The Human Element – Page 2

Strike First, Strike Hard, No Mercy… for Writer’s Block: How Karate Kid and Cobra Kai Taught Me Everything About the Writing Life

If you’ve spent any time around me, you’ll know two things are unequivocally true: I breathe stories, and I am absolutely, unashamedly, irrevocably obsessed with The Karate Kid saga, especially its sensational revival, Cobra Kai. Like many writers, I am, deep down, Miyagi-Do through and through—I believe in balance, discipline, and finding the profound truth in simple mechanics.

But Cobra Kai taught me to love the Strike Hard ethos, because it showed me the power of a redemption story done right. The series has become an unexpected, profound masterclass in my other great passion: writing.

Yes, you read that right. Beyond the brilliant soundtrack, the epic fight choreography, and the glorious return of 80s icons, Cobra Kai isn’t just a show about karate. It’s a sprawling, multi-layered narrative about redemption, rivalry, perspective, and the relentless pursuit of purpose. And for a writer, it’s an absolute goldmine of hard-earned truths. So grab your karate gi, clear your mind, and prepare for the longest, most passionate blog post you’ll read today, because we’re about to explore how the dojos of the Valley forged me into a better storyteller.

The Foundations: Wax On, Words On—The Discipline of Craft

Even as a Miyagi-Do writer who instinctively favours defence and balance, the original Karate Kid laid the groundwork for understanding the essence of any craft. Mr. Miyagi’s seemingly mundane chores—polishing cars, sanding floors—were never just about cleaning. They were about building muscle memory, discipline, and understanding fundamentals.

As writers, how often do we want to jump straight to the “crane kick”—the dazzling plot twist, the profound monologue, the viral blog post? Mr. Miyagi taught us that mastery comes from the basics. We learn that “Wax On, Wax Off” is really Editing. It’s the tedious, repetitive work of polishing sentences, strengthening verbs, and removing clutter, one word at a time, until the surface gleams. It’s not glorious, but it’s essential for structural integrity. Similarly, “Sand the Floor” is Planning. It’s the foundational work that seems separate from the creative act but provides the stability for everything that comes after. Without a solid structure, your narrative will wobble and eventually collapse. And finally, “Paint the Fence” is Daily Word Count. It’s the consistent, disciplined effort of showing up, day after day, and laying down new words, even when you don’t feel inspired. It builds stamina and resilience. You can’t wait for inspiration; you have to earn it through discipline.

Johnny Lawrence: The Best 80s Antagonist, The Best 21st Century Protagonist

This is the true genius of Cobra Kai, and why every single writer should study Johnny Lawrence. He was the perfect, one-dimensional, hair-metal-loving bully of 1984. But in the 2010s, he became the main character we desperately needed.

For decades, Johnny was the villain, the baddie in Daniel LaRusso’s heroic tale. Cobra Kai flipped the script, giving him his own point of view, his own dojo to rebuild, and his own quest for redemption. He transitioned from the best 80s antagonist to the best 21st century protagonist.

This evolution is the ultimate lesson in perspective, character development, and narrative daring for writers.

The Barney Stinson Blueprint is key here. Johnny Lawrence’s arc is successful for the same reason characters like Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother resonated. You take a deeply flawed, often toxic character—one who is hilarious, misguided, and stuck in the past—and you give them a painful, genuine, and often relatable path toward being a better person. We cheer for Johnny not when he’s perfect, but when he fails spectacularly and then gets back up. Redemption must be earned, not given. Johnny’s path is a glorious, two-steps-forward-one-step-back disaster, full of cock-ups and bad decisions. This teaches us the power of writing complex characters who evolve authentically. Change is messy, and your character arcs should be messy, too. We want characters who scrape and fight for their better selves.

Moreover, we must embrace the flawed voice. Johnny’s voice is hilarious, unpolished, and frequently inappropriate. Yet, it’s undeniably his. As a writer, I, the meticulous Miyagi-Do student, learned from Johnny to sometimes strike hard with a messy, authentic first draft. You have to allow that raw, imperfect voice onto the page before you can sand it down and polish it. Johnny reminds me that sometimes the most compelling stories aren’t from the expected hero; they are from the bloke who was supposed to be the footnote. He teaches us that every story deserves a second chance.

