reviews – 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 Villain’s Power: Using the Antagonist’s Plan to Control Pace

In many thrillers and mysteries, the protagonist is merely the audience for the villain’s meticulous performance. The antagonist doesn’t just provide conflict; their pre-written, detailed timeline for their plan becomes the invisible, external clock of the entire novel. This structural device is one of the most powerful tools an author possesses to control pace, dictate tension, and ensure the hero is always in a state of desperate pursuit. The antagonist’s strategy, in effect, writes the pacing guide for the author.

The Antagonist as the Story’s Metronome

When we write the villain’s plan first, from the initial steps to the final consequence, we are creating a rigid, ticking schedule for the narrative. This schedule is the story’s metronome, and it forces the protagonist’s discovery into specific, high-stakes intervals. The hero’s journey then becomes a series of frantic, reactive beats, each one dictated by the villain’s next move.

This allows for strategic pacing. A period of low tension, where the protagonist is simply conducting research, is instantly justified if we know the villain is merely waiting for a specific date or technical process to complete. Conversely, an explosive burst of action occurs precisely when the protagonist’s investigation threatens to intersect with the villain’s schedule, forcing the antagonist to accelerate or shift tactics. The hero’s lack of control over the timeline is the main source of the reader’s anxiety.

The Art of Delayed Revelation

The villain’s comprehensive plan allows the author to practise the art of delayed revelation. The antagonist knows the full map of the conflict, but the protagonist only possesses tiny, fragmented pieces. The moment of discovery, therefore, is not arbitrary; it is strategically timed to create maximum dramatic impact.

For example, if the villain’s plan involves three separate assassinations, the first event should reveal the method, the second should reveal the motive, and the final event should reveal the target. By distributing these pieces of information along the antagonist’s timeline, the author controls the pace of both the plot and the emotional payoff. The reader is always chasing the last piece of the puzzle, forced to maintain the pace set by the villain.

Inverting the Stakes

The ultimate power of the antagonist’s plan is its ability to invert the stakes. The protagonist’s success is not simply measured by what they accomplish, but by what they fail to prevent a failure that is explicitly caused by the villain’s successful pacing. If the hero arrives a minute late, the consequence is not a simple setback; it is the tragic fulfillment of the antagonist’s scheduled step.

This structural mechanism transforms the hero’s inaction into immediate failure, giving the narrative an immense sense of urgency. The villain’s relentless progression serves as a constant reminder that the stakes are rising exponentially with every passing hour, compelling the hero, and by extension the reader, to hurry towards the inevitable climax.

By fully developing the villain’s purpose and timeline, we arm ourselves with a potent pacing tool. The villain’s commitment to their destructive schedule becomes the narrative engine that dictates when the hero must act, when information must be revealed, and exactly how fast the entire story must run.

The Soundtrack of My Story: How Music Fuels My Writing

For some authors, the writing process is a quiet, contemplative affair, a solitary journey into the silent corners of their imagination. They need absolute stillness to hear the whispers of their characters and the rhythm of their prose. I, however, am a writer who finds my muse in noise. My creative process is a full-on, high-volume experience, a symbiotic relationship between words and sound that begins and ends with music. Just as a film has a score to guide the audience’s emotions, my stories have a curated soundtrack that fuels every plot twist, every character’s internal struggle, and every climactic moment. Music isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a living, breathing part of the story itself.

The “Get Psyched” Mix

Every single writing session begins the same way for me: with my Spotify playlist. Inspired by the legendary Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother, I have a meticulously curated playlist I call my “Get Psyched” mix. It’s a dynamic mix of everything from stadium-rock anthems to electrifying film scores, and it serves as a launchpad for my creative energy. This isn’t just background noise; it’s a tool I use to shift my mindset from the mundane reality of my desk to the boundless possibilities of the fictional world I’m building. The first thunderous chords are like a switch, turning on my imagination and getting me ready to step into the world of my characters.

From Sound to Scene

Once the music is on, the real work begins. I don’t just listen to music while I write; I actively use it to shape the scenes themselves. I’ll often find myself picturing a specific moment in my story—whether it’s an epic chase or a quiet moment of reflection—and then searching for the perfect piece of music to fit that scene. For instance, the epic, building feel of “Sirius,” the classic Chicago Bulls theme song, can perfectly capture a character about to face their fears or step up to the climax. The driving beat and soaring horns are the audio equivalent of a character’s rising courage, of gathering their strength just before the big moment. Similarly, the work of Hans Zimmer is a constant source of inspiration. His grand, sweeping scores: from the ominous, building sound of The Dark Knight to the iconic, mind-bending layers of Inception, allow me to craft a sense of scale and epic drama, helping me to build a scene that feels as cinematic on the page as it would on the big screen. The music becomes a direct guide for the emotional tone, dictating the rhythm and intensity of the words I write. If the song swells with strings, the scene swells with emotion; if the beat quickens, so does the pace of the action.

The Guitar Solo as a Climax

My deep-seated love for rock music has given me one of the most powerful metaphors that I use for my stories: the guitar solo. Think about your favourite rock anthem. The song builds, the rhythm section locks into a powerful groove, and then, the guitar solo arrives. It’s a moment of pure, unbridled energy and emotion that takes all the previous tension and releases it in a brilliant flash of sound. This is exactly how I see the climax of a story. The plot builds, the characters are pushed to their limits, and then the final confrontation or revelation hits with the force of a blistering guitar solo. It’s that one moment that you’ve been waiting for, the peak of the emotional journey that brings everything together in a single, powerful burst. The solo isn’t just notes; it’s a catharsis, just as the climax isn’t just action; it’s a release of all the built-up narrative tension.

So, the next time you’re reading one of my novels, know that there’s a good chance a rock anthem or a soaring film score was playing in the background. My stories are not just words on a page; they are a symphony of sound and story, where every beat and every chord is working in harmony to create a world that only I can tell.