Beyond the Page – A. R. Hurst

The Writer’s Fuel: Deconstructing the Rhythm of Creation

The process of writing a novel is rarely the romantic, quiet affair popular culture suggests. It’s a relentless, daily negotiation against distraction, self-doubt, and the sheer, overwhelming complexity of the story itself. This is especially true when working in the demanding arenas of horror, crime, and psychological thriller, where the narrative is built not on comfort, but on the precise, methodical construction of anxiety.

There is a profound difference between wanting to write and achieving the sheer disciplined momentum required to complete a book. Every author needs a system. A personal, potent sonic cue that acts as a switch, instantly filtering out the chaos of the mundane world and establishing an unwavering internal rhythm. For me, that essential catalyst is the instrumental piece, “Kids,” by Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein.

This track, instantly recognisable as the main emotional motif from the Netflix series, Stranger Things, is far more than just background atmosphere. Its rigid, almost hypnotic construction doesn’t just put me in the mood; it acts as a direct psychological trigger, linking the creative task to the relentless, determined drive of my youth. When that synthesizer pulses, the internal machinery starts, and the procrastination stops.

The Analogue Comfort and The Psychology of Achievement

Though I wasn’t actually born in the 1980s, I grew up completely saturated in the decade’s pop culture thanks to my older siblings. This track is pure, distilled nostalgia for that era: the moody aesthetic, the synthesizers, and the low-fidelity tape hiss.

But the true power lies in its connection to 80s and 90s gaming. That chugging, repetitive synth rhythm directly mirrors the soundtrack of those classic platformers. That music was the pervasive sound of creative resilience. It accompanied hours spent replaying the same difficult section, accepting ‘Game Over’ again and again, driven by a simple, unyielding truth: you can only achieve the final victory through unrelenting repetition.

When I put on “Kids,” it doesn’t just create atmosphere; it instantly resurrects that deep, old-school gamer motivation: I will solve this puzzle, I will beat this level, and I will not quit until I master the pattern. That psychological state; the acceptance of initial failure coupled with absolute determination, is precisely what’s needed to tackle a complex, demanding chapter.

Deconstructing the Sound: A Four-Part Blueprint for Narrative Tension

The track’s brilliance lies in its disciplined, incremental build-up. It offers a clear, four-phase structural blueprint for managing and escalating narrative tension, which I follow almost unconsciously when drafting:

Phase 1: The Eerie Pulse (0:00 – 0:34)

The track begins with a simple, resonant sine wave that pulses like a low, anxious heartbeat. This is the Immersion Point. There is no melody, just repetitive, slightly dissonant rhythm. This phase forces me to clear the mental clutter and establish the core atmosphere of the scene: the creeping dread, the sense that something is fundamentally wrong. It’s a hypnotic ritual that silences the internal editor and demands I commit to the mood.

Phase 2: The Core Melody and Focus (0:35 – 1:05)

A second, slightly melancholy synthesizer voice enters with the main theme. This is the Character Commitment Phase. This new layer introduces the main human element—the protagonist’s specific objective, their private vulnerability, or the deep, personal connection driving them forward. The music clarifies the central narrative task: focus solely on the character’s emotional trajectory and motivation for the scene.

Phase 3: The Build, Noise, and Dissonance (1:06 – 1:40)

The rhythmic elements thicken, and a subtle layer of dissonance or “noise” is introduced into the background. This is the Creative Struggle Phase. The music is now demanding that the narrative tension escalate. This is where I push through the difficult structural knots: the protagonist’s careful plan collapses, the dialogue exposes a painful truth, or the scene twists into outright conflict. The conflict in the music mirrors the struggle on the page.

Phase 4: Full Momentum and The Unstoppable Flow (1:41 – End)

The rhythm machine hits its full stride, the synths swell, and the main theme is played with confidence and urgency. This is the Climactic Flow State. Everything the previous sections built up is now in motion. This sound compels me to write with speed and clarity, driving the action, the final devastating reveal, or the critical choice that provides the chapter’s powerful hook. The pace is no longer anxious; it is urgent, powerful, and utterly unstoppable.

The Final Beat: Why This Rhythm Defines My Genre

The fundamental reason “Kids” fuels my writing is that its structure perfectly embodies the psychological architecture of my genres.

