creative-writing – A. R. Hurst

The Writer’s Fuel: Deconstructing the Rhythm of Creation

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

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

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

The Analogue Comfort and The Psychology of Achievement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Final Beat: Why This Rhythm Defines My Genre

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

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

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

The Character’s Takeover: When My Protagonist Decided the Plot Was Rubbish

There is a moment in the writing process—usually around chapter five or six—when you realise the detailed, colour-coded outline you spent a week constructing is about to be used as kindling. It’s the moment your protagonist, the creation you lovingly birthed, stands up on the page, looks you dead in the eye, and says, in effect, “Thanks for the backstory, mate, but I think your plan for the next twenty chapters is absolute rubbish.”

This isn’t a structural flaw; it’s an act of creative insubordination. It’s the moment when the rigid, controlled process of the author collapses under the weight of genuine character agency. And here is the brutal truth: you almost always have to admit they were right.

The Lie of the Outline

My process is typically to plot methodically. I treat the outline as the sturdy scaffolding for the house I intend to build. But characters, especially the complex, moody ones we rely on for tension, are not passive construction workers; they are eccentric residents.

My carefully planned Book Two, for example, required my cynical detective, Inspector Finch, to spend three crucial chapters in meticulous, soul-crushing surveillance—a necessary step for the plot’s slow-burn revelation. Finch, however, decided that surveillance was boring.

Instead of hiding in his car watching the warehouse, he took the highly irrational, career-limiting decision to walk right into the warehouse and demand a cup of tea. He felt his time was being wasted, and he acted on that emotion, torpedoing the next fifty pages of my outline in a single, utterly believable, stupid act of bravado.

The Inevitable Surrender

The initial reaction to such a mutiny is often panic. You start arguing with the text. Finch, you can’t do that! That’s not the scene! I need you to wait until the midnight drop! You try to force the character back onto the rails, but the prose immediately feels stiff, false, and deeply unsatisfying. The narrative energy has moved.

The moment of surrender is when you admit the character’s impulsive, unhelpful decision makes better, more compelling fiction. Finch walking into the warehouse was plot-rubbish, but it was character-gold. It raised the stakes, shortened the middle section that was dragging, and forced me to invent a new, more immediate conflict to get him out of the ridiculous situation he had created. He wasn’t following my plan; he was following his own emotional truth.

The Agency Tax

The lesson here is the Agency Tax. The more real and complex your characters become, the more they charge you for their services in the form of ruined outlines. You have to pay the price of admission to their world by accepting that their flaws and impulses are going to make better, messier, more surprising choices than your logical, well-behaved plotting brain ever could.

The creative chaos they introduce is the very thing that makes the finished work feel alive. So, if your protagonist is currently staging a sit-in and demanding a complete rewrite of Act Two, don’t fight it. Pour a cup of tea, recycle that careful outline, and thank them for having the better idea.

The ‘Boring Bit’: Master the Art of Skimming Time

Dialogue is sharp, action is dynamic, but what do you do with the three-hour drive, the international flight, or the week spent tracking financial records? These moments, which are essential to the plot’s logistics, can fatally stall a novel’s momentum if handled poorly. The craft challenge is simple: how do we cover time quickly without dropping the reader out of the narrative? The solution lies in mastering the art of skimming time by filtering the mundane through the immediate lens of character tension.

Summary as Tension Amplifier

The primary mistake is detailing every step. No one needs to read about the character boarding the plane or making small talk with the taxi driver unless that detail is directly linked to an imminent threat. Instead, we must utilise summary not as a neutral report of facts, but as a mechanism to amplify the protagonist’s emotional state or foreshadow future conflict.

The trick is to embed the emotional or intellectual journey within the temporal summary. For example, instead of writing “She drove for three hours,” try “Three hours passed, each mile of motorway drawing her closer to the irreversible choice she’d have to make upon arrival.” The time is covered efficiently, but the reader’s attention is fixed on the escalating emotional stakes of the impending scene. The focus shifts from the boring external action (driving) to the compelling internal state (dread).

Skimming Time Through Internal Monologue

The most efficient way to skip large blocks of time is to occupy the character’s mind. When the physical action is dull, the internal monologue must become active. Use travel time, waiting periods, or repetitive tasks as an opportunity for the protagonist to replay a crucial past conversation, calculate their next move, or wrestle with a moral dilemma.

This technique uses the time block as a device for strategic information release. A character on a long flight isn’t just sitting there; they are reviewing the suspect’s file, allowing the author to drop necessary backstory or critical details the reader missed earlier. The mundane setting provides the necessary quiet and solitude for deep reflection, justifying the sudden access to the character’s inner workings and preventing the narrative energy from bleeding away.

