The truth about writing a novel is that the first five pages are the most critical in the entire manuscript. This short space is where you make an immediate promise to the reader: a promise about the genre, the tone, and, most importantly, the urgency of the character’s conflict. It’s a ruthless environment where one wrong paragraph can lose a reader forever. Therefore, every single word, action, and piece of withheld information must be a calculated risk designed to grab their attention and convince them to stay for the next three hundred pages.
The Immediate Immersion
The most effective way to start a novel is in media res—in the middle of a problem or a critical moment, even if it’s small. The opening line must immediately provoke a question in the reader’s mind. For my current novel, Outbound, the first line is literally one word: “Darkness.” This single word is a deliberate hook; it’s not an elegant description, it’s a direct statement of a problem, instantly forcing the reader to ask: Whose darkness is it? Where are they? Why can’t they see?
While you start immediately, you must quickly anchor the reader to a character or an immediate stake. Tension needs context, even if the world details are sparse. The first few pages are spent zooming in from the general problem (“Darkness”) to the specific, human reaction (“Their hands fumbled for the light switch”). The tension you create won’t matter unless the reader has someone—or something—to care about within those opening paragraphs.
The Art of Withholding Information
The biggest pitfall in the opening scene is the information dump. Novelists often feel compelled to explain everything right away—the history of the war, the political structure, or the precise mechanics of a magic system. This is a fatal mistake. The opening isn’t the place for the world’s history; it is the place for the character’s immediate, pressing conflict. Too much world-building acts like heavy ballast, sinking the pace before the story even gets moving.
Instead, I focus on the strategy of withholding. You only give the reader what they need to care, not what they need to know. You can hint at a grand mystery or a powerful threat, but you delay the full explanation. This keeps the reader actively engaged, because they are constantly working alongside the character to fill in the blanks. Focus on emotional stakes and immediate threats first; the deep mechanics and extensive backstory can be woven in later, when the reader is already invested.
The power of the opening scene is in its ability to promise a wild, compelling journey with just a few sentences. It’s the highest leverage moment in your writing labour.
Do you prefer novels that start with immediate action, or do you like a slower, more descriptive beginning?
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?
The truth about being an independent author is that we’re not just writers; we are entrepreneurs, marketers, and service providers. For me, that means balancing the demands of running a business—which includes providing digital marketing for local clients and offering proofreading and editing services for reports, essays, and manuscripts—with the focused creative energy needed to write a novel. It’s a constant battle for attention, where every spare moment feels like it should be devoted to client deadlines or promotional campaigns. The key isn’t simply finding time in an already crammed schedule, but fiercely protecting that time and prioritising it.
The Architect of the Schedule: Protecting the Time
The first step in achieving this balance is to treat your writing time exactly as you would a non-negotiable client commitment. It needs to be defined, scheduled, and absolutely sacred. I find it crucial to block out specific hours in my diary, often early in the morning before the stream of client emails begins, or late in the evening once the day’s labour on client reports is quiet. This intentional scheduling makes the writing a genuine commitment, not just a hobby you’ll get around to if time allows.
Equally important is meticulously analysing the business tasks for efficiency. I look for ways to streamline and batch the administrative labour—setting aside one dedicated morning for all client reporting and digital marketing updates, or batching proofreading and editing client documents into one large block. The more effective and efficient I am at managing the business side, the more precious, guilt-free time I create to devote to the creative work of my novel.
The Mindset Shift: From Business Brain to Creative Brain
Switching mental gears from ‘boss mode’ to ‘author mode’ can be jarring, but the creative work demands a complete focus. This is where setting rituals comes into play. I use small, deliberate actions—like putting on a specific ambient music playlist, making a particular type of coffee, or moving to a different desk—to signal to my brain that the time for accounts and client strategy is over, and it’s time to build a world. This intentional transition helps eliminate the lingering anxiety of the business day and allows for creative immersion.
Finally, focus on the power of small, consistent wins. The pressure to carve out a massive block of four hours to write is often paralysing when you know you have client work waiting. Instead, I prioritise achievable, daily word count goals—even just 500 words. Showing up every day and making steady progress prevents the project from stalling and reduces the overall mental stress. It’s far better to write 500 words consistently than to wait for the mythical “perfect day” that never arrives.
Language is often perceived as a fixed set of rules, enshrined in dictionaries and grammar books. But having studied English Language at university, I learned that language is anything but static—it is a constantly evolving system that adapts to the needs of its speakers. Today, the greatest catalyst for this change isn’t conquest or migration, but technology. For an author, understanding this rapid, digital evolution is crucial, as it provides the raw material for creating contemporary and believable character voices, even in fantastical settings.
The University Foundation
My studies in English Language provided a vital foundation, teaching me the structural history and historical shifts that have continually redefined English over centuries. We analysed everything from Old English manuscripts to the linguistic impact of Shakespeare, learning that what is considered “correct” today was once a radical departure from the norm. This background gives me a critical lens for viewing modern changes, ensuring I don’t see new trends as errors, but as another fascinating chapter in the language’s ongoing story.