My work in horror and psychological thriller isn’t about jump scares or shoot-outs; it’s about the relentless, methodical erosion of the protagonist’s sense of safety. The track’s constant, quiet pulse, which never fully resolves, becomes the blueprint for the story’s overall tone. It forces me to withhold resolution until the final beat, mirroring the experience of the protagonist who is trapped in an anxiety loop.

The music’s slow, controlled escalation teaches me that maximum tension is achieved through restraint, not chaos. It reminds me that the most terrifying revelation is the one that arrives on time, measured, and inevitable, just like the bass synth, the ultimate, terrifying comfort of a known rhythm.

Proofreading the Professionals: What Editing Client Reports Taught Me About My Own Fiction

For those who didn’t know, I run my own business, Hurst Marketing Publishing, in which services are provided to small local businesses in digital marketing, proofreading and editing for academics and authors, and publishing for authors wishing to be published, including illustrations. Through my background expertise in English Language, Media Studies, and Computer Science, this analytical career has become my most rigorous form of creative professional development. I’ve discovered that the cold, hard discipline required for editing a formal business report is the exact discipline needed to turn a raw manuscript into a professional novel.

The Discipline of Consistency

Editing client reports and marketing materials demands meticulous attention to technical consistency across large documents. We must ensure every use of terminology is identical, every piece of data is accurate, and the brand tone remains uniform from start to finish. There is absolutely no room for error, as credibility hinges on this technical rigour.

This necessary discipline directly translates to my fiction writing. Consistency in a novel isn’t just about correct spelling: it’s about the technical rigour to maintain character names, eye colours, world rules, and plot threads across thousands of words. My professional training provides the objective, technical check required to spot these subtle narrative gaps that my excited, creative brain often misses.

Flow, Pacing, and Purpose

When editing academic essays, the primary goal is ruthless efficiency. Every sentence must serve the main argument, and if a section does not contribute definitively to the core purpose, it is cut without sentiment. This mindset treats prose as a tool: it must be sharp, direct, and functional, which trains a critical eye for wasted space.

This analytical efficiency makes applying the “kill your darlings” principle far easier in my own fiction. Scenes, characters, or descriptive passages that are enjoyable to write but do not serve the core emotional or plot trajectory are removed. My professional experience teaches me that true flow and strong pacing come not from adding more words, but from removing everything that doesn’t advance the story.

Technical Clarity Over Sentiment

My background in Computer Science and English Language has instilled a strong focus on technical clarity: unambiguous language, correct syntax, and structural logic. When dealing with formal reports, sentiment is always secondary to function; the reader must understand the information without having to interpret flowery prose or convoluted phrasing.

I apply this technical focus directly to my prose. It provides a necessary, almost ‘computer science’ check on the artistry of my writing, allowing me to identify where passive voice is hiding action, where weak verbs are diluting impact, or where overly complex sentence structures are clouding a crucial emotional moment. This objective analysis ensures that the emotional beat of the scene hits with maximum clarity.

Bridging the Dual Careers

Ultimately, the professional work is not a distraction from my fiction; it provides the essential final layer: the objective, analytical editor’s eye that the creative self can never truly develop alone. When I finish a draft, I rely on the disciplined focus I’ve honed editing client work to separate myself from the emotional attachment of creation.

My business is, therefore, the ultimate, continuous professional development course for my fiction writing. It forces me to become a master of the mechanics and the structure of language, allowing me to approach my final manuscript not as a subjective artist, but as the objective professional responsible for its quality and clarity.

The Four Chord Rule: Finding Originality in Established Structures

The terror of the blank page often stems from the awful realisation that everything has been done before. As both a writer and a musician, I face the same anxiety: every plot has been written, and every chord progression has been played. But this is actually a comfort. The greatest storytellers and songwriters know that the building blocks are finite; originality lies entirely in the unique combination, the personal rhythm, and the emotional performance we bring to those established structures.

The Formulaic Foundation

In music, most popular songs famously rely on the same four basic chords. A story is no different: it often uses the same fundamental universal plots, whether it is a quest, a tragedy, or a simple coming-of-age. The framework is fixed, but the voice is unique. This means the scaffolding is strong, and our labour is focused on building something distinctive on top of that established base.

This fixed structure is something I see in my love for RPGs (Role Playing Games). Every campaign operates within rigid systems, defined by established lore and core mechanics. Novel writing has its own set of immutable rules, defined by genre conventions. The fun, and the opportunity for originality, lies entirely in the improvisation, the clever narrative choices, and the character decisions made within those restrictive systems.