The Sentence Structure Shortcut

Sometimes, the quickest way to skim time is through the structure of the prose itself. We use concise sentence structure, often beginning with phrases that explicitly signal temporal summary, to accelerate the reader past the unnecessary details. Phrases like “By the time the sun had set,” “The week passed in a blur of spreadsheets,” or “Two coffees later” are signposts telling the reader: “Pay attention to the result, not the process.”

Crucially, this shortcut should always terminate in a moment of renewed action or heightened tension. For instance: “Two coffees later, she finally spotted the one discrepancy that would unravel the entire conspiracy.” The time is skimmed in four words, but the sentence concludes on the emotional peak of the discovery, guaranteeing the momentum immediately returns to full speed for the next scene. The focus is always on the consequence of the time spent, never the details of the time itself.

Mastering the boring bits is about recognizing that nothing in a novel is truly boring if it serves the story’s tension. By using summary, internal monologue, and sentence structure to filter mundane time through the character’s immediate emotional or intellectual conflict, we turn a structural necessity into an opportunity for deepening the reader’s engagement.

Beyond the Forecast: Weaving Setting into Action for Immediate Immersion

There’s a long-running, slightly tedious debate among writers about starting a scene with a weather report. While the old advice, never start with the weather, is often too simplistic, it points to a crucial truth: setting description should never be a mandatory preamble. It must serve a dynamic purpose. The most effective scenes don’t pause for atmosphere; they weave the environment, mood, and sensory details directly into the character’s immediate action, creating instant immersion and deepening the emotional stakes.

The Problem with Preamble and Pathetic Fallacy

The primary mistake writers make with setting is treating it like a separate paragraph required before the scene begins, often before the character even moves or speaks. This creates an immediate drag on the pace and breaks the illusion of reality. Readers want to know what the character is doing, not what the author is observing. If the weather description can be removed without affecting the scene’s emotional core, it should be cut entirely.

This is where understanding pathetic fallacy becomes essential. Pathetic fallacy, the attribution of human feeling to inanimate things, is a powerful literary device when used correctly. In works like Jane Eyre, where the stormy weather mirrors Jane’s internal despair, or in Dickens’s Bleak House, where the pervasive fog reflects the opacity of the law, the weather is more than mere description; it is a direct expression of the character’s or the plot’s emotional state. When the device fails, however, it becomes a clichéd preamble.

The Rule of Immediate Utility

Setting description must have immediate utility. It should either reveal something about the character’s current emotional state or pose a physical obstacle to their goal. For instance, a broken gate, a freezing gust of wind, or a pervasive smell of ozone are not merely details; they are active components of the scene.

This requires focusing on the character’s perspective. The reader only needs to know about the biting cold if the character is struggling to manipulate a tiny key with numb fingers. We don’t need a paragraph on the city’s architecture unless the shadows and geometry of the buildings are actively concealing the assassin who is tracking them. Make the environment an engine of conflict, not just a static background.

Atmosphere Through Sensory Action

The most immersive way to establish atmosphere is through the character’s actions and five senses. Instead of telling the reader it’s a dusty old house, show the character’s sleeve brushing against a bookshelf and the sudden taste of decades-old dust on their tongue. Instead of describing a cramped room, focus on the protagonist’s elbows hitting the plaster as they try to navigate the space.

This technique uses the environment to trigger internal reactions, which is a far more efficient method of delivery. The setting becomes a source of tension when it imposes itself upon the character. By filtering all descriptive detail through the protagonist’s experience, you ensure that every visual, sound, or smell is relevant to their immediate plight and emotional state.

Description is a powerful tool, but like all tools, it must be used with precision. By refusing to let the setting become a predictable preamble and instead forcing the environment to serve the character’s action and emotion, we create immediate immersion, pulling the reader right into the scene’s core conflict without wasting a word.

The Dialogue Dilemma: How to Make Exposition Sound Like Conversation

Dialogue is the engine of a novel: it drives the plot, reveals character, and, critically, delivers necessary information. The great technical challenge, however, is avoiding the “info-dump in speech marks,” which breaks the illusion of reality instantly. We’ve all read scenes where two characters explain things to each other that they would already perfectly know, solely for the reader’s benefit. The goal is simple: dialogue must sound like two people talking to each other, not two characters talking for the author’s convenience.

The Rule of Immediate Relevance

The primary mistake writers make is having characters explain things they already know to each other. To avoid this, exposition must only be given when it is immediately and personally relevant to the character’s survival, current emotional distress, or critical decision-making process. If a detail about the political system isn’t going to get the character killed in the next five minutes, it probably doesn’t belong in the immediate dialogue.

