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.
Language is often perceived as a fixed set of rules, enshrined in dictionaries and grammar books. But having studied English Language at university, I learned that language is anything but static—it is a constantly evolving system that adapts to the needs of its speakers. Today, the greatest catalyst for this change isn’t conquest or migration, but technology. For an author, understanding this rapid, digital evolution is crucial, as it provides the raw material for creating contemporary and believable character voices, even in fantastical settings.
The University Foundation
My studies in English Language provided a vital foundation, teaching me the structural history and historical shifts that have continually redefined English over centuries. We analysed everything from Old English manuscripts to the linguistic impact of Shakespeare, learning that what is considered “correct” today was once a radical departure from the norm. This background gives me a critical lens for viewing modern changes, ensuring I don’t see new trends as errors, but as another fascinating chapter in the language’s ongoing story.
This deep dive into historical language shifts, like the Great Vowel Shift or the normalisation of formerly slang terms, proves that the core principles of linguistic change remain constant. However, the speed at which these changes occur has been accelerated exponentially by digital platforms. By understanding how language changes, I can better predict and incorporate new linguistic styles into my work without letting them date the text too quickly.
Technology and Linguistic Change
The eminent linguist David Crystal has spent much of his career documenting how technology—from the telegraph to instant messaging—does not harm language, but rather provides new avenues for creative expression. He argues that things like textspeak, abbreviations, and the rapid adoption of new internet slang are not a sign of decay, but of functionality; we adapt language to the medium, choosing the most efficient and expressive style available. The idea that technology ruins language simply misses the point that language is designed to be functional.
We see this adaptability everywhere, from the rise of emoji replacing tone-of-voice in text, to the functional shift of punctuation (e.g., using a period at the end of a text message to convey passive-aggression or finality). These aren’t random mistakes; they are highly sophisticated, subtle linguistic innovations invented by users. For a writer, this provides a rich toolkit for character development: a character’s digital dialect can now be as revealing as their formal speech patterns.
The Writer’s Mandate
As authors, our mandate is to reflect the way people authentically communicate, and that communication is now deeply infused with technological shorthands and digital dialects. Observing these real-world changes informs how I write contemporary dialogue, ensuring it sounds natural and immediate. More importantly, it teaches me how to craft believable fictional dialects for my novel settings, perhaps by inventing a unique set of abbreviations or a grammar quirk that only exists within a certain online faction or futuristic society.
Ultimately, the study of language and technology teaches me that language is not a fortress to be defended, but a massive ocean that constantly shifts its boundaries. While the core of storytelling still demands clarity and precision, a nuanced understanding of these digital shifts allows me to give my characters a deeper, more realistic voice. It’s a continual learning process, ensuring my worlds—and the people in them—never stop feeling relevant.
Completing the first draft of a novel is an exhilarating moment, but as I’ve said before, that’s where the real work begins. The journey from a messy draft to a professional, published book is a marathon of meticulous checking, structural review, and technical preparation. It’s a multi-stage process that transforms the raw material of a story into a polished artefact ready for readers. This is the complete workflow of my post-draft process, right up to pressing ‘publish’ as an independent author.
The First Pass: Architect and Detective
Once the initial adrenaline wears off, I jump into the first major review, wearing two hats: that of an architect and a detective. The architect’s job is structural, looking for plot holes or inconsistencies. Does Character A know information in Chapter 10 that they shouldn’t have learned until Chapter 15? Have I maintained the political rules established for the story’s setting throughout the entire narrative?
The detective’s job is to focus on the fine print: an intense round of proofreading and continuity checks. This is where I ensure the spelling is correct, names are consistent, and details like eye colour or scene locations haven’t changed accidentally. This painstaking self-review is crucial for cleaning up the inevitable chaos of the initial creative burst, making sure the foundation of the story is solid before anyone else sees it.
The Fresh Eyes: Beta Reading and Feedback
With a clean-but-not-perfect draft ready, it’s time to bring in the outside world. I send the manuscript to my trusted beta readers (including my girlfriend and loyal followers), who provide invaluable feedback analysis. They aren’t looking for typos; they’re checking for pacing, character motivation, emotional resonance, and whether the climax actually pays off.
Managing this feedback requires discipline. I collect all the comments and look for patterns: if two or more readers point out the same confusing plot point or dull chapter, that section demands a rewrite. This process results in the final draft manuscript, which is the version I am confident is structurally sound and emotionally powerful, ready for the final, technical preparations.