Pacing and Rhythmic Execution

Originality is often found in the pacing, which I see clearly in tennis, padel, and pickleball. All these racket sports are based on anticipation and rhythm. You spend the whole point waiting for the opponent’s move, setting up the decisive return. A novel operates similarly: you anticipate the reader’s expectation and then subvert it with a rhythmic surprise.

This links directly to songwriting. A good song needs dramatic contrast: a quiet, reflective verse that explodes into a huge chorus, or a shift in the bridge. A novel needs this same rhythmic variety. The pace is made original not just by the sequence of events, but by how long you force the reader to wait between the action and the explanation. The execution of the rhythm is the art, and that is unique to the author.

The Voice as the Unique Melody

The most fundamental piece of originality is the voice, which is best illustrated by the guitar. Take a simple G-chord: played by ten different musicians, it sounds different every time because of their individual touch, the subtle tone of the instrument, and the emotion behind the playing. In a novel, a universal plot, like a quest for a magical item, is made entirely unique by the protagonist’s voice and perspective.

In RPGs, the rules are set, but the player’s choices and the character’s personality dictate the outcome. A lawful good cleric will approach a problem completely differently from a chaotic rogue. Your novel’s originality resides here: in the specific way your protagonist would react, fail, or succeed. It’s not about the plot itself, but the unique filter of the narrator’s consciousness.

The Art of the Final Performance

Ultimately, the terror that everything has been done before is a structural illusion. The reader does not ultimately care if your plot is entirely new; they care if the performance, the prose, the emotional truth, and the unique combination of familiar elements, feels authentic and compelling to them.

The highest ambition for any creative person is not to invent a new chord or a new story structure, but to take those familiar chords and write a song that only you could have written. True originality is not found in the material; it is found in the deeply personal process of its creation.

My Creative Quirks: The Weird Habits That Get Me to the Finish Line

Every writer has their own set of strange, non-negotiable rituals. We know the famous fictional examples, like Paul Sheldon in Stephen King’s Misery, with his meticulous finishing ritual of champagne and a cigarette. The reality for most of us, however, is much less glamorous; it’s a collection of small, necessary quirks that our brains rely on to transition into—and out of—the fictional world. My own process certainly doesn’t involve French bubbly, but it is a vital cycle of creation, doubt, analysis, and ultimate release.

The Engine of the Session

My writing process must begin with firm anchors to signal to the brain that it’s time to work. This often means ensuring the environment is right: a specific ambient playlist, the perfect cup of coffee, and a clear desk. These small, sensory details are not superstitions; they are focused triggers that shut off the ‘business brain’—the part responsible for digital marketing and client edits—and engage the creative engine.

There is also the matter of the physical tools. While the final draft is digital, I maintain a strong connection to the physical space of creation. I find the initial freedom of writing longhand, away from the rigid structure of the screen, is often necessary for those crucial early scenes. This shift from the digital, analytical world of the business to the analogue, fluid world of the imagination is the critical first step.

The Immediate Aftermath

My finishing ritual is nothing like Paul Sheldon’s celebratory champagne; it’s quieter, and far more steeped in uncertainty. When I finish a substantial session, my first physical action is to simply sit back and let out a huge sigh. That sigh is the release of tension, the physical letting go of the words that were just pulled from the imagination. But that release is immediately followed by doubt.

I then start pacing around the room. I feel lost, disconnected from the rhythm of the scene I just finished, and immediately start questioning its validity—was the ending strong enough? Should the character have done that? This is the physical manifestation of the inner critic, forcing me to move away from the screen and process the uncertainty on my feet.

The Critical Comparison

The next step is my specific method for conquering that pacing doubt: actively jotting down alternative endings. This isn’t a sign that the ending is weak; it’s my way of stress-testing the narrative and ensuring I’ve chosen the very best path for the story. I will write two or three completely different versions of the final few paragraphs, comparing them side-by-side.

This process of comparative analysis is how I solidify my commitment to the manuscript. By deliberately laying out the options, I move from emotional uncertainty to rational confidence. Once I review the alternatives and confirm that my original choice was indeed the most powerful and narratively sound, the uncertainty is replaced by conviction.