This requires the technique of strategic withholding. Only reveal the small, critical piece of information the reader needs to understand the character’s current motivation, threat, or decision. Instead of explaining the full history of the villain, the character shouts a single word that represents their greatest fear. Focus on the consequence of the history, not the historical context itself, leaving the rest to be woven in later.

Strategic Interruption and Contradiction

Real conversation is rarely polite, linear, or tidy. It is messy, full of interruptions, miscommunications, and crosstalk. Dialogue immediately sounds more natural, and therefore more believable, when characters are rude, impatient, or simply talk over the top of each other’s carefully constructed exposition. The author should use the other character to break up the flow and force a reaction.

Exposition is also most naturally delivered during an argument or a disagreement. When characters disagree over a memory, a ruling, or a historical event, they naturally contradict, correct, and challenge each other. This back-and-forth process is an organic way to reveal two different, subjective versions of critical backstory or world rules, ensuring the information is delivered as conflict rather than lecture.

The Power of Conversational Shorthand

People who know each other well do not use full, proper nouns, nor do they explain common terms in their environment. They rely on conversational shorthand, nicknames, and context-specific jargon. Using phrases like ‘The Incident’ or referring to a character as ‘The Major’ immediately makes the world feel established, lived-in, and authentic, because the characters are behaving as if they have history.

This relies on forcing the reader to do some work. Instead of explicitly defining the ‘Great War of the East and the Treaty of Newhaven’, a character simply refers to ‘The War’ or ‘Before the Fall’, relying on implied knowledge and emotional weight. This shorthand creates intrigue, trusting the reader to pick up the context gradually, which is far more engaging than spoon-feeding them encyclopaedic definitions.

Voice as the Weapon Against Clunkiness

Ultimately, a character’s unique voice acts as the final, essential filter for exposition. A technical piece of information given by a jaded soldier will sound like cynical, rumour-based slang, whereas the same information given by a scholar will sound like an academic lecture. The character’s personality, vocabulary, and social standing are what make the delivery of information feel unique and justifiable.

We must always link the delivery of exposition to a strong, immediate emotion. A character is not delivering a history lecture because the author needs the reader to know something; they are delivering it because they are angry, afraid, desperate, or trying to warn someone. It is the emotion that justifies the lecture, making the reader accept the necessary information as a consequence of the character’s inner life.

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

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

The Engine of the Session

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

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

The Immediate Aftermath

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

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

The Critical Comparison

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

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

The Final Release

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

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

The Emotional Rhythm: Why Pacing Means More Than Just Action

When writers talk about pacing, the immediate image that comes to mind is speed: a frantic chase, a ticking clock, or a dramatic climax. Many new novelists mistakenly believe that a great pace simply means jamming as much action as possible into every chapter. In reality, true pacing is not about speed; it’s about rhythm. The most compelling novels are not sprints; they are symphonies, where the loud, fast passages are made infinitely more powerful by the strategic use of quiet, slow movements.

The Necessity of the Pause

Relentless action eventually leads to action fatigue. If every scene is an explosion or a high-stakes confrontation, the excitement level eventually flatlines, and the tension becomes indistinguishable from noise. Quiet scenes are essential because they give the reader a necessary emotional breather.

This pause allows the reader to process the events that just occurred, to feel the stress, the fear, or the relief alongside the protagonist, ensuring the emotional impact isn’t simply lost in the fray. It prevents the excitement from flatlining, making sure the subsequent action is felt as a sharp spike, not just a continuation of the chaos.

Building Anticipation, Not Just Action

These moments of stillness are crucial for building effective tension. They function as the calm before the next storm. By focusing on mundane actions, such as a character making a cup of tea, cleaning a wound, or having a hushed conversation, you can create an insidious sense of dread.

The silence doesn’t mean nothing is happening; it means something far worse is about to happen, and you are simply waiting for it. This mounting dread, built through dialogue and atmosphere, is what keeps the reader turning the page far more effectively than an unnecessary car chase. You are converting simple stillness into powerful anticipation.

Pacing and the Cost of Conflict

Pacing is tied directly to character development because reflective scenes show the true cost of conflict. It’s not enough for the reader to see the character win the fight; they need to see the emotional or physical toll of that victory afterwards. Without this pause, the reader can’t fully appreciate the magnitude of what was just overcome.

These moments are perfect for showing the personal toll. If a character sacrifices a favourite tool or makes a moral compromise during the action, a quiet scene immediately following allows the reader to witness the grief or the guilt. This genuine emotional reaction deepens the character’s realism and secures the reader’s investment in their journey.

The Anchor of Motivation

These slower scenes are also the ideal vehicle for revealing crucial motivation and internal conflict. They allow the author to slow down and anchor the emotional ‘why’ of the action. This might be a sudden memory that explains a character’s phobia, or an internal monologue that justifies a difficult decision.

