or two unique items that hint at their personality or mood.

For example, mentioning that your character has a worn leather jacket may suggest a rough past or a rebellious spirit. Readers can fill in the rest with their imagination.

So, when you’re tempted to spend three sentences on someone’s outfit, think about what truly matters. Does it matter at the moment? Can it be layered in at a later time? How does describing a particular garment relate to dialogue or action in the current scene?

Let your readers imagine the other details.

R

Choosing Big vs. Small Words for the Right Impact

Okay. I’m writing this more for my benefit than yours, so bear with me. I have a lot of anxiety around this topic, as — my frequent readers would know — I love myself a $5 word.

The $5 Word

As writers, we have a vast toolkit of words — some simple and familiar, others long or archaic. The English language has around 1 million words — though estimates vary based on how you define “word.” This figure includes words from dictionaries, technical terms, regional dialects, slang, and historical and archaic terms no longer commonly used. The Oxford English Dictionary, for instance, a publication that aims for comprehensive coverage, includes around 600,000 entries, while more general dictionaries contain fewer, typically 200,000 to 300,000 words. English continues to grow as new words emerge from technology, culture, and science, and it borrows liberally from other languages, which means the count is constantly expanding!

Fantasy authors like me have a smattering of go-to $5 words that look cool on paper.

• Ensorcelled – meaning enchanted or bewitched. “The sorceress’s spell ensorcelled the knight.”

• Fain – meaning gladly or willingly, often used to convey desire. “He would fain take up his sword to defend his homeland.”

• Perdition – meaning a state of eternal punishment or ruin, often with a dark, ominous feel. “The cursed treasure would lead any who sought it to perdition.”

• Aegis – meaning protection or sponsorship, originating from mythological usage. “The hero fought under the aegis of the goddess herself.”

• Gloaming – meaning twilight or dusk, with a mystical, atmospheric connotation. “They journeyed through the forest in the fading light of the gloaming.”

Ooo! Aren’t they cool words?

Tiny Treasures

Maybe you might feel as I do.

Writers, as wordsmiths, often delight in unearthing obscure words — those hidden gems of language that carry shades of meaning, history, or emotion not easily captured by everyday vocabulary. Using a rare word is like sharing a small, shimmering treasure with readers; it invites them into a deeper layer of the story’s world or the writer's fascination with language.

When writers select words like “ensorcelled” instead of “enchanted,” it’s not just about vocabulary — it’s about evoking a certain mood, transporting the reader somewhere unusual and captivating. These words hint at secrets within the story, carrying connotations that enhance the setting, enrich the tone, or even deepen a character’s personality.

Obscure words give writers a chance to play with language, savor its texture, and share that joy with readers, who, in turn, get to enjoy the rare thrill of learning a word or being reminded of one.

It’s a subtle way for writers to connect with readers, offering them a gift that feels intimate, like a wink or a whispered secret. Like, “Here’s a cool word! Love this word! I love this word!” In that way, each rare word becomes more than just vocabulary — it becomes a shared experience, a tiny treasure passed from one lover of language to another.

Stroking Our Ego

Now, using one of these “$5” words, like “ensorcelled” or “gloaming,” can make an author feel chuffed (see what I did there?) because these words bring a certain depth, flair, and old-world charm to the writing.

Sliding a rich, archaic word into a fantasy story can feel like adding a secret ingredient that only enhances the setting, adding an atmosphere that feels special and immersive. Plus, using language that resonates with the tone of fantasy allows authors to create a unique voice and style that feels as magical as the worlds they’re building.

But when is it better to keep it simple? Is there a risk of alienating your readers if they don’t know or understand the word? It’s all about choosing the words that best serve your story and connect with your readers.

The Modern Reader

Hi.

My name’s Russell. I’m a writer. I’ve been on the sauce for forty years, and I, er, have an unrealistic perspective of the modern reader: I assume they’re like me.

I believe when readers encounter my cool $5 word, they’ll right-click it (please see the multiple layers of assumptions here) and ask for a definition. Because they’re curious, right? They, too, collect tiny treasures and want to know what they mean. They want to hold them in their palm, stare at them for a while, and coo, telling them what a pretty word they are.

Ensorcelled! You’re such a pretty word! Aren’t you a pretty word?