This deep dive into historical language shifts, like the Great Vowel Shift or the normalisation of formerly slang terms, proves that the core principles of linguistic change remain constant. However, the speed at which these changes occur has been accelerated exponentially by digital platforms. By understanding how language changes, I can better predict and incorporate new linguistic styles into my work without letting them date the text too quickly.
Technology and Linguistic Change
The eminent linguist David Crystal has spent much of his career documenting how technology—from the telegraph to instant messaging—does not harm language, but rather provides new avenues for creative expression. He argues that things like textspeak, abbreviations, and the rapid adoption of new internet slang are not a sign of decay, but of functionality; we adapt language to the medium, choosing the most efficient and expressive style available. The idea that technology ruins language simply misses the point that language is designed to be functional.
We see this adaptability everywhere, from the rise of emoji replacing tone-of-voice in text, to the functional shift of punctuation (e.g., using a period at the end of a text message to convey passive-aggression or finality). These aren’t random mistakes; they are highly sophisticated, subtle linguistic innovations invented by users. For a writer, this provides a rich toolkit for character development: a character’s digital dialect can now be as revealing as their formal speech patterns.
The Writer’s Mandate
As authors, our mandate is to reflect the way people authentically communicate, and that communication is now deeply infused with technological shorthands and digital dialects. Observing these real-world changes informs how I write contemporary dialogue, ensuring it sounds natural and immediate. More importantly, it teaches me how to craft believable fictional dialects for my novel settings, perhaps by inventing a unique set of abbreviations or a grammar quirk that only exists within a certain online faction or futuristic society.
Ultimately, the study of language and technology teaches me that language is not a fortress to be defended, but a massive ocean that constantly shifts its boundaries. While the core of storytelling still demands clarity and precision, a nuanced understanding of these digital shifts allows me to give my characters a deeper, more realistic voice. It’s a continual learning process, ensuring my worlds—and the people in them—never stop feeling relevant.
Completing the first draft of a novel is an exhilarating moment, but as I’ve said before, that’s where the real work begins. The journey from a messy draft to a professional, published book is a marathon of meticulous checking, structural review, and technical preparation. It’s a multi-stage process that transforms the raw material of a story into a polished artefact ready for readers. This is the complete workflow of my post-draft process, right up to pressing ‘publish’ as an independent author.
The First Pass: Architect and Detective
Once the initial adrenaline wears off, I jump into the first major review, wearing two hats: that of an architect and a detective. The architect’s job is structural, looking for plot holes or inconsistencies. Does Character A know information in Chapter 10 that they shouldn’t have learned until Chapter 15? Have I maintained the political rules established for the story’s setting throughout the entire narrative?
The detective’s job is to focus on the fine print: an intense round of proofreading and continuity checks. This is where I ensure the spelling is correct, names are consistent, and details like eye colour or scene locations haven’t changed accidentally. This painstaking self-review is crucial for cleaning up the inevitable chaos of the initial creative burst, making sure the foundation of the story is solid before anyone else sees it.
The Fresh Eyes: Beta Reading and Feedback
With a clean-but-not-perfect draft ready, it’s time to bring in the outside world. I send the manuscript to my trusted beta readers (including my girlfriend and loyal followers), who provide invaluable feedback analysis. They aren’t looking for typos; they’re checking for pacing, character motivation, emotional resonance, and whether the climax actually pays off.
Managing this feedback requires discipline. I collect all the comments and look for patterns: if two or more readers point out the same confusing plot point or dull chapter, that section demands a rewrite. This process results in the final draft manuscript, which is the version I am confident is structurally sound and emotionally powerful, ready for the final, technical preparations.
Preparing for Publication: The Front and Back Matter
Before the manuscript can become a book, it needs the required front and back matter. These are the elements that give the novel a professional, finished structure. I start by finalising the Contents Page, ensuring all chapter titles and numbers are accurate. This is immediately followed by the Dedication and the Author’s Note, where I get a chance to directly speak to the reader and thank those who helped the project along.
The back matter is just as important. This includes the “Also By” page, which is a vital piece of marketing that directs readers to my other published works. Crucially, I also finalise the marketing visuals I’ve been designing, using Photoshop for detailed image work and Canva for creating clean, professional promotional graphics. All of these pages and visuals must be meticulously prepared for the final step.
Publishing Day: Submitting and Marketing
The very final stage is a rigorous final proofread and edit for any lingering errors, often using text-to-speech software to catch mistakes my eyes have missed. Once I’m completely satisfied, I prepare the file for publishing. I upload the single, complete file, including all front and back matter, to Draft2Digital (D2D). D2D handles the technical conversion and distribution, sending my book out to major retailers like Amazon Kindle, Apple Books, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble Nook.
As an independent author, once the book is published, the work shifts entirely to marketing and promotion. My involvement doesn’t end when the files go live; it’s just the start of the next phase. I rely on the graphics created in Photoshop and Canva for all my social media campaigns, driving awareness and sales. That final click of the publish button is the start of the book’s life in the world, and I’m there every step of the way to promote the story I’ve spent so long creating.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of turning a page and having the floor drop out from under your feet. A truly great plot twist is an emotional gut punch that simultaneously shocks you and makes you want to immediately flip back to the beginning to see what you missed. But for a writer, the twist is a terrifying thing. It needs to be a revelation that is both surprising and utterly inevitable. For me, the architecture of a good plot twist lies not in shocking the reader, but in the painstaking effort of hiding the truth in plain sight.