Daniel LaRusso: The Peril of Dogma and the Virtue of Adaptability

While Johnny represents the fresh start, Daniel embodies a different, equally vital lesson for writers: the danger of becoming stuck in your ways, even good ways.

As a writer who leans into the Miyagi-Do tenets of balance and defence, I understand Daniel’s rigidity. But Cobra Kaiforces him to face his own blind spots: Stagnation kills the narrative. Daniel’s initial inability to see Johnny’s attempt at reform stems from his rigid worldview. As writers, we fall into similar traps when we cling to a specific genre, an unworkable planning method, or a writing voice that isn’t resonating, simply because it’s “our way.” Dogma is the enemy of creativity. You must also realise that you must adapt or die. The writing landscape is identical to the Valley karate world. Trends shift, platforms change, and reader expectations evolve. Clinging too tightly to an outdated style or an unworkable plot can lead to your story—or your career—being left behind. You must learn new moves.

Ultimately, fusion is the future. The eventual alliance between Miyagi-Do and Cobra Kai teaches us the power of blending philosophies. I need Miyagi-Do for the foundation, but I need Johnny’s Cobra Kai spirit to finish the story and promote it fiercely. The best writing happens when discipline meets daring.

Kreese and Terry Silver: The Cult of a Toxic Writing Voice

John Kreese and Terry Silver are not just villains; they are toxic ideologies made manifest. They represent the worst possible advice a writer can receive:

“No Mercy” is the Toxic Writing Voice. This is the internal editor that demands every sentence be perfect on the first draft, the voice that tells you your ideas are rubbish, and the one that demands you tear down everyone else’s work. It’s the voice of self-sabotage and writer’s block. Mercy for the first draft is essential. The Flattery of Easy Power is another danger. Silver and Kreese offer their students a quick path to power through aggression. For a writer, this is the temptation to chase fleeting trends, write only for clicks, or use sensationalism instead of substance. It’s easy, but it ultimately hollows out your work and your purpose. True power comes from honest, balanced storytelling.

The Final Lesson: What’s Your Dojo?

Cobra Kai asks a fundamental question of every character: Which philosophy defines you?

As a writer, I now ask myself: What is my dojo? I am a Miyagi-Do writer who values craft, but I need the redemption-seeking, Strike Hard energy of Johnny Lawrence to push past fear, finish the manuscript, and put my voice out into the world.

So, the next time writer’s block paralyses you, remember the lessons of the Valley. Don’t let fear win. Don’t be a spectator. Don’t let your inner Kreese tell you you’re not good enough.

You have the skill, you have the heart, and you have the story. Sweep the leg of self-doubt and write!

The Necessary Flaw: Why Imperfection is Our Greatest Plot Device

We spend so much time in life trying to smooth out our rough edges, hiding our mistakes, and presenting a curated version of ourselves. Yet, when we turn to art—to books, films, and songs—it is precisely the necessary flaw that draws us in. The human element in storytelling isn’t about celebrating perfect heroes or neat resolutions; it’s about validating the messy, contradictory, and often irrational reality of being alive. This devotion to imperfection is what makes human-created stories powerful, enduring, and utterly distinct from anything a machine can generate.

A story that truly resonates doesn’t show us life as it should be, but as it is. It gives us a protagonist who is brilliant but deeply selfish, a moment of profound courage followed by a wave of crippling doubt, or a happy ending tainted by a lingering sadness. These complexities aren’t narrative mistakes; they are the signposts of authenticity. By embracing the flaw—the lie a good person tells, the fear a brave person harbors—writers acknowledge the full, difficult spectrum of human experience, creating a profound connection based on shared vulnerability rather than manufactured idealism.

The Paradox of Choice

In its simplest form, a plot is a series of choices. But the human element comes from the paradox of choice—when all options are terrible, when the ‘right’ path costs everything, or when a character chooses poorly out of love, fear, or stubborn pride. This is where the narrative moves beyond simple logic and into the realm of philosophy and emotion. An AI can calculate the optimal choice for a character to succeed; a human writer knows the most compelling choice is often the one that ensures tragedy.

