For some books, the haunting is in the story itself: shadows moving, footsteps in the night, the chill of something unseen. But with Doug Owen’s The Unholy Silence, the haunting runs deeper. This is not just a ghost story; it is a memoir of survival, faith under fire, and the silence that eats away at families when suffering is hidden from view. Reading it was not just unsettling — it was profoundly human.
The Memoir Voice That Pulls You In
Many paranormal books lean into spectacle. Doors slam, objects fly, and the reader is asked to suspend disbelief. Owen takes a different path. His voice is confessional, often raw, and it feels like he is telling his story across the table rather than from behind a stage. The details of financial hardship, medical emergencies, and fractured faith ground the narrative in lived reality. When the supernatural intrudes, it is against a backdrop of ordinary struggles, and that makes it all the more convincing.
Research as Credibility
One of the things that impressed me most was Owen’s use of researched detail. He writes about rent law, medical diagnoses, and the equipment used by ghost hunters with the precision of someone determined to understand what was happening to him. Far from being “dry,” this professional register gives the story backbone. It reminds the reader that the haunting was not just felt, but examined, questioned, and recorded. In Britain, where we often downplay depression or trauma with a stiff upper lip, this honesty resonates. Silence is not just an American problem — it is a universal one.
The Erosion of Family and Faith
At the heart of the book lies the family itself. The most chilling moments are not always the doors opening or the shadows moving, but the way those events slowly erode trust, love, and faith. Claudia’s changes, the arguments, the silences — these human fractures hit harder than any EVP recording. Owen captures how the haunting didn’t just shake the walls, it shook the bonds of marriage, of faith, of survival itself.
Interludes as Breathing Spaces
The decision to weave interludes throughout the book is inspired. They give the reader moments to pause, reflect, and absorb before the next wave arrives. Sometimes they are reflective, sometimes ominous, but always they add texture. They keep the book from being relentless while still pushing the story forward.
The Silence That Remains
The epilogue leaves no easy answers. There is no neat victory, no exorcism that ends the terror once and for all. Instead, the book closes in silence. It is not peace — it is the weight of everything unspoken, pressing down. That restraint makes the story feel all the more authentic. Trauma, whether supernatural or not, rarely ends with tidy resolution.
Final Thoughts
The Unholy Silence is a raw, unnerving, and brave memoir. Doug Owen has written more than a ghost story. He has written a testimony of what it costs to live through silence, shame, and faith stretched to its breaking point. It is a story that lingers long after the last page, unsettling not just because of the haunting, but because of the humanity at its core.
Have you ever picked up a book and, within the first few pages, you weren’t just reading words but actually living in another world? That immersive feeling, where you can almost smell the air, hear the distant sounds, and feel the texture of the ground beneath your feet, is the magic of great world-building. For my new project, Empire of Embers, creating a believable and immersive setting isn’t just about drawing maps or inventing strange creatures; it’s about crafting a place that feels as real and lived-in as our own. It’s the foundation upon which the entire story stands.
Beyond the Map: The Sensory Experience
When I first start building a world, I go far beyond just sketching out geographical features. I delve into the sensory experience. For the Empire of Embers, I had to ask myself: what does the air smell like in a city forged in fire? It’s not just exhaust fumes and street food, but the subtle scent of ash and hot metal. What sounds define a typical day? It’s the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer and the low hum of furnaces, or the crackle and hiss of steam-powered machinery. The dominant colours aren’t lush greens but the deep reds, oranges, and charcoal blacks of a world shaped by heat and flame. By focusing on these details—sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and textures—you create a multi-layered environment that truly draws the reader in, making them feel like they are physically present.
The Pillars of Society: Culture, Politics, and Economy
A world isn’t just scenery; it’s a living, breathing entity shaped by its inhabitants. For the Empire of Embers, I spend a significant amount of time developing the underlying societal structures. What are the dominant cultures, and how do they relate to the central power? Who holds the power in an empire forged from a singular, powerful resource? Is it a benevolent monarchy, a brutal dictatorship, or a council of fire-wielding mages? And how does the economy function? Perhaps the economy is built on a rare ore found only in volcanic rock, making those who control the mines the true power behind the throne. These elements dictate character motivations, create conflict, and provide a rich tapestry against which my story unfolds. They are the invisible threads that hold the world together and give it depth.