The Final Release

Once I’ve settled the structural debate and the scene is locked in, the final, necessary step is to play the guitar. This is the conscious and deliberate act of shifting my brain from the rigorous analysis of writing and editing to a space of pure, non-verbal creativity. The guitar offers an entirely different kind of rhythm and release, washing away the mental labour of the writing session.

My entire creative cycle—from the initial longhand draft to the final musical release—is a highly personal system for managing the immense mental energy required to tell a story. It’s a unique cycle of creation, doubt, analysis, and resolution that, however weird it looks, is the only way I can consistently get to the finish line.

Music vs. Metre: Why I Love Lyrics but Struggle with Formal Poetry

It’s one of those strange, contradictory quirks of my creative personality: I am a profound lover of music, someone who hangs on every single word of a well-crafted lyric, yet I find myself unable to fully engage with formal poetry on the page. I know, I know—lyrics are poetry, structured into verse and chorus with metre and rhythm. But for me, the difference is vast and entirely down to the delivery system. The same profound words that move me when carried by a favourite melody leave me cold and struggling to connect when presented in their bare, printed form.

The Saving Grace of the Soundtrack

For me, the melody is the saving grace, the element that makes lyrics immediately accessible and powerful. Music provides the emotional scaffolding and the necessary context that allows the words to land effortlessly. The bassline can convey heartbreak, and the rhythm can communicate urgency; the words simply have to fill in the detail. This means the emotional labour is shared between the musician and the lyricist, allowing me to fully absorb the story without feeling blocked by the form.

Furthermore, lyrics are usually delivered as part of a communal, performed experience. Whether I’m listening on headphones or at a gig, there’s an immediate connection to the artist’s intent and emotion. This is a fundamental contrast to reading poetry, which often feels like a solitary exercise where I must actively work to excavate meaning from the dense, exposed language. Music offers a pre-packaged emotional journey; poetry requires me to build the entire journey myself, which is where I hit my creative wall.

The Tyranny of the Blank Page

My struggle with formal poetry is rooted in the sheer effort required to decode the structure and find the emotional hook. When words are stripped down and presented in stark, deliberate lines on the page, the form—the specific rhyme scheme, the strict metre, the unusual line breaks—often feels demanding. Rather than sounding like natural speech or expressive emotion, the words sometimes feel like they are bending to service a clever structural rule, and I find myself scrutinising the form rather than simply feeling the content.

This difficulty is compounded by the lack of context. Without the propulsion of rhythm, the emotional cues of instrumentation, or the energy of a singer’s voice, the isolated words of a poem feel demanding and inaccessible. They sit there, static and exposed, forcing the reader to spend valuable time decoding the structure before engaging with the meaning. I suppose I simply rely on music too heavily; I need the words to travel in the vehicle of song for my heart to open to them. And don’t even get me started on the idea of poetry slams…

The contradiction remains a simple matter of creative preference: I am utterly devoted to the words, but I need them to travel in the vehicle of song. It’s not that I don’t like poetry, it’s that I just can’t seem to do it.

What is your own strangest creative contradiction—the one thing you want to love, but find yourself unable to connect with?

Narrative Choices: How Game Decisions Inspire the Twists and Turns in My Plots

As a writer, I’m constantly searching for inspiration – for those moments of sudden clarity that illuminate a character’s path or untangle a complex plot point. While I find endless ideas in books, films, and the world around me, some of my most potent creative sparks ignite in the digital realms of video games. Whether I’m navigating the moral quagmires of Fallout, making alliances in the corporate-dominated universe of The Outer Worlds, or shaping the destiny of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls, these experiences are more than just entertainment. They are, for me, a living masterclass in narrative design, directly influencing how I conceive the twists, turns, and pivotal decisions within my own stories.

Video games have an immediacy to their storytelling that other media can’t quite replicate. In a film, I’m a spectator; in a book, I’m an interpreter; but in a game, I’m a participant. The narrative bends to my decisions, forcing me to consider not only what happens but why it happens. That sense of authorship—of co-creating the story alongside the game’s designers—is electrifying. It teaches me that the most gripping tales aren’t just about spectacle; they’re about agency, the sense that what I do (or, in writing, what my characters do) truly matters.

Forging a Fate with a Single Choice

In many RPGs, a quest seems straightforward. You’re sent to find a specific person, recover a stolen item, or clear out a dungeon. You follow the markers, talk to the right people, and everything seems to be on track. Then, in a single moment, the entire narrative twists. The person you were sent to find is already dead, the stolen item is a decoy for a greater conspiracy, or the dungeon you’re in turns out to be part of a much larger, more terrifying plan. That feeling of sudden, jarring subversion—the moment you lean forward and say, “Whatttt?”—is exactly what I aim to recreate in my own writing.

