Tag Archives: writing

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 Unflinching Gaze: What Filth Taught Me About Flawed Protagonists

As writers, we are often told to make our protagonists relatable, even likeable. But sometimes, the most compelling characters are those who are utterly repulsive, forcing us to confront the darkest corners of human nature. James McAvoy’s astonishing performance as Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson in Filth is a masterclass in this, presenting a character so morally bankrupt, so viciously manipulative, that he becomes magnetic. It challenges the conventional wisdom about hero archetypes, proving that an unflinching portrayal of vice can create a profoundly engaging narrative.

The Descent into Bruce’s World

The film immediately plunges us into Bruce Robertson’s chaotic world without offering any easy justifications for his behaviour. We see his racism, misogyny, and cruelty laid bare from the opening scenes, making it clear that this isn’t a character who will be redeemed easily, if at all. This lack of initial empathy is a bold narrative choice; it forces the audience to engage with the character on purely psychological terms, rather than emotional ones.

McAvoy’s performance is pivotal here. He doesn’t shy away from Bruce’s depravity, but injects a desperate, almost manic energy that hints at the profound psychological unraveling beneath the surface. It’s a performance that doesn’t ask for forgiveness, but demands observation, compelling us to watch the inevitable self-destruction of a man whose inner demons are more monstrous than any external villain.

The Anatomy of a Flaw

What makes Bruce Robertson so compelling, despite his horrific actions, is the meticulous way the film reveals the layers of his psychological damage. His flaws aren’t incidental; they are the very fabric of his being, stemming from deep-seated trauma and a crippling addiction. The film doesn’t sanitise his internal monologue; instead, it puts us directly inside his head, showing the hallucinatory chaos and the desperate attempts to outrun his past.

As writers, this is a crucial lesson. Bruce’s flaws are not simple character quirks; they are active, destructive forces that drive the entire plot. His ambition, his paranoia, and his self-hatred fuel every decision, every manipulation. It demonstrates that truly compelling flaws are those that directly shape the narrative, creating both the external conflict and the inevitable internal collapse.

The Sympathy Trap

One of the biggest takeaways from Filth is the dangerous allure of the ‘sympathy trap’. As authors, we can sometimes fall into the habit of softening our protagonists’ edges, fearing that readers won’t connect with someone truly awful. Filthproves that you don’t need to make a character likeable to make them fascinating. In fact, by not excusing Bruce’s behaviour, the film creates a more powerful and unsettling experience.

The film meticulously builds towards a devastating revelation of Bruce’s past, which, while explaining some of his trauma, never fully redeems his present actions. This approach ensures that the narrative remains intellectually honest, providing insight without offering a free pass. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the greatest impact comes from refusing to shy away from the ugliest truths about human nature.

The Echo of the Ending

The key phrase repeated throughout the film is the chilling mantra Bruce uses to rationalise his self-serving existence: “Same rules apply.” Bruce uses this line to justify every betrayal, every act of cruelty, and every attempt to sabotage his colleagues. For most of the film, it’s a cynical dismissal of morality, a statement that the world is a brutal, chaotic place, and the only rule is self-preservation.

The devastating ending, however, brutally inverts that statement. The final scene reveals the devastating rule of Bruce’s life was not self-serving competence, but the psychological destruction that forced him to assume his colleague’s identity to survive his own trauma. The true “rule” that always applied was his desperate mental illness. The line transforms from a cynical justification into a tragic echo of a man unable to escape his own past.

Final Thoughts

Filth remains a powerful reminder that compelling storytelling often lies in the unflinching portrayal of characters who challenge our expectations. It’s about understanding the deep mechanics of their flaws and allowing those imperfections to drive the narrative, using every line, even the cynical ones, to underscore the final, tragic truth.

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.

The Architect’s Blueprint: Story Structures That Intrigue Me

For me, the real craft of storytelling often lies not in what happens, but in when the author chooses to tell us. I’m fascinated by non-linear narratives that treat chronology as a malleable tool, forcing the reader to piece together the truth. No work demonstrates this structural brilliance better than Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill Parts 1 & 2. These films don’t just tell a story; they present a fractured series of events that constantly deepen the emotional stakes by delaying crucial information. It’s a masterclass in how structure can drive intrigue.