The Weight of History: Past Events and Legends
No real-world society exists without a past, and neither should your world. For Empire of Embers, the history is central to the present. The empire wasn’t just built; it was forged in a great, fiery war that reshaped the very landscape. I’ve developed stories and legends about a cataclysmic event that left the world forever changed, creating the ’embers’ that define this new age. These historical events influence the current political landscape and provide a context for my characters’ actions. Even small details, like a ruined, blackened citadel on the horizon or an old proverb about “the fire that consumes all,” can hint at a rich backstory, making the world feel larger and more complex than what’s immediately visible. It makes the reader wonder, what happened here?
The Unseen Details: Climate and Ecology
Finally, I consider the fundamental natural laws and environmental factors that govern the world. For the Empire of Embers, the name dictates a great deal. The world is primarily arid and scorched, with flora and fauna that have adapted to this harsh environment. The plants don’t require water but instead thrive on heat; the creatures are protected by thick, fire-resistant hides. These ecological details might seem minor, but they dictate everything from what people eat and wear to the types of settlements they build and the conflicts they face over dwindling resources. A truly immersive world is one where the climate, geology, and biology all intertwine to create a unique and consistent environment.
Building a world is a marathon, not a sprint, but the effort is always worth it. When readers can lose themselves completely in the setting you’ve created, that’s when you know your world-building has truly succeeded.
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.
As a writer, I’m constantly searching for inspiration – for those moments of sudden clarity that illuminate a character’s path or untangle a complex plot point. While I find endless ideas in books, films, and the world around me, some of my most potent creative sparks ignite in the digital realms of video games. Whether I’m navigating the moral quagmires of Fallout, making alliances in the corporate-dominated universe of The Outer Worlds, or shaping the destiny of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls, these experiences are more than just entertainment. They are, for me, a living masterclass in narrative design, directly influencing how I conceive the twists, turns, and pivotal decisions within my own stories.
Video games have an immediacy to their storytelling that other media can’t quite replicate. In a film, I’m a spectator; in a book, I’m an interpreter; but in a game, I’m a participant. The narrative bends to my decisions, forcing me to consider not only what happens but why it happens. That sense of authorship—of co-creating the story alongside the game’s designers—is electrifying. It teaches me that the most gripping tales aren’t just about spectacle; they’re about agency, the sense that what I do (or, in writing, what my characters do) truly matters.
Forging a Fate with a Single Choice
In many RPGs, a quest seems straightforward. You’re sent to find a specific person, recover a stolen item, or clear out a dungeon. You follow the markers, talk to the right people, and everything seems to be on track. Then, in a single moment, the entire narrative twists. The person you were sent to find is already dead, the stolen item is a decoy for a greater conspiracy, or the dungeon you’re in turns out to be part of a much larger, more terrifying plan. That feeling of sudden, jarring subversion—the moment you lean forward and say, “Whatttt?”—is exactly what I aim to recreate in my own writing.
This is the very essence of my novel, A Legacy in Loneliness. In it, each chapter is designed like a game quest, a carrot on a string that leads the reader in a single direction, towards a clear “whodunnit” assumption. But then, a twist unfolds within that very chapter, yanking the rug out from under them and forcing them to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew. This constant cycle of building and subverting expectations is the core of the story’s suspense. I don’t just have a single, grand reveal at the end; I have a series of twists, each one a testament to the way these games have taught me to never let the reader get too comfortable.
In truth, I think players and readers crave that sense of instability. When the ground beneath them shifts, they feel alive inside the story. It forces them to invest more deeply, to search for clues, to weigh possibilities. Games taught me that every choice can be a trapdoor, and I carry that lesson into my novels. My characters don’t simply walk a path; they stumble into dead ends, make fateful errors, and discover secrets that turn allies into enemies. It’s not just about shock value—it’s about crafting a narrative ecosystem where the unexpected feels inevitable in hindsight.