This is the very essence of my novel, A Legacy in Loneliness. In it, each chapter is designed like a game quest, a carrot on a string that leads the reader in a single direction, towards a clear “whodunnit” assumption. But then, a twist unfolds within that very chapter, yanking the rug out from under them and forcing them to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew. This constant cycle of building and subverting expectations is the core of the story’s suspense. I don’t just have a single, grand reveal at the end; I have a series of twists, each one a testament to the way these games have taught me to never let the reader get too comfortable.

In truth, I think players and readers crave that sense of instability. When the ground beneath them shifts, they feel alive inside the story. It forces them to invest more deeply, to search for clues, to weigh possibilities. Games taught me that every choice can be a trapdoor, and I carry that lesson into my novels. My characters don’t simply walk a path; they stumble into dead ends, make fateful errors, and discover secrets that turn allies into enemies. It’s not just about shock value—it’s about crafting a narrative ecosystem where the unexpected feels inevitable in hindsight.

Beyond Good and Evil: The Spectrum of Morality

One of the most captivating aspects of games like Fallout and The Outer Worlds is their masterful handling of moral ambiguity. There’s rarely a purely ‘good’ or ‘evil’ choice, but rather a spectrum of decisions, each with its own justifications and repercussions. You might side with a faction that promises peace but enforces it through tyranny, or support a rebellion that fights for freedom but causes widespread chaos. This nuanced approach to morality is invaluable to me as an author. It teaches me to avoid simplistic black-and-white characterisations and instead embrace the grey areas. My characters, much like the avatars I control in these games, are not perfect. They grapple with conflicting loyalties, make flawed judgements, and sometimes choose the lesser of two evils. It’s in these struggles that their humanity truly shines, making them more relatable and their story arcs far more compelling.

Games have shown me that morality is often situational, and that consequences ripple outward in ways neither the player nor the character can fully predict. Helping one community might doom another. Sparing one enemy might come back to haunt you later. That sense of cascading repercussions mirrors real life far more than a neatly packaged good-or-bad dichotomy. In my writing, I want readers to feel the same unease—to question whether the “right” choice even exists, and to wrestle with the idea that sometimes, survival or loyalty outweighs justice.

What excites me most is how this moral complexity deepens character development. A hero who never falters, who always makes the noble choice, feels distant and artificial. But a protagonist who compromises, who regrets, who sometimes wonders if they’ve become the villain—that’s a person we recognise. That’s a person worth following to the very end.

Plotting with a Controller

These interactive narratives aren’t just teaching me about story mechanics; they’re inspiring a fundamental understanding of what makes a story resonate. They highlight the power of discovery, the thrill of the unforeseen, and the profound impact of seeing a character truly tested by their own convictions. When I put down the controller, I carry these lessons back to my writing desk. I don’t just draft plots; I design decision points. I don’t just create characters; I imagine the difficult choices that will forge their destinies. It’s a testament to the power of games that they can not only entertain but also profoundly enrich the very craft of storytelling itself.

What strikes me most is that both gaming and writing thrive on immersion. A reader turning pages late into the night isn’t so different from a player losing track of hours in a glowing virtual landscape. Both are searching for connection: with the world, with the characters, with themselves. By blending the lessons of gaming into my prose, I aim to give readers that same feeling of being inside the story, of carrying the weight of decisions even when they’re not the ones making them. That lingering sense—that choices matter, that outcomes aren’t certain—is what transforms a story from memorable into unforgettable.

From Pixels to Prose

When the screen fades to black and I step back into the quiet of my study, I’m struck by how much these digital journeys mirror the process of writing itself. Both rely on a balance of structure and surprise, of intention and improvisation. Both demand that I think not just about what happens, but how it feels for the person experiencing it—whether that person is a player navigating dialogue trees or a reader turning the page.

In many ways, the time I spend wandering virtual wastelands or ancient kingdoms isn’t an escape from writing; it’s preparation for it. Games sharpen my instincts for pacing, for tension, for the moment where one choice changes everything. They remind me that stories live and breathe not because of perfect plotting, but because of flawed, fascinating characters making decisions they can’t take back. And that, ultimately, is what I want my readers to feel: that they, too, are standing at a crossroads, unsure of what comes next, but unable to stop themselves from moving forward.