The Non-Linear Promise

The non-chronological structure of Kill Bill, which jumps between the present-day quest for revenge and the protagonist’s past trauma, immediately forces the viewer to become an active participant. The narrative doesn’t serve up the story sequentially; it presents a puzzle, providing pieces of action and motivation out of order. This structural choice builds massive investment because the primary emotional question becomes “Why?” rather than simply “What happens next?”

This approach hinges entirely on the strategic use of withholding. We are shown devastating results—a character’s name is crossed off a list—long before we are given the full context of their villainy or the protagonist’s training. By delaying the essential background information, the films successfully transform basic revenge into an intense, multi-layered mystery.

The Power of the Chapter Break

The film’s deliberate use of chapter headings (e.g., “The Blood-Splattered Bride,” “The Man from Okinawa”) is a structural tool in itself. It fragments the vast, two-part epic into high-impact, self-contained short stories. This ensures that even though the overarching quest is long and arduous, the viewing experience is consistently punctuated by distinct, thrilling narrative blocks.

This fragmentation is key to maintaining momentum. By constantly jumping between different time periods, tones, and geographic locations, the films reset the action and prevent the central revenge quest from becoming a predictable march towards the end. The structure ensures the emotional intensity spikes repeatedly, giving the audience very little chance to settle into a rhythm.

The Emotional Anchor

Despite the fractured timeline, the emotional spine of the story remains perfectly linear. The protagonist has a simple, compelling motive (revenge) and a straightforward plan (the kill list). The audience always knows where the protagonist is going and why, which provides a steady anchor when the timeline jumps. The film succeeds because the emotional structure is clear, even when the chronology is chaotic.

This entire structural framework is designed to delay and amplify the emotional payoff of the final revelation in Part 2: the existence of The Bride’s child. The intense focus on the physical violence and the cold execution of the revenge in the first film distracts us from the deepest, most human wound. The ultimate purpose of the non-linear structure is to make the audience earn and fully appreciate the gravity of that central, devastating emotional fact.

Inspiration for Our Own Novels

This structural mastery provides fantastic inspiration for how we approach our own novels. We can use non-linear structure not merely for cleverness, but to manage the strategic release of information and heighten the tension between cause and effect. By showing the consequence of an event early on, we hook the reader with curiosity before ever detailing the incident itself.

The main takeaway for any writer is that if you choose to fracture the time in your story, you must ensure your characters have an absolutely simple, linear motive that acts as the narrative spine. That clear motivation is what guides the reader through the confusion, ensuring they never get lost in the temporal jumps. It proves that structural ambition and reader clarity can, and should, work hand-in-hand.

The Art of the Drop: Analysing The Strangers Chapter 2’s Perfect Cliffhanger

For any writer working in genre fiction, the chapter break is one of our most potent tools. It is where we apply maximum leverage to the reader’s engagement, making the page turn from a choice into a necessity. In The Strangers, Chapter 2 provides a masterclass in this technique. The chapter doesn’t just end; it cuts off abruptly at the exact point of maximum jeopardy. Analysing this moment offers invaluable inspiration for our own craft, teaching us that a great cliffhanger is less about spectacle and more about meticulous timing.

The Promise of the Opening

The chapter works so well because it never wastes a word on unnecessary setup; it starts deep into the investigation. Chapter 2 of The Strangers finds our protagonist, who is already reeling from the sudden disappearance of a family member, chasing a flimsy lead that leads them into an abandoned warehouse. The scene is immediately driven by purpose and urgency, focusing the reader’s attention entirely on the task at hand and delaying any lengthy exposition about the wider situation.

The whole chapter is designed to escalate tension incrementally, leading the character to a point of no return. They navigate the cold, echoing space, overcoming small obstacles until they finally find a crucial piece of evidence—a burner phone containing a cryptic message. This discovery is the reward for the reader’s effort, but it also primes us for the imminent threat, as the character is now exposed and distracted by the new information.

The Cruel Cut: The End of the Scene

The chapter ends with a brilliant double-whammy that snatches away both the solution and the safety. Just as the protagonist is illuminated by the screen of the burner phone, the main lights in the warehouse suddenly cut out, plunging them into darkness. Before they can react, a cold, unseen voice whispers their name right behind them. This delivers a physical shock (the sudden darkness and loss of control) combined with a profound emotional terror (being known by an unseen threat).