Beyond Good and Evil: The Spectrum of Morality
One of the most captivating aspects of games like Fallout and The Outer Worlds is their masterful handling of moral ambiguity. There’s rarely a purely ‘good’ or ‘evil’ choice, but rather a spectrum of decisions, each with its own justifications and repercussions. You might side with a faction that promises peace but enforces it through tyranny, or support a rebellion that fights for freedom but causes widespread chaos. This nuanced approach to morality is invaluable to me as an author. It teaches me to avoid simplistic black-and-white characterisations and instead embrace the grey areas. My characters, much like the avatars I control in these games, are not perfect. They grapple with conflicting loyalties, make flawed judgements, and sometimes choose the lesser of two evils. It’s in these struggles that their humanity truly shines, making them more relatable and their story arcs far more compelling.
Games have shown me that morality is often situational, and that consequences ripple outward in ways neither the player nor the character can fully predict. Helping one community might doom another. Sparing one enemy might come back to haunt you later. That sense of cascading repercussions mirrors real life far more than a neatly packaged good-or-bad dichotomy. In my writing, I want readers to feel the same unease—to question whether the “right” choice even exists, and to wrestle with the idea that sometimes, survival or loyalty outweighs justice.
What excites me most is how this moral complexity deepens character development. A hero who never falters, who always makes the noble choice, feels distant and artificial. But a protagonist who compromises, who regrets, who sometimes wonders if they’ve become the villain—that’s a person we recognise. That’s a person worth following to the very end.
Plotting with a Controller
These interactive narratives aren’t just teaching me about story mechanics; they’re inspiring a fundamental understanding of what makes a story resonate. They highlight the power of discovery, the thrill of the unforeseen, and the profound impact of seeing a character truly tested by their own convictions. When I put down the controller, I carry these lessons back to my writing desk. I don’t just draft plots; I design decision points. I don’t just create characters; I imagine the difficult choices that will forge their destinies. It’s a testament to the power of games that they can not only entertain but also profoundly enrich the very craft of storytelling itself.
What strikes me most is that both gaming and writing thrive on immersion. A reader turning pages late into the night isn’t so different from a player losing track of hours in a glowing virtual landscape. Both are searching for connection: with the world, with the characters, with themselves. By blending the lessons of gaming into my prose, I aim to give readers that same feeling of being inside the story, of carrying the weight of decisions even when they’re not the ones making them. That lingering sense—that choices matter, that outcomes aren’t certain—is what transforms a story from memorable into unforgettable.
From Pixels to Prose
When the screen fades to black and I step back into the quiet of my study, I’m struck by how much these digital journeys mirror the process of writing itself. Both rely on a balance of structure and surprise, of intention and improvisation. Both demand that I think not just about what happens, but how it feels for the person experiencing it—whether that person is a player navigating dialogue trees or a reader turning the page.
In many ways, the time I spend wandering virtual wastelands or ancient kingdoms isn’t an escape from writing; it’s preparation for it. Games sharpen my instincts for pacing, for tension, for the moment where one choice changes everything. They remind me that stories live and breathe not because of perfect plotting, but because of flawed, fascinating characters making decisions they can’t take back. And that, ultimately, is what I want my readers to feel: that they, too, are standing at a crossroads, unsure of what comes next, but unable to stop themselves from moving forward.
Stories are everywhere. They are the narratives we live, the histories we share, and the futures we imagine. While I spend my days building worlds with words, some of the most profound stories I’ve ever experienced are the ones I’ve shaped with a controller in my hands. Escaping into the sprawling, post-apocalyptic landscapes of Fallout, the witty, choice-driven quests of The Outer Worlds, or the ancient, magic-infused history of The Elder Scrolls isn’t just a hobby. For me, it is an immersive, interactive education in the very art of creation. It’s in these digital realms that I’ve learned one of my most crucial lessons: the story isn’t about what happens to a character—it’s about who they are when it’s all said and done.
These games blur the line between storyteller and audience. Unlike a book or a film where the narrative unfolds in one direction, here the story responds to me, reshaping itself around my decisions. It makes me aware of the subtle mechanics of narrative—how tension builds, how stakes shift, how meaning is formed not just by plot events but by the accumulation of personal choices. In this way, I don’t just consume a story; I collaborate with it.