Preparing for Publication: The Front and Back Matter
Before the manuscript can become a book, it needs the required front and back matter. These are the elements that give the novel a professional, finished structure. I start by finalising the Contents Page, ensuring all chapter titles and numbers are accurate. This is immediately followed by the Dedication and the Author’s Note, where I get a chance to directly speak to the reader and thank those who helped the project along.
The back matter is just as important. This includes the “Also By” page, which is a vital piece of marketing that directs readers to my other published works. Crucially, I also finalise the marketing visuals I’ve been designing, using Photoshop for detailed image work and Canva for creating clean, professional promotional graphics. All of these pages and visuals must be meticulously prepared for the final step.
Publishing Day: Submitting and Marketing
The very final stage is a rigorous final proofread and edit for any lingering errors, often using text-to-speech software to catch mistakes my eyes have missed. Once I’m completely satisfied, I prepare the file for publishing. I upload the single, complete file, including all front and back matter, to Draft2Digital (D2D). D2D handles the technical conversion and distribution, sending my book out to major retailers like Amazon Kindle, Apple Books, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble Nook.
As an independent author, once the book is published, the work shifts entirely to marketing and promotion. My involvement doesn’t end when the files go live; it’s just the start of the next phase. I rely on the graphics created in Photoshop and Canva for all my social media campaigns, driving awareness and sales. That final click of the publish button is the start of the book’s life in the world, and I’m there every step of the way to promote the story I’ve spent so long creating.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of turning a page and having the floor drop out from under your feet. A truly great plot twist is an emotional gut punch that simultaneously shocks you and makes you want to immediately flip back to the beginning to see what you missed. But for a writer, the twist is a terrifying thing. It needs to be a revelation that is both surprising and utterly inevitable. For me, the architecture of a good plot twist lies not in shocking the reader, but in the painstaking effort of hiding the truth in plain sight.
The Cardinal Rule: Earning the Reveal
The biggest risk a writer takes with a twist is cheating the reader. A twist that comes out of nowhere, relying on information withheld entirely from the audience, feels cheap and unsatisfactory; it’s a momentary shock, not a lasting narrative reward. The cardinal rule of any major plot turn is that it must be earned.
What makes a reveal truly great is when it feels inevitable in retrospect. The reader should be able to look back at the start of the book and see that all the pieces were there, staring them in the face, yet they just missed connecting them. The writer’s job is to ensure the truth is woven into the narrative fabric, disguised by misdirection and context, so that when the moment arrives, the reader’s reaction is not “Where did that come from?” but “Of course! How could I have been so blind?”
The Architect of the Clue
My process for building a major reveal is entirely reverse-engineered. I decide on the twist first, and then I dedicate myself to clue-planting. These clues must be subtle, often buried beneath layers of sensory detail or presented as a completely normal part of the world. They are little narrative breadcrumbs designed to be overlooked during the fast pace of a first read.
For an environment like the Empire of Embers, the clues might be hidden in the very infrastructure or social customs. For instance, if a betrayal is coming from a high-ranking member of the Geothermal Guild, the clue might not be a secret document, but a seemingly irrelevant detail about the Guild member’s clothing—perhaps a specific colour of embroidery that signifies an ancient, banished faction of the city’s founders. The clue is always available to the reader, but the significance is only understood once the context of the betrayal is fully revealed.
The Misdirection: Using the Red Herring
To ensure the reader doesn’t connect my carefully placed clues too early, I rely on the trusted red herring. This is the most fun part of planning a twist because it allows me to lie to the reader, but only in the most honest way possible—it’s a deliberate misdirection that draws the reader’s attention to a more obvious suspect or solution.
The red herring’s function is to consume the reader’s focus, allowing my genuine, subtle clues to fade into the background as mere world-building details. The trick is to make the red herring compelling enough to be a genuine threat or solution, but ultimately, a dead end that feels earned when the true culprit or answer steps forward. Ultimately, the plot twist should enhance the story and deepen the themes, not just exist for the sake of shock.
What is a plot twist from a book or film that you absolutely loved—one that shocked you but felt perfectly earned?