Journeying Through the Wasteland: How Creating a Character Teaches You to Build a Story Arc

Stories are everywhere. They are the narratives we live, the histories we share, and the futures we imagine. While I spend my days building worlds with words, some of the most profound stories I’ve ever experienced are the ones I’ve shaped with a controller in my hands. Escaping into the sprawling, post-apocalyptic landscapes of Fallout, the witty, choice-driven quests of The Outer Worlds, or the ancient, magic-infused history of The Elder Scrolls isn’t just a hobby. For me, it is an immersive, interactive education in the very art of creation. It’s in these digital realms that I’ve learned one of my most crucial lessons: the story isn’t about what happens to a character—it’s about who they are when it’s all said and done.

These games blur the line between storyteller and audience. Unlike a book or a film where the narrative unfolds in one direction, here the story responds to me, reshaping itself around my decisions. It makes me aware of the subtle mechanics of narrative—how tension builds, how stakes shift, how meaning is formed not just by plot events but by the accumulation of personal choices. In this way, I don’t just consume a story; I collaborate with it.

The First Steps of Creation

The moment I enter a character creation screen, I’m already deep in the work of a writer. It’s a process that goes far beyond choosing a hairstyle or a class. I’m making foundational decisions that will echo throughout the entire narrative. Will my character be a charismatic silver-tongue or a cunning lone wolf with a mysterious past? Are they driven by a fierce sense of justice or a purely selfish desire for power? These choices are the character’s secret history, their emotional wellspring. I don’t just pick skills; I assign a personality. I choose a name that hints at their destiny. This is the very same work I do when I sit down to write a new book. Before a single sentence of plot is written, I must first understand the driving force behind my protagonist—the baggage they carry, the dreams they chase, and the deepest parts of their identity that will ultimately dictate their journey.

In many ways, the creation phase is the moment of greatest possibility. Just as a blank page holds infinite stories, the character screen holds infinite identities. Every slider, every choice feels like setting down a foundation stone for a cathedral I haven’t yet imagined. It reminds me that beginnings are sacred; they carry a weight that echoes forward into every moment that follows, and whether in games or novels, the origin shapes the destiny.

The Branching Paths of the Narrative

As I step out of the character creation screen and into the vast world, the story truly begins to breathe. Every decision I make carries a weight and a consequence. Do I lie to the town guard to protect a friend, knowing it might have unforeseen repercussions? Do I choose to join a powerful faction or remain a lone wolf, surviving by my own rules? These aren’t just moments of gameplay; they are key plot points. The game’s main quest is the grand narrative arc, but it’s my character’s personal choices and their reactions to the challenges they face that truly make the story my own. This is the power of a character-driven plot. The greatest narratives aren’t just about external events; they are about how a person’s internal world shifts and changes in response to what happens to them. The tension isn’t just in the next battle—it’s in the quiet, reflective moments when my character decides who they are going to be.

What fascinates me most is how branching narratives highlight the invisible theme of every story: consequence. In a book, I can carefully structure a moment of reckoning for a character, but in a game, those reckonings appear organically from my own actions. The result is a sense of ownership that feels both empowering and humbling. It teaches me that the most impactful stories aren’t dictated—they emerge from choice, conflict, and the inevitability of living with what comes after.

The Tools of the Storyteller

One of the most valuable lessons these games teach is that a writer’s tools aren’t just a pen and paper—they’re a system. The skill trees you navigate are a perfect metaphor for a character’s arc, with each new ability or insight unlocked over time. The dialogue wheels or conversational choices are a lesson in voice and perspective, forcing you to choose not just what a character says, but how they say it. And the moral systems, like the karma in Fallout, remind us that every choice has a consequence, building a narrative that is both rewarding and, at times, heartbreaking. These elements are the gears that turn the plot, and they are what gives the story its life and its emotional truth.

These mechanics also reinforce something crucial for any writer: limitations breed creativity. A finite set of skills, responses, or moral outcomes forces me to work within a framework, finding depth in what is available rather than chasing endless possibilities. In writing, too, structure—whether it’s point of view, genre, or even word count—becomes a framework to push against. Just like in games, it is within those constraints that the most resonant stories take shape.