While exact figures vary, some surveys suggest that around 15-20% of readers will pause to look up a word immediately. In contrast, others will make a mental note and return to it if it significantly affects understanding. Generally, readers are more likely to look up words if they feel it will enhance their experience — like grasping a key concept in a fantasy novel or a mystery. This behavior suggests that 20 percent of readers are genuinely curious and appreciate language, significantly when the word enriches the story or setting.

Please note: the other 80% don’t.

Oh, the horrific feedback I’ve received from judges in writing contests that boil down to:

I didn’t know what this word meant, so I skipped it.

[Grasping my chest.]

I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.

[Running my nails down the side of my cheeks.]

Couldn’t you have just said, ‘tie’ instead of ‘ascot’? Or ‘sword’ instead of ‘scimitar’?

[Silent screaming. No, really: there’s a difference!]

The Reality of the Modern Reader

Newspapers and most mainstream publishers aim for a reading level around 8th to 9th grade. This level ensures that content is accessible to a broad audience and balances readability with clarity and sophistication.

Writing at this level keeps language direct and engaging, making it easier for readers to understand quickly. That’s important for news, which readers typically consume in brief sittings.

Using big or unusual words can add flair and style, especially in fantasy or historical fiction, where specific terms create atmosphere.

Words like “empyrean” or “maelstrom” evoke images and sounds that bring a unique texture to your work. But there’s a catch: if readers constantly reach for the dictionary, they may lose focus and feel distanced from the story. Heck, it may even throw them out of the story.

Here’s an example from a recent contest entry, Sēng of Titan.

Its metallic features shadowed by a wide-brimmed dǒulì,
the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

The word dǒulì is easily Googled. It’s a conical Asian hat. It’s a specific thing. I love that word! And in this contest, I used one word for “conical Asian hat,” so it’s quite economical, too. But guess what my feedback was like?

Yeah.

I really wanted to use that word, but in the end, 80 percent of my readers glossed over it. Without additional context in the sentence, they had no idea what it meant, disengaging them from the story in the opening sentence.

[Facepalm.]

On the other hand, small, straightforward words are easy to read and digest, letting readers focus on the plot and characters. For action scenes or emotional moments, small words keep the pace fast and accessible.

The Voice of the Author

I’ve also been accused of this one. A judge will say my voice as an author rings in a character's dialogue.

That’s not how the character would speak; you’re speaking through them.

[Ugh. But I was writing from the 1st personal perspective of a 19th-century steampunk scientist, you jerk! Am I a 19th-century Steampunk scientist?!]

Ahem. I digress.

Ensuring my characters aren’t parroting what I would say is an ongoing challenge. Would my character use a $5 word? It's hard to say, but I probably don’t want to make a frequent habit out of it. It dampens the believability of my character.

Talking Above the Reader

This was another lesson I took away from Sēng of Titan. It turns out people don’t know the moons of Saturn like I do. Titan’s in the title (yes, one of Saturn’s moons), but some of my readers didn’t see or understand it. So when I started talking about “the moon’s surface,” they thought I was suddenly referring to Earth’s moon and were seriously confused.

Even better, this line:

… the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

My readers didn’t understand the term “crescent kick” and conflated “earth” with “Earth,” like they didn’t understand I was referring to the ‘ground’ and not the planet.

[WTF.]

And this line:

The robot lifted a bamboo dizi to play a breathy, drifting melody that stirred dormant nanoparticles suspended in the atmosphere.

Beautiful, isn’t it? Yeah, I was rather enamored by it, too. By context, the reader could tell a dizi is a Chinese flute if they didn’t look it up, and indeed, everybody knows what “dormant nanoparticles suspended in an atmosphere” are. Right? It’s so science fictiony!

[No.]

I mean, a part of me just wanted to lash out and blame peer-based judging for handing me ignorant, brainless people to judge my awesome science fiction story. Where’s the critical thinking? The locale is in the title! Look up what you don’t know! I didn’t capitalize ‘earth,’ so it’s not the planet? Don’t you understand what nanoparticulates are?! Duh?!

Responding like this would be a good way of missing the point by comforting my ego, wrapping myself in self-righteous indignation, and assuming all readers are like me.

This is a wrong assumption. It doesn’t serve me, and it won’t help me write better. I alienated my readers by talking above them, sending them down a road of confusion.