The Cardinal Rule: Earning the Reveal
The biggest risk a writer takes with a twist is cheating the reader. A twist that comes out of nowhere, relying on information withheld entirely from the audience, feels cheap and unsatisfactory; it’s a momentary shock, not a lasting narrative reward. The cardinal rule of any major plot turn is that it must be earned.
What makes a reveal truly great is when it feels inevitable in retrospect. The reader should be able to look back at the start of the book and see that all the pieces were there, staring them in the face, yet they just missed connecting them. The writer’s job is to ensure the truth is woven into the narrative fabric, disguised by misdirection and context, so that when the moment arrives, the reader’s reaction is not “Where did that come from?” but “Of course! How could I have been so blind?”
The Architect of the Clue
My process for building a major reveal is entirely reverse-engineered. I decide on the twist first, and then I dedicate myself to clue-planting. These clues must be subtle, often buried beneath layers of sensory detail or presented as a completely normal part of the world. They are little narrative breadcrumbs designed to be overlooked during the fast pace of a first read.
For an environment like the Empire of Embers, the clues might be hidden in the very infrastructure or social customs. For instance, if a betrayal is coming from a high-ranking member of the Geothermal Guild, the clue might not be a secret document, but a seemingly irrelevant detail about the Guild member’s clothing—perhaps a specific colour of embroidery that signifies an ancient, banished faction of the city’s founders. The clue is always available to the reader, but the significance is only understood once the context of the betrayal is fully revealed.
The Misdirection: Using the Red Herring
To ensure the reader doesn’t connect my carefully placed clues too early, I rely on the trusted red herring. This is the most fun part of planning a twist because it allows me to lie to the reader, but only in the most honest way possible—it’s a deliberate misdirection that draws the reader’s attention to a more obvious suspect or solution.
The red herring’s function is to consume the reader’s focus, allowing my genuine, subtle clues to fade into the background as mere world-building details. The trick is to make the red herring compelling enough to be a genuine threat or solution, but ultimately, a dead end that feels earned when the true culprit or answer steps forward. Ultimately, the plot twist should enhance the story and deepen the themes, not just exist for the sake of shock.
What is a plot twist from a book or film that you absolutely loved—one that shocked you but felt perfectly earned?
For a writer, the process often looks like a purely imaginative act, but in reality, bringing a novel to life requires a specific set of tools. Just as a builder needs a hammer and a carpenter needs a chisel, I have a personal toolkit—a mixture of low-tech, tactile items and powerful software—that helps me transform a fleeting idea into a sprawling world like Empire of Embers. This is the practical, behind-the-scenes look at the gear I rely on every single day.
The Physical Arsenal: Ink and Paper
While most of my work is ultimately delivered on a screen, the most crucial and chaotic part of my early process relies on the oldest technologies: paper and a good pen. I always start with handwritten notes because there’s something about the physical act of putting pen to paper that bypasses the internal, critical editor. This is where the initial brainstorming happens—where raw ideas for character arcs, spontaneous dialogue, and initial world concepts get scribbled out. It’s a dedicated space where every thought is welcome, ensuring the foundational creativity is messy and free from the formal formatting or distractions of a word processor.
These tangible tools are equally vital during my revision process. After printing out a full draft, I use highlighters to literally colour-code my manuscript. For example, one colour might track a specific character’s emotional arc, another might track a recurring theme or motif, and a third might track a key plot thread that needs consistency. This visual map is absolutely essential; it allows me to spot structural flaws, check the pacing, and ensure that every element is balanced far quicker than I could by simply reading the text on a screen alone.
Digital Powerhouse: The Essential Software
Once the scribbles and colour-coding have done their job, it’s time to transition the project into the digital realm where the true manuscript takes shape. Despite the proliferation of specialised writing apps, my final destination is always Microsoft Word. Its rock-solid reliability, industry-standard formatting, and clean interface make it the perfect environment for the focused, steady work of getting the chapter count up and turning those rough notes into clean, sequential prose. This reliable software is the final forge where the messy, raw material is hammered into a professional, cohesive final document.
For managing the sheer volume of information required to build a large world like the Empire of Embers, I rely heavily on simple digital organisation outside of the main manuscript file. While Word is for the prose, I maintain cloud-based documents for all the crucial lore—the specific history of the volcanic regions, the political hierarchy, and the rules of any magic system. This dedicated space acts as an encyclopaedia for my world, ensuring consistency across a series and preventing the overwhelming amount of lore from cluttering the main story.
The Final Philosophy of the Toolkit
Ultimately, none of these tools, whether a simple highlighter or powerful software, actually write the story for me. They are aids to the creative mind, acting as a supportive framework for the true craft. They help me manage the chaos, stay organised, and refine the prose.
What about you? Do you prefer the old-school feel of ink and paper, or are you all digital when it comes to your own creative projects?
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!
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.
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.
A. R. Hurst 