writing-tips – 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 Author’s Other Hat: How Being a Reader Makes Me a Better Editor

When we finish a first draft, we don’t have a book; we have a self-indulgent document of our own process. It’s cluttered with darlings we couldn’t kill, scene transitions that only make sense in our heads, and whole chapters where the plot meandered while we searched for the character’s voice. To turn that raw material into a viable product, we need to perform one of the hardest mental shifts in the writing life: we must stop being the Creator and start being the Critical Consumer.

Putting on the “reader’s hat” isn’t just about spotting typos; it’s about deliberately forgetting what you know and analysing the narrative solely on the information provided on the page.

The Three Flaws Only the Reader Can See

As the Creator, we are burdened by memory. We know the backstory, the killer twist that’s coming, and the internal logic of the world. The reader has none of that. Stepping into their shoes instantly illuminates three core structural flaws in the manuscript:

1. Pacing: The Burden of Known Details

The Creator knows why Chapter Seven is thirty pages long—it’s where the villain’s historical motives are detailed! The Reader, however, only experiences a sudden, grinding halt in the narrative momentum.

When I read as the Critical Consumer, I specifically look for inertia. Do I feel the urge to skim the next three pages? That’s not a lack of interest in the content, but a failure of pacing in the delivery. The reader is only interested in what is happening now and what will happen next. If a scene doesn’t serve either, it’s either cut or condensed until the reader’s forward momentum is restored.

2. Clarity: The Assumption of Shared Knowledge

The Creator understands the jargon, the significance of the minor character’s ring, and the precise layout of the clandestine meeting room. The Reader often does not.

To test for clarity, I focus on the point where the reader is likely to pause. If a character mentions the ‘Echelon Six Protocol’, do I, as the reader, need to stop and backtrack to figure out what that means? If the essential details aren’t provided when they are most relevant, or if the terminology isn’t clear within the surrounding prose, then the prose fails the clarity test. The reader should never have to do homework.

3. Tension: The Failure of the Stakes

The Creator knows the hero survives because the book has two sequels. The Reader needs to genuinely believe the hero could be in mortal peril at any given moment.

When assessing tension, I ask: What is the worst possible outcome right now? If the protagonist is in a fight but I, the reader, am confident of their victory, the tension has collapsed. Stepping into the reader role often reveals that the stakes aren’t actually high enough, or that the protagonist is simply too competent. True tension requires the hero to face a situation where their established skill set is suddenly inadequate, forcing them to reveal a previously hidden strength.

The Habit of Detachment

The ability to successfully wear the reader’s hat is not an inherent talent; it is a discipline. It requires mental detachment from the work of writing and a commitment to the experience of reading. It’s why giving a manuscript distance—whether a few weeks of silence or a physical print-out—is so vital. It helps you forget the path you took, allowing you to only judge the road beneath your feet.

As independent authors, we are simultaneously the architect and the quality control. The best way to honour the story we created is to subject it to the ruthless, honest scrutiny of the reader we wrote it for.

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 Villain’s Purpose: When the Antagonist Should Be the True Protagonist

We typically define a protagonist as the character whose journey the story is primarily about, often the person we are rooting for. However, in certain high-tension genres, particularly thrillers and mysteries, the true driver of the narrative engine is not the hero’s actions, but the antagonist’s comprehensive plan. When the villain’s motivation and internal logic are the dominant, structuring force of the plot, the entire story becomes more purposeful, the pacing tighter, and the eventual confrontation infinitely more powerful.

The Blueprint of Conflict

In these plot-driven stories, the antagonist cannot simply be an obstacle; they must be the architect. Their motivation must be so clear and their plan so meticulously detailed that the protagonist is forced into a reactive role for the majority of the novel. The hero isn’t driving the story; they are simply trying to catch up to the villain’s ambition.

This structural choice fundamentally amplifies tension. The antagonist’s internal logic becomes the blueprint of the conflict. By focusing the narrative lens on the villain’s methodical execution, the author grants the antagonist a narrative authority, transforming them from a static target into an unpredictable, active force. The reader is constantly aware that the plot is progressing according to a terrifying, external timeline—the villain’s own.

Motivation as the Narrative Anchor

A hero’s motivation is often simple: save the day, find the lost item, or solve the crime. A compelling antagonist’s motivation must be complex enough to justify the entire novel’s existence. Their internal logic, however twisted, must be the strongest narrative anchor in the book.

For the narrative to succeed, the reader must understand why the antagonist is doing what they are doing before the protagonist fully figures it out. This privileged knowledge creates a sense of dread. We watch the protagonist bumble towards a trap we already recognise, making the tension about how they will escape, not if the danger exists.

Raising Stakes Through Commitment

When the antagonist is treated as the primary focus, it forces the writer to fully commit to their plan and their intelligence. It is easy to write a villain who makes mistakes or acts illogically; it is much harder to write one whose plot is structurally perfect, forcing the hero to elevate their own game.

The true test of the protagonist comes when they are forced to disrupt a plan they didn’t create. Their actions only become meaningful when they must deviate from their own routines and make personal sacrifices to combat the villain’s relentless momentum. This ensures the antagonist’s purpose directly raises the emotional and physical stakes for the hero, leading to a climax where the hero must destroy the villain’s logic, not just their physical presence.

The most memorable thrillers and mysteries don’t feature heroes chasing villains; they feature protagonists struggling to dismantle a perfectly engineered antagonist plot. By granting the villain narrative control, we create a more intelligent, suspenseful, and ultimately satisfying novel.

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.