This was a peer-judged contest. I needed to convey meaning by writing the lowest common denominator.

It’s taken me decades to crawl out of my skin to realize this.

What’s the Best Approach?

I’ve come to feel the best approach is simplicity and balance.

Write in short, concise sentences with 8th-grade words.

Use short, stabby sentences to convey immediacy.

Use long, flowing sentences to create a sense of movement, something ethereal drifting in the wind, an idea that must have buoyancy.

Use vivid, specific words when they add something essential to the story, but don’t be afraid to lean on more straightforward language for clarity and flow.

And if an archaic word tempts you, make sure it adds to the scene without overshadowing it.

Experiment with your word choices and read your drafts out loud. No, really: read them out loud or have an AI read them back to you.

If it sticks in the mouth or chewy, something’s wrong. Your ideas aren’t fully baked yet. Sometimes, you may have to tuck your tiny treasures away for another day. They’re just not going to work to convey meaning.

Finally, I’ve learned that it’s not the reader’s job to divine meaning — that’s my job. You must prepare your manuscript for your intended audience and be mindful of talking above them. It would be best to meet them where they are instead of dragging them along like I wanted to.

You’ll soon find your voice and know when to go big or keep it small.

R

Avoiding “Maid and Butler” Talk for Realistic Dialogue

The monk and the knight huddled near the campfire, their voices low.

"As you know, Brother Aldric," the knight began, "Lord Bingleton, the man we’re after, has been siphoning the villagers’ gold and resources for his twisted ends.”

The monk nodded gravely. "Yes, Ser Edrik, he’s kept the people hungry and destitute. In fact, just last year, he seized the village granaries to feed his private soldiers.”

"And don’t forget," Ser Edrik added, "that Lord Bingleton secretly pledged his loyalty to the Dark King. He offered up the sacred relic of Saint Lysander, hoping it would grant him the king’s wicked blessing.”

"Of course," replied Aldric. "He even built that fortress on Hollow Hill, which, as you know, used to be a sacred site for the Order. He knew the ground itself would twist under his twisted twisty influence."

The knight frowned. "And yet he has guards everywhere, traps along the walls, and enchantments over the gates — all meant to keep us out. It will be no easy feat to reach him, let alone stop him."

Okay, cut!

Jeepers. Wow. Ahem. Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Maid and Butler Talk

If you’ve ever caught yourself writing dialogue that sounds too much like an info dump, you might be dealing with “Maid and Butler” talk.

Don’t panic! It’s a common affliction.

This term refers to a type of dialogue where characters tell each other things they already know purely for the reader's benefit.

Aside from Brother Aldric and Ser Edrik, imagine a scene where one character says:

“As you know, Sarah, we’ve worked together for five years here at Acme Corp.”

Ooo! That’s maid-and-butler talk!

Uh, yeah, real people don’t rehash shared knowledge like that.

It feels unnatural and can take readers out of the moment.

When characters say things only for the reader’s benefit, the conversation feels forced and artificial, breaking your story's flow. Readers want to be immersed in the world you’ve created, and when dialogue doesn’t ring true, that immersion is disrupted.

To avoid this, you must draw upon your powers as an author to find creative ways to show backstory or exposition without relying on stilted dialogue. Use context, subtle hints, and character actions to communicate important information naturally.

For example, instead of having a character say, “As you know, you’ve been my partner since college,” try showing their long history through shared memories, inside jokes, or even an old photo one of them keeps on their desk. These details allow readers to grasp the backstory without overt explanations.

Showing Versus Telling

Killing Maid and Butler Talk goes hand-in-hand with a concept often explored in writing: Showing versus Telling.

Instead of telling the reader directly about Lord Bingleton’s evil deeds in a way that feels like an info dump, the characters can reveal their feelings and shared history through their dialogue, non-verbal responses, and actions, allowing readers to experience the story.

When we say “show, don’t tell,” we encourage writers to immerse readers by letting them deduce meaning through character actions, dialogue, and subtle descriptions rather than spelling everything out. The writer creates tension and emotional depth by drawing readers into the story, engaging them directly with the story rather than explaining it at arm's length.

This approach enriches the narrative by letting readers interpret and connect with the story more deeply. It keeps them active participants, piecing together the story from natural, character-driven cues, and makes for a much more compelling reading experience.