This is where stories earn their emotional weight. We are fascinated by the flawed choice because it reflects our own daily navigation of difficult trade-offs. We watch a character sacrifice their career for a family member, knowing that the “good” outcome carries a personal cost. Or we see them choose a temporary comfort that guarantees long-term pain. By exploring these deeply complex, no-win situations, human writers create meaning not just from the resolution, but from the anguishing process of deciding, cementing the story’s connection to our own tangled lives.

The Language of Internal Contradiction

What makes a human character real is their internal contradiction. We are creatures of paradox: we crave peace but thrive on conflict; we seek certainty but are driven by curiosity; we are capable of immense kindness and equally immense cruelty. The best human storytelling doesn’t shy away from this dual nature; it puts it front and center. It is in the space between what a character says and what they truly feel that the story’s emotional tension resides.

This use of internal contradiction is the ultimate expression of the human element. It’s what gives a villain a compelling rationale, a hero a secret weakness, and a love story its inevitable hurdles. We, the readers, recognize the truth in these paradoxes because they live within us. By crafting narratives that honor the complexity of the human heart, writers don’t just entertain—they confirm our shared, complicated reality, solidifying the idea that our stories are irreplaceable and eternally necessary.

The Art of the Unspoken: What Stories Really Communicate

In an age of constant noise and information overload, it’s easy to think of storytelling as just another form of communication. We talk about plot, character, and theme as if they’re puzzle pieces we’re assembling for a specific effect. But this approach misses the true magic of human-driven narrative: its ability to communicate the things we can’t—or won’t—say aloud. A great story isn’t just a series of events; it’s a vehicle for empathy, a way to share the deepest parts of ourselves without speaking a single word. It’s in the quiet spaces between the lines that the most profound connections are made.

The unique power of human storytelling lies in its capacity to translate raw, messy emotion into something tangible and relatable. When we write about a character’s heartbreak, we’re not just describing a fictional event; we’re tapping into a universal feeling of loss that every reader has experienced. We use a character’s nervous habit to show their insecurity, or a forgotten detail to hint at a deeper trauma. These aren’t just literary techniques; they’re emotional shortcuts that bypass the conscious mind and go straight to the heart. It’s this ability to express the unspoken truths of the human experience that makes storytelling an indispensable part of our culture.

The Alchemy of Empathy

One of the most powerful functions of a human-crafted story is its ability to build bridges between individuals. When you read a book or watch a film, you are, for a brief time, living inside someone else’s skin. You feel their triumphs and their failures, understand their motivations, and see the world through their eyes. This act of shared experience is a kind of alchemy—transforming a stranger’s perspective into a part of your own understanding. It’s what allows a story to foster compassion for people and situations we’ve never encountered in our own lives.

This empathetic connection is something that transcends logic and data. An algorithm can’t feel the lump in your throat when a character says goodbye for the last time. It can’t understand the complex mix of joy and sadness that comes with bittersweet endings. These feelings are the domain of human consciousness, and by channeling them into our work, we create stories that serve as a mirror and a window. They reflect our own experiences back to us while also giving us a clear view into the lives and hearts of others. In a world that often feels fractured and disconnected, this act of empathetic sharing is more valuable than ever.

The Echo of Authenticity

In a world filled with slick, AI-generated content, authenticity is the new currency. We’re drawn to stories that feel real, that carry the weight of lived experience even if they’re set in a fantasy world. That’s because the human touch—the small, imperfect details, the contradictory emotions, the honest flaws—is what breathes life into a narrative. A character who makes a bad decision for a good reason, or who finds unexpected courage in a moment of despair, feels authentic because we know those complexities exist within ourselves.

This authenticity is the echo of our own lives in our work. Every story we write is a product of our personal history, our struggles, our triumphs, and our unique way of seeing the world. It’s a testament to the idea that our messy, imperfect lives are our greatest creative resource. When we lean into that human element, we don’t just write a good story; we create a piece of art that can endure because it carries the indelible signature of a human soul. And in the end, that’s what we’re all searching for—a genuine connection in a world that often feels artificial.

Beyond the First Draft: My Editing and Revision Process

The blank page can be a daunting thing, but for me, nothing is more terrifying than a completed first draft. It’s the literary equivalent of a messy first-floor apartment, a place with a solid foundation but overflowing with clutter, questionable design choices, and a hundred tiny things that need to be fixed. It’s up to me to transform it into a functional and beautiful living space—a place where a reader would actually want to spend time. For me, the real work of writing begins after I’ve typed the final word of the first draft. It’s in the editing and revision process that I find the true heart of the story and meticulously polish the prose until it shines.