The strategic brilliance here is that the author denies the reader the crucial reaction shot. We do not get to see the protagonist raise their weapon, drop the phone, or even flinch; the page simply ends. This cruel cut leaves us hovering in the silent blackness alongside the character. The only way to find out what happens next, and thus resolve that terrible moment of tension, is to turn the page immediately and continue reading.

Inspiration for Our Own Craft

This chapter ending offers a clear lesson for our own writing: the goal of a cliffhanger is not just to create an explosion, but to identify the precise moment of maximum jeopardy and exploit it. We should look for the moment when the protagonist is both exposed and has just acquired critical, actionable knowledge. The discovery and the threat must arrive simultaneously so that the resolution is intrinsically linked to the ongoing plot.

The main takeaway is that the best cliffhangers leave a powerful emotional question hanging in the air. It’s not simply a procedural query (“What happens next?”); it’s an existential one (“Will they survive this?”) or a moral one (“Will they choose the right path with this new information?”). By focusing on that emotional cost and cutting the scene just before the character can react, we ensure the reader’s investment is deep enough to carry them forward into the next chapter.

The Pure Joy of the Drop

Ultimately, the reason I love a good cliffhanger is that it is the ultimate affirmation of a successful writer. As a reader, there is a profound, almost primal thrill in being manipulated so expertly by the narrative. When an author denies you sleep, or forces you to read on despite the late hour, they have executed their labour perfectly. It’s a moment of physical dependency on the story that proves the writer’s skill in managing pace and tension.

As a writer myself, loving cliffhangers means constantly striving to replicate that precise moment of addictive reader engagement. It becomes the highest test of writing discipline and structure: to earn the cut, you must first build the tension faultlessly. To write a compelling cliffhanger is to prove you are a master of rhythm, capable of making your reader completely surrender control to your narrative.

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?

Music vs. Metre: Why I Love Lyrics but Struggle with Formal Poetry

It’s one of those strange, contradictory quirks of my creative personality: I am a profound lover of music, someone who hangs on every single word of a well-crafted lyric, yet I find myself unable to fully engage with formal poetry on the page. I know, I know—lyrics are poetry, structured into verse and chorus with metre and rhythm. But for me, the difference is vast and entirely down to the delivery system. The same profound words that move me when carried by a favourite melody leave me cold and struggling to connect when presented in their bare, printed form.

The Saving Grace of the Soundtrack

For me, the melody is the saving grace, the element that makes lyrics immediately accessible and powerful. Music provides the emotional scaffolding and the necessary context that allows the words to land effortlessly. The bassline can convey heartbreak, and the rhythm can communicate urgency; the words simply have to fill in the detail. This means the emotional labour is shared between the musician and the lyricist, allowing me to fully absorb the story without feeling blocked by the form.

Furthermore, lyrics are usually delivered as part of a communal, performed experience. Whether I’m listening on headphones or at a gig, there’s an immediate connection to the artist’s intent and emotion. This is a fundamental contrast to reading poetry, which often feels like a solitary exercise where I must actively work to excavate meaning from the dense, exposed language. Music offers a pre-packaged emotional journey; poetry requires me to build the entire journey myself, which is where I hit my creative wall.

The Tyranny of the Blank Page

My struggle with formal poetry is rooted in the sheer effort required to decode the structure and find the emotional hook. When words are stripped down and presented in stark, deliberate lines on the page, the form—the specific rhyme scheme, the strict metre, the unusual line breaks—often feels demanding. Rather than sounding like natural speech or expressive emotion, the words sometimes feel like they are bending to service a clever structural rule, and I find myself scrutinising the form rather than simply feeling the content.

This difficulty is compounded by the lack of context. Without the propulsion of rhythm, the emotional cues of instrumentation, or the energy of a singer’s voice, the isolated words of a poem feel demanding and inaccessible. They sit there, static and exposed, forcing the reader to spend valuable time decoding the structure before engaging with the meaning. I suppose I simply rely on music too heavily; I need the words to travel in the vehicle of song for my heart to open to them. And don’t even get me started on the idea of poetry slams…

The contradiction remains a simple matter of creative preference: I am utterly devoted to the words, but I need them to travel in the vehicle of song. It’s not that I don’t like poetry, it’s that I just can’t seem to do it.

What is your own strangest creative contradiction—the one thing you want to love, but find yourself unable to connect with?