Keep your dialogue realistic and engaging. Where you find Maid and Butler Talk, think about how you’re trying to take shortcuts to tell the reader something rather than show them. It might work in some instances, particularly in cramped stories with word limits, but where you can try to eliminate it.

R

Avoiding Passive Voice

One of the sneakiest pitfalls for new writers is the passive voice.

I wrote a little bit about the subject when exploring verbs last month, but today, I wanted to do a deep dive: active versus passive construction, and why it matters.

Okay. Active. Passive. Constructions. Blech. It all sounds so technical, but here’s the gist: in the passive voice, the action happens to the subject rather than the subject actively doing something.

For example, “The cake was eaten by the child” is passive, while “The child ate the cake” is active. It’s a small change, but there’s a big difference!

Contrasting Passive Voice Against Active Voice

Active voice is a sentence structure where the subject acts directly. This form is typically more precise, direct, and often more engaging, as it emphasizes the doer of the action. In active voice, sentences follow the format of subject → verb → object.

Here are some examples:

1. The chef cooked dinner. The subject (chef) is actively acting (cooking) on the object (dinner).
   

2. The dog chased the ball. The subject (dog) performs the action (chased) on the object (ball).
   

3. The team won the game. Here, the subject (team) is directly responsible for the action (won) applied to the object (game).

In contrast, the passive voice switches the object and subject, often making the sentence feel indirect: “Dinner was cooked by the chef,” “The ball was chased by the dog,” etc.

Passive Voice in Administrative Communication

Passive voice is commonly used in business or administrative language. While it gets a bad rap, it does serve a purpose. In these contexts, passive voice can create a neutral tone, soften statements, or keep the focus on actions rather than specific people or departments.

For instance, saying, “Mistakes were made in the project’s execution” instead of “The team made mistakes in the project’s execution” removes direct blame, making the language less personal and often more diplomatic. Passive voice can also emphasize the action over the actor, which is helpful if the “who” is less important than “what happened.”

That said, we don’t want our fiction or non-fiction stories to sound like business memos, do we?

Passive Voice in Prose

Too much passive voice can make writing feel vague or evasive, and it may lead to reader confusion or frustration if they’re unsure who is responsible for specific actions.

For balance, use passive voice intentionally and sparingly, mainly when neutrality or diplomacy is needed, but switch to active voice when clarity and directness are essential.

Why Does Passive or Active Voice Mater?

In prose, passive constructions can make sentences distant, dull, or confusing. Readers thrive on clarity and energy, and the passive voice weighs down your prose, causing readers to feel detached from the action.

Imagine writing, “The sword was swung by the knight,” rather than “The knight swung the sword.” The second choice is sharper, cleaner, and keeps your reader engaged. It has more energy — it’s immediate, it’s active — and that energy is what we’re after as authors.

Passive voices in fiction can drain energy and immediacy, making descriptions feel detached and characters seem less dynamic.

In storytelling, readers want to feel that they’re part of the action, seeing events unfold in real time. Passive voice, however, disrupts this flow by making events feel like they're happening in the background or after the fact, which can create an unintentional distance between the reader and the story.

For instance, if you write, “The treasure was discovered by the adventurers,” the focus lands more on the treasure than on the adventurers who found it. In fiction, where characters drive the narrative, this construction feels weaker. Switching to active voice, “The adventurers discovered the treasure,” puts readers directly in the moment of discovery, letting them experience the characters’ excitement firsthand.

Going back to administrative communication, another issue with passive voice is its tendency to blur responsibility and reduce clarity. If readers are trying to track action sequences, emotional moments, or crucial plot twists, passive voice can muddle who’s responsible for what, especially in complex scenes.

Take, “The spell was cast, causing the tower to collapse,” which leaves it ambiguous who cast the spell. In contrast, “The mage cast the spell, causing the tower to collapse,” centers the mage’s decisive role, tightening both the action and the stakes.

While passive voice has its place, especially for conveying subtlety or mystery, using it too often in fiction can make your writing feel less immediate, weaken character agency, and slow the story's pacing. An active voice keeps the action front and center, amplifying tension and giving readers the immersive experience they crave.