For a writer, the process often looks like a purely imaginative act, but in reality, bringing a novel to life requires a specific set of tools. Just as a builder needs a hammer and a carpenter needs a chisel, I have a personal toolkit—a mixture of low-tech, tactile items and powerful software—that helps me transform a fleeting idea into a sprawling world like Empire of Embers. This is the practical, behind-the-scenes look at the gear I rely on every single day.
The Physical Arsenal: Ink and Paper
While most of my work is ultimately delivered on a screen, the most crucial and chaotic part of my early process relies on the oldest technologies: paper and a good pen. I always start with handwritten notes because there’s something about the physical act of putting pen to paper that bypasses the internal, critical editor. This is where the initial brainstorming happens—where raw ideas for character arcs, spontaneous dialogue, and initial world concepts get scribbled out. It’s a dedicated space where every thought is welcome, ensuring the foundational creativity is messy and free from the formal formatting or distractions of a word processor.
These tangible tools are equally vital during my revision process. After printing out a full draft, I use highlighters to literally colour-code my manuscript. For example, one colour might track a specific character’s emotional arc, another might track a recurring theme or motif, and a third might track a key plot thread that needs consistency. This visual map is absolutely essential; it allows me to spot structural flaws, check the pacing, and ensure that every element is balanced far quicker than I could by simply reading the text on a screen alone.
Digital Powerhouse: The Essential Software
Once the scribbles and colour-coding have done their job, it’s time to transition the project into the digital realm where the true manuscript takes shape. Despite the proliferation of specialised writing apps, my final destination is always Microsoft Word. Its rock-solid reliability, industry-standard formatting, and clean interface make it the perfect environment for the focused, steady work of getting the chapter count up and turning those rough notes into clean, sequential prose. This reliable software is the final forge where the messy, raw material is hammered into a professional, cohesive final document.
For managing the sheer volume of information required to build a large world like the Empire of Embers, I rely heavily on simple digital organisation outside of the main manuscript file. While Word is for the prose, I maintain cloud-based documents for all the crucial lore—the specific history of the volcanic regions, the political hierarchy, and the rules of any magic system. This dedicated space acts as an encyclopaedia for my world, ensuring consistency across a series and preventing the overwhelming amount of lore from cluttering the main story.
The Final Philosophy of the Toolkit
Ultimately, none of these tools, whether a simple highlighter or powerful software, actually write the story for me. They are aids to the creative mind, acting as a supportive framework for the true craft. They help me manage the chaos, stay organised, and refine the prose.
What about you? Do you prefer the old-school feel of ink and paper, or are you all digital when it comes to your own creative projects?
If you’ve spent any time around me, you’ll know two things are unequivocally true: I breathe stories, and I am absolutely, unashamedly, irrevocably obsessed with The Karate Kid saga, especially its sensational revival, Cobra Kai. Like many writers, I am, deep down, Miyagi-Do through and through—I believe in balance, discipline, and finding the profound truth in simple mechanics.
But Cobra Kai taught me to love the Strike Hard ethos, because it showed me the power of a redemption story done right. The series has become an unexpected, profound masterclass in my other great passion: writing.
Yes, you read that right. Beyond the brilliant soundtrack, the epic fight choreography, and the glorious return of 80s icons, Cobra Kai isn’t just a show about karate. It’s a sprawling, multi-layered narrative about redemption, rivalry, perspective, and the relentless pursuit of purpose. And for a writer, it’s an absolute goldmine of hard-earned truths. So grab your karate gi, clear your mind, and prepare for the longest, most passionate blog post you’ll read today, because we’re about to explore how the dojos of the Valley forged me into a better storyteller.
The Foundations: Wax On, Words On—The Discipline of Craft
Even as a Miyagi-Do writer who instinctively favours defence and balance, the original Karate Kid laid the groundwork for understanding the essence of any craft. Mr. Miyagi’s seemingly mundane chores—polishing cars, sanding floors—were never just about cleaning. They were about building muscle memory, discipline, and understanding fundamentals.
As writers, how often do we want to jump straight to the “crane kick”—the dazzling plot twist, the profound monologue, the viral blog post? Mr. Miyagi taught us that mastery comes from the basics. We learn that “Wax On, Wax Off” is really Editing. It’s the tedious, repetitive work of polishing sentences, strengthening verbs, and removing clutter, one word at a time, until the surface gleams. It’s not glorious, but it’s essential for structural integrity. Similarly, “Sand the Floor” is Planning. It’s the foundational work that seems separate from the creative act but provides the stability for everything that comes after. Without a solid structure, your narrative will wobble and eventually collapse. And finally, “Paint the Fence” is Daily Word Count. It’s the consistent, disciplined effort of showing up, day after day, and laying down new words, even when you don’t feel inspired. It builds stamina and resilience. You can’t wait for inspiration; you have to earn it through discipline.
