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.
In a world that constantly demands our attention, finding the focus to write can feel like an impossible task. Notifications ping, headlines scream, and the sheer volume of everyday life threatens to drown out the quiet murmur of our muse. Yet, for many of us, writing isn’t just a hobby; it’s a profound need, a way to make sense of the world and connect with others. Creating a sanctuary—a dedicated space, both physical and mental—is crucial for allowing that creativity to flourish.
A writing ritual isn’t about rigid rules; it’s about building a consistent pathway back to your creative core. It’s about signalling to your brain that this is the time and place for stories to unfold.
My Writing Process: From World to Word
Every writer works differently, and that’s the beauty of our craft. We each have our own unique rhythm and method. Here’s how I approach my own journey from a spark of inspiration to a breathing story.
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. I believe that a vivid backdrop doesn’t just provide scenery; it acts as a character in itself, shaping the mood and even the actions of those within it. Once the scene is alive, pulsating with its own atmosphere, I let the characters step into it, their personalities and purposes emerging from the environment around them.
From there, my process grows layer by layer, almost like a sculptor adding clay to a frame:
A spark of inspiration—a thought, a fleeting image, a “what if?” that ignites the initial curiosity.
A mind map—a visual exploration, untangling how ideas connect and what paths they might lead down.
A setting—crafting the atmosphere, the backdrop where everything will unfold, building on that initial sense of place.
A character—introduced only after the world is ready for them, allowing their personality to emerge organically from their surroundings.
A plot twist or complication—something that pushes the story forward, creating tension and driving the narrative.
The questions—the who, the how, the why that propel the story and give it depth.
The ending—whether it’s resolution or a cliffhanger daring the reader to want more, always clear in my mind even as the middle unfolds.
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, envisioning each step.
The Story’s Own Life: When Plans Change
And that’s the beauty of it. Stories evolve. The characters surprise me, taking turns I hadn’t foreseen. The world I’ve built starts to breathe, living and growing beyond my initial design. This kind of unpredictability, this organic unfolding, isn’t something a machine can feel or truly replicate.
Sometimes, a story takes a dramatic turn midway through, completely departing from the original blueprint. Take my novel, A Legacy in Loneliness, for example. When I began, I had a clear idea of who the antagonist would be—a certain character was firmly in my sights, poised to drive the conflict. Yet, as the narrative deepened and the other characters began to truly speak to me, a surprising shift occurred. Halfway through the writing, I found myself completely changing course, realising that a different character altogether was destined to become the true antagonist. It wasn’t a logical decision made from an outline; it was an intuitive understanding that emerged from living within the story, creating a new trail of breadcrumbs for the reader.
This is the key. The unpredictability you feel as a writer is the excitement the reader feels on the page. That moment of the story revealing its own truth is a powerful reminder that we are not just architects of words, but listeners to the characters we create. And that, in the end, is why our stories are alive—they are a journey of discovery for both the writer and the audience. It’s the messy, thrilling heartbeat of human creativity, found in the quiet sanctuary of our own making.
As writers, we often begin with a blueprint: a vague notion of who our characters are, what they want, and where they’re going. We craft their backstories, assign their traits, and carefully plot their journey through our narratives. We imagine the choices they will make, the obstacles they will face, and the growth they will undergo. Yet, every now and then, something magical happens. The characters we thought we controlled begin to breathe on their own. They make choices we hadn’t foreseen, speak words we hadn’t planned, and lead the story down paths we never intended. It’s in these moments that we realise they’ve taken on a secret life, and the writing process transforms from an act of creation into an act of discovery—an exploration of something larger than ourselves.
When Memories Become More
For me, this phenomenon often starts with the raw material of real-life memory. People we’ve known, moments we’ve lived, and relationships that have shaped us become the foundation. My novel, Smoke on Mosswood Fell, is a perfect example. The core group of characters in that story are based on – and aptly named after – my childhood friends from secondary school: Matty, Josh, and Paul.
When I began writing, I drew upon echoes of their personalities: Matty’s mischievous energy, Josh’s thoughtful wit, Paul’s quiet intensity. I recreated the banter we shared, the camaraderie of those formative years, the small, ordinary events that seemed insignificant at the time but now resonate with the warmth of nostalgia. The initial chapters reflected this, starting off light-hearted and steeped in the innocent fun of youth.
But as the words accumulated on the page, something shifted. The fictional world I had built began to assert itself. The characters, born from real people but now fully fictionalised, began to diverge. They developed desires, fears, and motivations that were entirely their own. Halfway through the process, the narrative took a darker turn, delving into territory that was completely fictional and far removed from our actual experiences. This wasn’t a decision I consciously plotted at the outset. Instead, it felt as though Matty, Josh, and Paul—these creations forged from memory—were whispering their own story to me, revealing a path I hadn’t seen. They demanded a different journey, pushed the boundaries of their initial cheerful depictions, and led the narrative into depths I hadn’t anticipated.
The Unpredictable Journey of Discovery
This is the profound beauty of characters writing themselves. Through the lens of memory, those we knew and loved can re-enter our lives—not just as shadows of the past, but as fully formed beings with their own desires and destinies within our stories. They become companions on an unpredictable journey, pushing us as writers to explore themes, conflicts, and emotional truths we might never have conceived alone.
It’s in these moments of surrender, when we allow our characters the freedom to guide the narrative, that the most compelling and authentic stories emerge. They remind us that writing is not always about strict control, but about collaboration with the vibrant, imaginative life that springs from our memories and takes root on the page. When we write this way, characters stop being vessels for our intentions and start being their own selves. And in listening to their secret lives, we discover not only the story we were meant to tell, but the deeper truths hidden within our own hearts.
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.
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.
A. R. Hurst 