The “Big Picture” Pass

Before I even think about fixing a misplaced comma or a run-on sentence, I take a step back to look at the entire manuscript. I print out the entire thing, grab a pen, and read it from start to finish without making any corrections. I’m not looking for errors at this stage; I’m looking for the big stuff, the structural integrity of the story. Does the plot make sense? Are the character arcs believable and consistent? Are there any gaping holes in the logic or timeline? I make notes on a separate document, jotting down things like “Character X’s motivation for doing Y seems weak” or “Chapter 5 feels rushed and needs a scene to build tension.” This is a pass where I put on my reader hat and try to experience the story as if it were the very first time, seeing it from an outsider’s perspective.

The “Line-by-Line” Pass

Once I have a solid plan for addressing the major structural issues, I start the painstaking work of a line-by-line edit. I pull up the manuscript on my computer and read every single sentence out loud. This is my secret weapon for catching awkward phrasing, repetitive language, and unnatural dialogue that just doesn’t sound right. My cat thinks I’ve gone completely mad, but it works every time. This is where I look for all the nitty-gritty details: typos, grammatical errors, and clunky sentences. I often use the “find and replace” feature to check for overused words or phrases. I once had a draft where I used the word “suddenly” over fifty times—a little embarrassing, but an easy fix that makes the prose so much stronger. It’s a slow and deliberate process, but it’s essential for creating a smooth reading experience.

The “Fresh Eyes” Pass

After I’ve done all I can on my own, it’s time to bring in the cavalry: my girlfriend and my TikTok followers. As an independent author, I don’t have a professional editor to lean on, so their feedback is absolutely crucial. Having fresh eyes on the manuscript is invaluable, especially for the intricate scenes and unexpected plot twists that my followers love. They will catch things that I’ve become completely blind to after reading the same words countless times. The feedback I receive from them is invaluable, whether it’s a simple typo or a comment that a certain character’s reaction doesn’t feel authentic. While I handle all the professional editing myself, their insights help me make the manuscript as strong as it can be before it’s released into the world.

The Final Polish

The final stage is the last polish, the one that can take a good story and make it great. I incorporate the feedback from my girlfriend and my followers, and then I do one last comprehensive read-through. This pass is all about the little things. It’s about ensuring consistency in the story—that a character’s eye colour hasn’t changed, or that the timeline holds up. I also check for any lingering formatting errors and make sure the language is as crisp and clean as possible. This is also where I check to make sure my em dashes are used correctly! Once I’m fully satisfied and confident in the manuscript, I send it off, knowing that I’ve done everything I can to transform that messy first draft into a story I’m truly proud of.

Finding Your Voice: How to Write a Story That Only You Can Tell

Every writer begins their journey by trying to imitate. We fall in love with a book, a favourite author, or a particular style, and we start there, hoping to capture a little of the magic we’ve just read. We try on voices like they’re clothes, hoping one will feel like a perfect fit. But what we often don’t realise is that a writer’s voice isn’t something you find hiding in a well-loved book; it’s something you already possess.

Your voice isn’t a technique you can learn from a textbook. It’s the sum of your life experiences, your quirks, your quiet observations, and the way you see the world. It’s the unique rhythm of your thoughts, the vocabulary you instinctively use, and the personal truths that you carry with you. It’s the messy, brilliant combination of everything that makes you, you.

The Raw Material of Your Story

So, where do you begin to write from this authentic place? You start with yourself.

Look to your memories. What are the little moments that stick with you? The smell of rain before a storm, the feeling of a cold floor under your feet, the exact way a relative used to laugh. These aren’t just details; they are the sensory building blocks that an algorithm can never truly replicate. They are yours alone.
Embrace your quirks. The things you find odd or unusual about yourself—your love for a forgotten genre of music, your habit of talking to plants, or a particular word you overuse—are what make your writing unique. Don’t try to sand down your rough edges. Lean into them. They are the fingerprints you leave on the page.
Write what you believe in. Your core values, fears, and hopes will naturally seep into your work. The stories that resonate most are the ones where the writer’s worldview shines through, whether it’s a quiet hope for humanity or a deep-seated belief in the power of a single act of kindness.