Spotting Passive Constructions

To spot passive voice, look for versions of “to be” (was, were, is) paired with past tense verbs. Once you find these, flip the sentence so your characters do the action directly. This brings clarity and energy into your storytelling, helping you convey movement and emotion.

The word “was” is often considered a red flag for passive voice because it’s frequently paired with a past participle (a verb ending in -ed, -en, etc.) to form a passive construction. In passive voice, the structure typically looks like “was/were + past participle,” which shows that the action is happening to the subject rather than being actively performed by it.

For example:

• Passive: “The letter was written by Sarah.”

• Active: “Sarah wrote the letter.”

In the passive version, “was written” makes the letter the focus, while in the active voice, “Sarah wrote” places Sarah as the primary actor.

Therefore, a good FIND/SEARCH on your document for “was” can help identify possible passive constructions.

AI can also help. You can paste a sentence into an AI, ask if it is passive, and rewrite it in active voice. You can even paste your entire chapter or short story and ask the AI to locate passive constructions. A real time-saver.

Let’s be clear. “was” itself isn’t always a sign of passive voice. It can also indicate past progressive tense, which describes an ongoing action in the past, like, “She was reading when he called.” In this case, “was reading” shows an active, continuous action.

But “was” is a good starting place to hunt down and root out passive constructions. Look for sentences where “was” or “were” is combined with a past participle, and the subject receives the action rather than performing it.

Noticing this difference can help you avoid passive constructions that weaken your prose and shift to active ones that give your writing clarity and momentum.

Conclusion

Cutting down on passive voice isn’t just about rules; it’s about making your writing come alive and bringing your readers directly into the action.

So keep a keen eye on those passive phrases. Your readers — and editors — will thank you!

R

Drop Hedging Words to Make Your Writing Stronger

One of the most common habits I see in new writers is the overuse of hedging words — those little fillers like “maybe,” “probably,” “seems,” or “kind of.”

In writing, hedging refers to using words or phrases that soften or dilute statements, making them sound less assertive or confident. These words often express uncertainty, caution, or vagueness.

Hedging words are a natural part of everyday conversations to soften statements, express uncertainty, or be polite. We say things like, “I think this might be a good idea” or “It’s probably a good approach” to avoid sounding too direct or overly confident. This conversational habit can seep into our writing, especially in first drafts, where we tend to write as we speak.

In prose, however, hedging words can weaken the impact of our storytelling. Words like “maybe,” “sort of,” and “kind of” make our characters sound hesitant or unsure, which can undercut tension and reduce the clarity of emotions or actions.

For instance, if a character “kind of feels scared,” readers are left questioning the depth of fear experienced by the character. Does the character truly feel scared, or are they unsure? Are they “maybe a little scared” or genuinely terrified?

As authors, hedging words dilutes your writing and weaken your message.

As readers, we only know what the author tells us, and if the author is uncertain, on the fence, unclear, or can’t communicate action or dialogue with precision, we feel it.

Cutting hedging words strengthens your story by letting your descriptions land with more impact. Readers can sense the difference, and a clear, bold choice pulls them in. Strengthening the prose often means choosing direct, clear words that convey precise emotions or actions, giving readers a more vivid experience without the haze of uncertainty. By stripping away the maybes, the kind ofs, the sort ofs, the probablies, the writing becomes more powerful, allowing readers to fully engage in the story without second-guessing the character’s intentions or feelings.

Keep an eye out for these kinds of words. When you find them, ask yourself if they’re necessary, and try the sentence without them. Nine times out of ten, you’ll find that your prose gains a sharper edge and communicates exactly what you mean.

As you gain confidence, you’ll find that your storytelling voice becomes more robust and more distinct — without uncertainty or extra fluff. Readers want to feel they’re in good hands, and a bold, decisive voice does just that.

Less hedging equals more power!

R

Using Caution with Split Infinitives

Writing about verbs, as it turns out, is a massive chore.

So there I was, writing a blog post about verbs, when I went to discuss split infinitives, transforming my 500-word blog post into a 2,000-word monster.

Therefore, I’ve broken out the topic into its own post. Like, yeah, again. Let’s not waste any time!

First — Infinitives

Just to recap from my discussion on verbs, the infinitive form of a verb is its most basic, uninflected form, typically preceded by the word to. It represents the verb in its purest state, without indicating tense, mood, or subject. In English, infinitives often appear as to + verb, such as to run, to eat, to write.