The First Steps of Creation
The moment I enter a character creation screen, I’m already deep in the work of a writer. It’s a process that goes far beyond choosing a hairstyle or a class. I’m making foundational decisions that will echo throughout the entire narrative. Will my character be a charismatic silver-tongue or a cunning lone wolf with a mysterious past? Are they driven by a fierce sense of justice or a purely selfish desire for power? These choices are the character’s secret history, their emotional wellspring. I don’t just pick skills; I assign a personality. I choose a name that hints at their destiny. This is the very same work I do when I sit down to write a new book. Before a single sentence of plot is written, I must first understand the driving force behind my protagonist—the baggage they carry, the dreams they chase, and the deepest parts of their identity that will ultimately dictate their journey.
In many ways, the creation phase is the moment of greatest possibility. Just as a blank page holds infinite stories, the character screen holds infinite identities. Every slider, every choice feels like setting down a foundation stone for a cathedral I haven’t yet imagined. It reminds me that beginnings are sacred; they carry a weight that echoes forward into every moment that follows, and whether in games or novels, the origin shapes the destiny.
The Branching Paths of the Narrative
As I step out of the character creation screen and into the vast world, the story truly begins to breathe. Every decision I make carries a weight and a consequence. Do I lie to the town guard to protect a friend, knowing it might have unforeseen repercussions? Do I choose to join a powerful faction or remain a lone wolf, surviving by my own rules? These aren’t just moments of gameplay; they are key plot points. The game’s main quest is the grand narrative arc, but it’s my character’s personal choices and their reactions to the challenges they face that truly make the story my own. This is the power of a character-driven plot. The greatest narratives aren’t just about external events; they are about how a person’s internal world shifts and changes in response to what happens to them. The tension isn’t just in the next battle—it’s in the quiet, reflective moments when my character decides who they are going to be.
What fascinates me most is how branching narratives highlight the invisible theme of every story: consequence. In a book, I can carefully structure a moment of reckoning for a character, but in a game, those reckonings appear organically from my own actions. The result is a sense of ownership that feels both empowering and humbling. It teaches me that the most impactful stories aren’t dictated—they emerge from choice, conflict, and the inevitability of living with what comes after.
The Tools of the Storyteller
One of the most valuable lessons these games teach is that a writer’s tools aren’t just a pen and paper—they’re a system. The skill trees you navigate are a perfect metaphor for a character’s arc, with each new ability or insight unlocked over time. The dialogue wheels or conversational choices are a lesson in voice and perspective, forcing you to choose not just what a character says, but how they say it. And the moral systems, like the karma in Fallout, remind us that every choice has a consequence, building a narrative that is both rewarding and, at times, heartbreaking. These elements are the gears that turn the plot, and they are what gives the story its life and its emotional truth.
These mechanics also reinforce something crucial for any writer: limitations breed creativity. A finite set of skills, responses, or moral outcomes forces me to work within a framework, finding depth in what is available rather than chasing endless possibilities. In writing, too, structure—whether it’s point of view, genre, or even word count—becomes a framework to push against. Just like in games, it is within those constraints that the most resonant stories take shape.
The Return from the Wasteland
Ultimately, the most profound takeaway from these journeys is the understanding that a character’s true story arc isn’t about their victories, but about their evolution. The wide-eyed adventurer I started with is not the same person who emerges from the final confrontation. They are a product of their triumphs and failures, their kindness and their ruthlessness. They have been forged by the journey itself. When I finally put down the controller, I don’t feel like I’ve just been entertained. I feel like I’ve been training. I’ve been building a character, navigating a plot, and witnessing an arc unfold, all in a dynamic, living world. It’s a powerful reminder that our creative passions can be found in the most unexpected places, and that every story, no matter what medium it’s in, is simply the journey of a person from who they were to who they are meant to be.
And perhaps that is why these digital adventures linger long after the credits roll. They aren’t just escapism; they are mirrors. In every world I traverse, I see reflections of my own choices, my own values, and my own transformation. To step back into reality after walking the wasteland is to return with a deeper awareness of story—not only as something I write or play, but as something I live.
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 