Proofreading the Professionals: What Editing Client Reports Taught Me About My Own Fiction

For those who didn’t know, I run my own business, Hurst Marketing Publishing, in which services are provided to small local businesses in digital marketing, proofreading and editing for academics and authors, and publishing for authors wishing to be published, including illustrations. Through my background expertise in English Language, Media Studies, and Computer Science, this analytical career has become my most rigorous form of creative professional development. I’ve discovered that the cold, hard discipline required for editing a formal business report is the exact discipline needed to turn a raw manuscript into a professional novel.

The Discipline of Consistency

Editing client reports and marketing materials demands meticulous attention to technical consistency across large documents. We must ensure every use of terminology is identical, every piece of data is accurate, and the brand tone remains uniform from start to finish. There is absolutely no room for error, as credibility hinges on this technical rigour.

This necessary discipline directly translates to my fiction writing. Consistency in a novel isn’t just about correct spelling: it’s about the technical rigour to maintain character names, eye colours, world rules, and plot threads across thousands of words. My professional training provides the objective, technical check required to spot these subtle narrative gaps that my excited, creative brain often misses.

Flow, Pacing, and Purpose

When editing academic essays, the primary goal is ruthless efficiency. Every sentence must serve the main argument, and if a section does not contribute definitively to the core purpose, it is cut without sentiment. This mindset treats prose as a tool: it must be sharp, direct, and functional, which trains a critical eye for wasted space.

This analytical efficiency makes applying the “kill your darlings” principle far easier in my own fiction. Scenes, characters, or descriptive passages that are enjoyable to write but do not serve the core emotional or plot trajectory are removed. My professional experience teaches me that true flow and strong pacing come not from adding more words, but from removing everything that doesn’t advance the story.

Technical Clarity Over Sentiment

My background in Computer Science and English Language has instilled a strong focus on technical clarity: unambiguous language, correct syntax, and structural logic. When dealing with formal reports, sentiment is always secondary to function; the reader must understand the information without having to interpret flowery prose or convoluted phrasing.

I apply this technical focus directly to my prose. It provides a necessary, almost ‘computer science’ check on the artistry of my writing, allowing me to identify where passive voice is hiding action, where weak verbs are diluting impact, or where overly complex sentence structures are clouding a crucial emotional moment. This objective analysis ensures that the emotional beat of the scene hits with maximum clarity.

Bridging the Dual Careers

Ultimately, the professional work is not a distraction from my fiction; it provides the essential final layer: the objective, analytical editor’s eye that the creative self can never truly develop alone. When I finish a draft, I rely on the disciplined focus I’ve honed editing client work to separate myself from the emotional attachment of creation.

My business is, therefore, the ultimate, continuous professional development course for my fiction writing. It forces me to become a master of the mechanics and the structure of language, allowing me to approach my final manuscript not as a subjective artist, but as the objective professional responsible for its quality and clarity.

The Four Chord Rule: Finding Originality in Established Structures

The terror of the blank page often stems from the awful realisation that everything has been done before. As both a writer and a musician, I face the same anxiety: every plot has been written, and every chord progression has been played. But this is actually a comfort. The greatest storytellers and songwriters know that the building blocks are finite; originality lies entirely in the unique combination, the personal rhythm, and the emotional performance we bring to those established structures.

The Formulaic Foundation

In music, most popular songs famously rely on the same four basic chords. A story is no different: it often uses the same fundamental universal plots, whether it is a quest, a tragedy, or a simple coming-of-age. The framework is fixed, but the voice is unique. This means the scaffolding is strong, and our labour is focused on building something distinctive on top of that established base.

This fixed structure is something I see in my love for RPGs (Role Playing Games). Every campaign operates within rigid systems, defined by established lore and core mechanics. Novel writing has its own set of immutable rules, defined by genre conventions. The fun, and the opportunity for originality, lies entirely in the improvisation, the clever narrative choices, and the character decisions made within those restrictive systems.

Pacing and Rhythmic Execution

Originality is often found in the pacing, which I see clearly in tennis, padel, and pickleball. All these racket sports are based on anticipation and rhythm. You spend the whole point waiting for the opponent’s move, setting up the decisive return. A novel operates similarly: you anticipate the reader’s expectation and then subvert it with a rhythmic surprise.

This links directly to songwriting. A good song needs dramatic contrast: a quiet, reflective verse that explodes into a huge chorus, or a shift in the bridge. A novel needs this same rhythmic variety. The pace is made original not just by the sequence of events, but by how long you force the reader to wait between the action and the explanation. The execution of the rhythm is the art, and that is unique to the author.

The Voice as the Unique Melody

The most fundamental piece of originality is the voice, which is best illustrated by the guitar. Take a simple G-chord: played by ten different musicians, it sounds different every time because of their individual touch, the subtle tone of the instrument, and the emotion behind the playing. In a novel, a universal plot, like a quest for a magical item, is made entirely unique by the protagonist’s voice and perspective.

In RPGs, the rules are set, but the player’s choices and the character’s personality dictate the outcome. A lawful good cleric will approach a problem completely differently from a chaotic rogue. Your novel’s originality resides here: in the specific way your protagonist would react, fail, or succeed. It’s not about the plot itself, but the unique filter of the narrator’s consciousness.

The Art of the Final Performance

Ultimately, the terror that everything has been done before is a structural illusion. The reader does not ultimately care if your plot is entirely new; they care if the performance, the prose, the emotional truth, and the unique combination of familiar elements, feels authentic and compelling to them.

The highest ambition for any creative person is not to invent a new chord or a new story structure, but to take those familiar chords and write a song that only you could have written. True originality is not found in the material; it is found in the deeply personal process of its creation.

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.