Your Story, Your Way

The most powerful thing you can do for your writing is to stop trying to sound like someone else. The true goal is to create a story that only you can tell. This is what separates content from connection. When you write from a place of genuine memory, emotion, and experience, your words carry a weight and an authenticity that can’t be faked.

Trust your own voice. It has been shaped by a life that no one else has lived. And that, in itself, is the most powerful story you could ever hope to write.

What’s the Point of Being a Writer in the 21st Century, If Everyone Thinks It’s Just AI?

More and more, writers and authors are facing the same question: “Did you write this yourself, or was it made by AI?”

It’s a question that cuts deep. Not because we don’t understand the rise of technology, but because it diminishes the human craft behind storytelling. To suggest a book or story must have been written by a machine is to disregard the time, the imagination, and the lived experience that go into creating it.

This isn’t just about me — it’s about every writer who sits with a spark of inspiration, nurtures it into a world, and offers it up to readers. When people assume our work is machine-made, it’s as if we are being told that our humanity doesn’t matter.

Why Human Writers Are Different

AI, as clever as it seems, doesn’t think or feel the way we do.

It doesn’t feel that rush in the chest when a scene finally lands — that electric moment when a jumble of words suddenly clicks into place and becomes alive. It doesn’t wrestle with emotions in the quiet of the night, when grief or joy insists on being turned into ink.

It cannot carry a childhood, with all its innocence and confusion. It cannot recall the way heartbreak makes the air heavier, or how laughter shared with friends can echo for decades. It has no treasured memory to cling to when everything else feels uncertain.

When people suggest writers simply “use AI,” they’re not just questioning the method — they’re stripping away the essence of what it means to create. Writing is not the mechanical assembly of sentences. It is the art of weaving fragments of the self — moments, feelings, reflections — into a story that resonates.

AI can generate words that look like a story. But it cannot live, and it cannot remember. It has no instinct for rhythm, no ache that demands to be written, no lived wisdom to shape the voice on the page.

And perhaps most importantly: it does not care.

It will never pause, uncertain, because a scene feels too close to home.
It will never smile at a line because it reminds it of someone it once loved.
It will never rewrite a paragraph ten times over because the truth of it matters.

A writer does all of these things. That is what makes writing human — the struggle, the persistence, the memory, and the soul that machines will never possess.

My Writing Process

Every writer works differently, but here’s how I approach my craft.

“For me, a story begins with a place before it begins with a person.”

I always start with setting. I have a keen eye for describing the world first — the sound of rain against a window, the way a streetlight flickers on a deserted road, the weight of silence in a room. Once the scene is alive, I let the characters step into it.

From there, my process grows layer by layer:

A spark of inspiration — a thought, a fleeting image, a “what if?”
A mind map — exploring how ideas connect.
A setting — crafting the atmosphere, the backdrop where everything will unfold.
A character — introduced only after the world is ready for them.
A plot twist or complication — something that pushes the story forward.
The questions — the who, the how, the why.
The ending — whether it’s resolution or a cliffhanger daring the reader to want more.

Once I’ve shaped these foundations, I sketch out a chapter breakdown. Each chapter has a job: to build the world, reveal something new, heighten the tension, or deliver release. It’s like laying stepping stones across a river — I plan them carefully, but sometimes I find myself leaping somewhere unexpected.

And that’s the beauty of it. Stories evolve. Characters surprise me. The world I’ve built starts to breathe. That kind of unpredictability isn’t something a machine can feel.

Stories Rooted in Life

What makes my work authentic is not just the process, but the life behind it. Writing, for me, is never detached from reality. It’s tangled up in my past, my present, and even my hopes for the future.

My stories draw on the people I’ve known — those who inspired me, those who hurt me, those I loved and lost. A single conversation can echo years later in a character’s voice. A fleeting glance from a stranger might spark an entire subplot. The world I’ve lived in quietly builds the worlds I create.

The places I’ve walked become settings, reimagined and transformed. A misty morning in the countryside might resurface as a gothic opening. A busy city street at midnight may become the backdrop for a moment of revelation. When I describe a setting, it’s not conjured from nothing — it’s infused with memory, atmosphere, and feeling that only comes from being there.