By weaving this essential background or emotional justification into reflective scenes, you avoid the trap of the information dump during a tense standoff. The subsequent high-action moments then resonate with far greater significance because the reader understands the deep, personal reasons behind the character’s actions.

Pacing is therefore a deliberate dance between action and reflection. The power of your novel doesn’t lie in how fast you can make the action scenes run, but in how intelligently you use the pauses. It’s the strategic use of quiet that makes your loud moments truly thunderous.

The Power of the Opening Scene: Hooking the Reader in the First Five Pages

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?

The Balancing Act: Writing a Novel While Running a Business

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.

From Idea to Novel: The Life Cycle of a Story

Every novel, no matter how grand or intricate, begins with a single, often fleeting, spark. For many writers, that spark might be a compelling character, a single line of dialogue that won’t leave their mind, or a pressing theme they feel compelled to explore. But for me, the genesis of a new story almost always begins with a place. My imagination is deeply rooted in environments, and the challenge of building a rich, immersive world is often the very first step in the sprawling journey from a nascent thought to a finished novel. It’s a winding path, full of discovery, revision, and sometimes, a little bit of chaos.

The Setting: Where It All Begins

My process almost always kicks off with either a vivid mental image or, sometimes, a piece of actual visual inspiration—a striking photograph, a piece of digital art, or even a detailed concept drawing. This isn’t just about pretty scenery; it’s about finding the soul of a place. For Empire of Embers, for example, the initial spark was an image of a vast, desolate landscape, scarred by ancient, cooled lava flows, with a single, massive city built directly into the side of a colossal volcanic caldera, smoke continually rising from its depths. This image immediately posed dozens of questions: Who lives here? How do they survive? What does the air feel like? What is the unseen power that makes this world tick? This initial visual blueprint provides the raw material, sparking countless possibilities and defining the very atmosphere of the tale to come. It’s in this phase that the unwritten rules of the world start to form—the laws of physics, the source of any magic, and the fundamental truths of this new reality.

The Inciting Incident: The Spark that Ignites the Plot

Once I have a firm grasp on the setting and its inherent challenges or opportunities, the next crucial step is to conjure the inciting incident. This is the single, pivotal moment that shatters the status quo, the event that forces the protagonist out of their ordinary life and into the extraordinary. In the volcanic city of the Empire of Embers, perhaps it wasn’t a hero’s grand quest that started it all, but a critical failure in the geothermal infrastructure, threatening to cool the very heart of the city’s power. Or maybe it was the sudden, seismic awakening of an ancient, dormant fire spirit that had been the city’s silent protector. The inciting incident is the stone dropped into the calm pond, and its ripples will eventually become the waves of the entire plot. It creates immediate, undeniable stakes and sets the narrative engine in motion, forcing the story to move forward from that point.

The Characters: Breathing Life into the World

With the stage set and the initial conflict ignited, my mind then turns to the people who will inhabit this world and navigate its challenges. The characters are intrinsically linked to their environment and the inciting incident. Who would be most affected by a geothermal failure in an ash-choked city? Perhaps a young engineer whose family has overseen the ancient mechanisms for generations, or a disenfranchised miner who understands the earth’s rumblings better than any scholar. I start by sketching out core personalities, their motivations, their flaws, and their dreams. But I don’t build them in a vacuum. I’ve found that the richest characters are often inspired by people I know in the real world. A loved one’s unique sense of humour, the resilience of a friend, or even a single mannerism of a stranger can become the seeds from which a character’s personality grows. My characters might have the dry wit of a favourite fictional hero, or the quiet courage of someone I admire in my own life. These initial ideas are rarely final. I have found that as I write, the characters often evolve and surprise me, sometimes taking on a life of their own and guiding the story in unexpected directions. A character who was initially meant to be a minor antagonist might demand a bigger, more complex role, or a shy side character might suddenly reveal an unlooked-for courage. They become the beating heart of the world I’ve built.

From Draft to Polish: The Journey Continues

Once the initial setting, inciting incident, and core characters are in place, the true writing marathon begins. This is where I pour out the raw words in a first draft, creating the messy, chaotic foundation of the story. Then comes the “Big Picture” pass, where I look at the overarching plot and character arcs, followed by the painstaking “Line-by-Line” edits to refine the prose. After I’ve done all I can, I hand it over to the “Fresh Eyes”—my girlfriend and my TikTok followers—whose insights are absolutely crucial for an independent author. This feedback helps me see the story from a fresh perspective and catch the things I’ve become blind to. This entire journey is a process of constant refinement, ensuring that every word, every scene, and every character contributes to a cohesive and compelling narrative. It’s a long road, but seeing that initial spark—that single image—grow into a fully realised story and a world for others to discover, is the most rewarding part of this incredible author journey.