Examples:

• to run (infinitive)

• to speak (infinitive)

• to see (infinitive)

Uses of Infinitives:

1. As the subject of a sentence:

   • To read is my favorite hobby.

2. As the object of a verb:

   • She wants to learn French.

3. To express purpose:

   • I went to the store to buy groceries.

Infinitives can also appear without to, especially after certain verbs like can, must, and let (e.g., She can dance), and are referred to as "bare infinitives."

Common Pitfall: The Split Infinitive

Okay, a split infinitive is when we insert an adverb or word between to and the verb (e.g., to boldly go). While it’s not a hard rule today, and you can split infinitives when it feels more natural, keeping infinitives intact often sounds cleaner.

• Traditional: To go boldly into the unknown.

• Modern: To boldly go into the unknown. (This works just fine too!)

• He promised to quickly finish the report. (See how quickly separates the infinitive to finish?)

• They want to completely redo the project. (The infinitive, to redo, is separated by completely.)

Why the Fuss Over Split Infinitives?

The controversy around split infinitives stems from a long-standing rule in traditional English grammar. This rule was borrowed from Latin, where infinitives are single, indivisible words (e.g., amare for to love), so they can’t be split. They’re like solid Lego. You can’t cut a Lego brick in half! That’s absurd!

However, since English is a much more flexible language, this rule is not as hard and fast. For a long time, dusty grammarians (yes, there’s an excellent word) insisted on avoiding split infinitives, encouraging people to rewrite sentences so that to and the verb stayed together. In modern usage, split infinitives are more accepted, and the "rule" is often considered outdated.

When Using a Split Infinitive is Peachy Keen …

• When Using Them for Emphasis: Splitting the infinitive can add emphasis or create a specific rhythm that improves the sentence. Example:

  • To really understand the problem, you must look deeper.

Moving really changes the tone: Really to understand the problem or To understand the problem really feels awkward or changes the focus of the sentence.

• Natural Flow: Sometimes, splitting the infinitive sounds better. For example, the famous Star Trek phrase "to boldly go" feels much more natural and impactful than the alternatives.

… And When Using a Split Infinitive is Problematic.

• Clarity: Sometimes, a split infinitive can confuse the reader or complicate the sentence.
  

  Confusing: She decided to quickly, without hesitation, eat the last slice.

  Better: She decided to eat the last slice quickly, without hesitation.
  

• Formal Writing: Some readers may frown upon split infinitives if you write for a formal or academic audience. To play it safe, you might avoid them in these contexts.

How to Correct Split Infinitives

To correct a split infinitive, move the adverb or other modifying word splitting the infinitive (to + verb) so that the "to" and the verb stay together.

Example of a Split Infinitive:

• She wants to quickly finish her homework.

Correction Option 1: Move the Adverb After the Infinitive

• She wants to finish her homework quickly.

Correction Option 2: Move the Adverb Before the Infinitive

• She wants quickly to finish her homework.

Both options are grammatically correct, though option 1 typically sounds more natural in modern writing. The goal is to keep the sentence flowing smooth while maintaining the emphasis you want to achieve.

However, remember that split infinitives are often acceptable in modern English, especially if they sound more natural or improve clarity. It’s more about balance and the overall effect on readability!

Here’s some advice. Before submitting your work to a contest judge or a publishing editor, throw it scene-by-scene into an AI engine and ask it to look for split infinitives. Review each one. Maybe there’s a better way (a more direct way) to say something? Find out!

R

Watching Your Intensifiers

Wow. Okay, this feels familiar.

So there I was, writing a blog post about verbs, when I went to discuss intensifiers, transforming my 500-word blog post into a 2,000-word monster.

Therefore, I’ve broken out the topic into its own post. Hot dog! Let’s get started.

Intensifiers

Adverbs can function as intensifiers, meaning they modify and enhance the meaning of adjectives or other adverbs. When used as intensifiers, adverbs emphasize or strengthen the degree or intensity of something, adding more punch to the description.

How Adverbs Act as Intensifiers

Modifying Adjectives: When an adverb intensifies an adjective, it alters how we perceive the described quality. It can either amplify or diminish the adjective’s impact.

• The food was extremely spicy. (The adverb extremely intensifies the spiciness.)