The Return from the Wasteland

Ultimately, the most profound takeaway from these journeys is the understanding that a character’s true story arc isn’t about their victories, but about their evolution. The wide-eyed adventurer I started with is not the same person who emerges from the final confrontation. They are a product of their triumphs and failures, their kindness and their ruthlessness. They have been forged by the journey itself. When I finally put down the controller, I don’t feel like I’ve just been entertained. I feel like I’ve been training. I’ve been building a character, navigating a plot, and witnessing an arc unfold, all in a dynamic, living world. It’s a powerful reminder that our creative passions can be found in the most unexpected places, and that every story, no matter what medium it’s in, is simply the journey of a person from who they were to who they are meant to be.

And perhaps that is why these digital adventures linger long after the credits roll. They aren’t just escapism; they are mirrors. In every world I traverse, I see reflections of my own choices, my own values, and my own transformation. To step back into reality after walking the wasteland is to return with a deeper awareness of story—not only as something I write or play, but as something I live.

The Unseen Game: What Tennis Taught Me About the Writing Life

It might seem like a strange connection, but I’ve come to realise that the lessons I learn on the tennis court are lessons I apply to my writing. Both are pursuits that demand a delicate balance of strategy and intuition, where you can feel simultaneously in command and utterly at the mercy of the moment. Tennis, for me, is not just a game; it is a vivid metaphor for the unpredictable journey of a story, with its rhythm, its surprises, and its quiet revelations.

The Power of Practice

Every writer knows the importance of showing up to the page, even on days when the words refuse to flow. It’s the same on the court. You don’t improve by waiting for the perfect day or the ideal inspiration; improvement comes through repetition, through hitting thousands of balls, feeling the rhythm in your body, and training both mind and muscle to respond instinctively.

“Tennis teaches focus, rhythm, and persistence—the same qualities that shape my writing.”

The discipline of practice—the drills, the warm-ups, the small adjustments to footwork or swing—is mirrored in writing. Each sentence, paragraph, and chapter is a repetition, an exercise in refining your craft. The commitment to showing up, even when it feels difficult or mundane, is as essential for a winning story as it is for a winning match. And just as a tennis player develops muscle memory for the perfect serve or volley, a writer develops a kind of narrative memory—the ability to sense where a story is going, even when the path isn’t entirely clear.

Strategy and the Unexpected Serve

When I’m drafting a story, I start with a plan. I sketch chapter outlines, track character arcs, and imagine the trajectory of the plot. But much like a tennis match, the opponent—the story itself—rarely obeys the rules. A ball takes an unexpected spin; a gust of wind alters its course; the shot you rehearsed a hundred times goes wide.

It is in these moments of unpredictability that the real excitement arises. Some of the most memorable points on the court, and the most compelling moments in a narrative, emerge from the unexpected. You have to adapt, improvise, and occasionally abandon the carefully laid strategy in favour of one that feels alive in the moment. Writing, like tennis, teaches you to be present, to respond creatively to what’s happening right now, and to trust that the surprises—while unnerving—can elevate your game and your story in ways you never imagined.

The Quiet Zone

There are fleeting moments on the court when the world falls away. The thud of the ball against racquet strings, the squeak of trainers on the court, the fleeting perfection of a clean hit—these are the moments that exist in pure flow, where conscious thought disappears and instinct takes over. I’ve found this same quiet zone in writing.

When you are fully immersed in a story, the characters begin to speak for themselves. Sentences seem to appear on the page as if guided by something beyond you. In these moments, writing is not about effort or force; it is about presence, patience, and allowing the narrative to unfold organically. The story reveals itself in ways that are both surprising and inevitable, much like a rally that unexpectedly turns in your favour, point by point.

Resilience and Return

Ultimately, both tennis and writing are exercises in resilience. They are about weathering the bad serves, the missed shots, the difficult drafts, and the moments of frustration. Every mistake is an opportunity to learn, to adjust, and to return stronger for the next challenge. The rhythm of repetition, the thrill of unpredictability, and the quiet joy of flow all remind us that mastery—whether of a sport or a craft—is not a destination but a journey.

Both tennis and writing teach patience, adaptability, and the courage to continue despite setbacks. They reward the act of showing up, the willingness to embrace the unexpected, and the ability to find joy in the process itself. And perhaps most importantly, they remind us that in both games, the journey—the rallies, the drafts, the flow—is often more significant than the final score.