Even the difficult parts of life — the scars and setbacks — play their role. Pain becomes fuel for conflict. Joy becomes light between the shadows. Reflection becomes the wisdom that characters carry with them. My writing is not an abstract exercise in putting words together; it is the reshaping of lived experience into story.

When I write, I am not producing “content.” I am sharing fragments of my human story — the small details, the raw emotions, the questions that never quite leave me. That’s what makes my work authentic: it is not written from nowhere, but from somewhere very real.

In Defence of the Em Dash

Another strange assumption I’ve seen is that the use of an em dash (—) is a “sign” of AI writing. Let me be clear: that idea is nonsense. The em dash has been part of English punctuation for centuries — long before artificial intelligence was even imagined.

I’ve even read from a few authors who say they’re now afraid to use this piece of punctuation in their writing, worried that readers will think their work is machine-generated. That fear breaks my heart, because it shows how suspicion around AI risks stripping writers of a tool that has always belonged to them.

Far from being a “giveaway” of machine text, the em dash is a flexible and expressive tool for any writer. It serves several important functions in the English language:

To create emphasis or interruption
- The em dash can replace commas, brackets, or even colons, drawing the reader’s attention to a particular phrase.
- Example: I write because I must — not because I can.
To capture interruption in dialogue or thought
- It mimics the way people speak or think, when a sentence is cut short or another thought barges in.
- Example: “I thought you said—”
To extend or clarify
- Writers often use it to expand upon an idea without breaking the flow of the sentence.
- Example: The story began with a simple image — rain falling on an empty street.

The em dash is not artificial; it’s human. It reflects the rhythm of real speech and the unpredictability of thought. To dismiss it as a mark of “AI writing” is to ignore the long history of punctuation and the artistry of language itself.

For me — and for countless other authors — the em dash is a bridge between precision and emotion. It allows us to write with nuance, rhythm, and a touch of personality.

A Place for AI?

This isn’t to say AI has no place at all. It can be a tool—useful for brainstorming, or for nudging through writer’s block. But it is not the heartbeat of a story.

At its core, AI is a powerful assistant, a vast library of language patterns and literary structures. It can help you find a new metaphor, suggest synonyms, or even generate a rough plot outline. For a writer facing the dreaded blank page, AI can be a starting gun, a way to move from stasis to motion. It can provide a scaffolding of words and ideas, but it can’t build the emotional core. Think of it as a highly efficient ghostwriter for the mundane, allowing you to focus on the moments that truly matter. It can arrange words, but it can’t feel the weight of them.

AI can imitate form. But a writer creates meaning.

This is the fundamental distinction. An AI can imitate the form of a sonnet, a haiku, or a short story. It knows the rules—the meter, the rhyme scheme, the narrative arc. It can replicate the style of a famous author by analysing their entire body of work. It is a masterful mimic, a reflection of what has already been created.

But a writer does something more. They infuse a story with their own humanity—their fears, their joys, their unique perspective on the world. They make intentional choices that an algorithm can’t replicate. They decide to use a simple word because they know it will break your heart, or to leave a sentence unfinished to create a sense of unease. This isn’t a matter of data points or patterns; it’s an act of empathy and creation. The meaning you find in a story, the connection you feel to a character, comes from a human mind reaching out to another. The story’s heartbeat is the writer’s soul.

Why We Keep Writing

So why do we continue to write in an age when so many assume every word is artificial? Because storytelling is more than content. It is connection.

In a world saturated with an endless stream of algorithm-generated text, human stories are the life rafts. They aren’t built from data sets, but from the raw material of life itself—the quiet grief of a loss, the electric jolt of a first kiss, the memory of a childhood street. An AI can analyse the structure of a tragedy and mimic it, but it has never had its own heart broken. It can describe a landscape, but it has never stood on a hill and felt the wind on its face. The writer puts their own fingerprints on the page.

The point of being a writer is to create something only a human can: stories shaped by memory, emotion, and experience. Stories that may reflect our deepest questions or our quietest moments. Stories that are ours. They are the record of our own existence, a testament to what it means to be alive. They are a way of saying, “I was here. I felt this. Maybe you have, too.”

And that is something no algorithm can ever take away.