• She’s quite talented. (The adverb quite lessens the intensity but still highlights the talent.)

Modifying Other Adverbs: Adverbs can also intensify other adverbs, making an action feel more or less powerful.

• He drove very fast. (The adverb very intensifies fast.)

• She sings incredibly well. (The adverb incredibly enhances well.)

Examples of Common Intensifying Adverbs

• Very: The weather is very cold. (Very adds intensity to cold.)

• Really: She’s really excited. (Really enhances the excitement.)

• Too: It’s too late to start. (Too emphasizes that it’s beyond the acceptable point.)

• So: I’m so happy! (So amplifies the feeling of happiness.)

• Absolutely: He’s absolutely sure. (Absolutely reinforces the certainty.)

• Quite: The movie was quite enjoyable. (Quite moderates the enjoyment.)

• Extremely: That test was extremely difficult. (Extremely makes the difficulty stand out.)

• Barely: She could barely hear him. (Barely reduces the action, showing it was almost not possible.)

Negative Intensifiers

• Hardly: I hardly know him. (Hardly reduces the degree of knowing.)

• Slightly: It’s slightly chilly outside. (Slightly lowers the impact of the cold.)

Why Use Intensifiers?

Well, intensifiers allow you to:

• Emphasize certain details.

• Enhance emotions or actions in your writing.

• Clarify the strength or weakness of a description.

For example, instead of saying, “She’s happy,” saying “She’s incredibly happy” changes the perception and energy of the sentence, making it more expressive.

Abusing Intensifiers

Using them too often or too heavily — can weaken your writing and make it feel repetitive, overly dramatic, or imprecise. Here are some key problems related to overusing intensifiers:

1. Weakening Your Message

Overusing intensifiers can dilute the impact of your words instead of strengthening your writing.

Ursula Le Guin called them ticks in the prose!

For example, if you describe everything as "really important" or "extremely difficult," readers may stop feeling the weight of those descriptions. When everything is intense, nothing truly stands out. Here’s an example of overuse.

• The movie was really amazing, and the acting was incredibly good. I totally loved it.
  
  vs
  

• The movie was stunning, and the acting was unforgettable. I loved every moment.

2. Vagueness and Lack of Precision

Relying too much on intensifiers can lead to vague descriptions. Instead of showing exactly why something is "very bad" or "so beautiful," you're telling the reader in a general, unspecific way.

• The weather was very bad.
  
  vs
  

• The weather was stormy, with heavy rain and strong winds that knocked over trees.

3. Repetitiveness

When you overuse intensifiers, your writing can become monotonous. If every sentence is filled with words like very, really, so, or extremely, it can make the reader feel like you’re relying on the same tricks to amplify your point.

• She was very tired, and the house was really messy. It had been an extremely long day.
  
  vs
  

• She was exhausted, and the house was in disarray after such a long, grueling day.

4. Inflation of Emotion

Overusing intensifiers can make your writing feel overly dramatic or exaggerated, especially in emotional scenes. Constantly using phrases like "so sad," "absolutely terrifying," or "extremely happy" can make your story feel less genuine.

• He was so scared that he literally jumped out of his skin.
  
  vs
  

• His heart raced, and his hands trembled as he backed away.

5. Impact Fatigue

When you constantly use intensifiers, their impact diminishes. Readers start to expect that everything is "really" or "extremely" something, and the words lose their power over time. Instead of emphasizing key moments, it creates a flat, continuous tone.

How to Avoid Abusing Intensifiers

• Be Specific: Use strong verbs and descriptive adjectives to convey your meaning without relying on intensifiers.
  

• Use Sparingly: Save intensifiers for moments that really need an extra punch, rather than using them in every sentence.
  

• Show, Don’t Tell: Instead of saying something is “really amazing,” describe what makes it amazing.
  

• Vary Your Language: Avoid using the same intensifiers repeatedly. Mix it up with more precise or unique descriptors.

How do you spot an amateur author? Count the number of intensifiers (usually -ly words) used in a paragraph. :)

So here’s my advice. Before submitting your story to a contest or publishing editor, throw your work — scene by scene — into an AI engine and have it look for intensifiers. The results might surprise you in that, unconsciously, you’re constantly using intensifiers when a better verb or adverb would do.

R