Johnny Lawrence: The Best 80s Antagonist, The Best 21st Century Protagonist
This is the true genius of Cobra Kai, and why every single writer should study Johnny Lawrence. He was the perfect, one-dimensional, hair-metal-loving bully of 1984. But in the 2010s, he became the main character we desperately needed.
For decades, Johnny was the villain, the baddie in Daniel LaRusso’s heroic tale. Cobra Kai flipped the script, giving him his own point of view, his own dojo to rebuild, and his own quest for redemption. He transitioned from the best 80s antagonist to the best 21st century protagonist.
This evolution is the ultimate lesson in perspective, character development, and narrative daring for writers.
The Barney Stinson Blueprint is key here. Johnny Lawrence’s arc is successful for the same reason characters like Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother resonated. You take a deeply flawed, often toxic character—one who is hilarious, misguided, and stuck in the past—and you give them a painful, genuine, and often relatable path toward being a better person. We cheer for Johnny not when he’s perfect, but when he fails spectacularly and then gets back up. Redemption must be earned, not given. Johnny’s path is a glorious, two-steps-forward-one-step-back disaster, full of cock-ups and bad decisions. This teaches us the power of writing complex characters who evolve authentically. Change is messy, and your character arcs should be messy, too. We want characters who scrape and fight for their better selves.
Moreover, we must embrace the flawed voice. Johnny’s voice is hilarious, unpolished, and frequently inappropriate. Yet, it’s undeniably his. As a writer, I, the meticulous Miyagi-Do student, learned from Johnny to sometimes strike hard with a messy, authentic first draft. You have to allow that raw, imperfect voice onto the page before you can sand it down and polish it. Johnny reminds me that sometimes the most compelling stories aren’t from the expected hero; they are from the bloke who was supposed to be the footnote. He teaches us that every story deserves a second chance.
Daniel LaRusso: The Peril of Dogma and the Virtue of Adaptability
While Johnny represents the fresh start, Daniel embodies a different, equally vital lesson for writers: the danger of becoming stuck in your ways, even good ways.
As a writer who leans into the Miyagi-Do tenets of balance and defence, I understand Daniel’s rigidity. But Cobra Kaiforces him to face his own blind spots: Stagnation kills the narrative. Daniel’s initial inability to see Johnny’s attempt at reform stems from his rigid worldview. As writers, we fall into similar traps when we cling to a specific genre, an unworkable planning method, or a writing voice that isn’t resonating, simply because it’s “our way.” Dogma is the enemy of creativity. You must also realise that you must adapt or die. The writing landscape is identical to the Valley karate world. Trends shift, platforms change, and reader expectations evolve. Clinging too tightly to an outdated style or an unworkable plot can lead to your story—or your career—being left behind. You must learn new moves.
Ultimately, fusion is the future. The eventual alliance between Miyagi-Do and Cobra Kai teaches us the power of blending philosophies. I need Miyagi-Do for the foundation, but I need Johnny’s Cobra Kai spirit to finish the story and promote it fiercely. The best writing happens when discipline meets daring.
Kreese and Terry Silver: The Cult of a Toxic Writing Voice
John Kreese and Terry Silver are not just villains; they are toxic ideologies made manifest. They represent the worst possible advice a writer can receive:
“No Mercy” is the Toxic Writing Voice. This is the internal editor that demands every sentence be perfect on the first draft, the voice that tells you your ideas are rubbish, and the one that demands you tear down everyone else’s work. It’s the voice of self-sabotage and writer’s block. Mercy for the first draft is essential. The Flattery of Easy Power is another danger. Silver and Kreese offer their students a quick path to power through aggression. For a writer, this is the temptation to chase fleeting trends, write only for clicks, or use sensationalism instead of substance. It’s easy, but it ultimately hollows out your work and your purpose. True power comes from honest, balanced storytelling.
The Final Lesson: What’s Your Dojo?
Cobra Kai asks a fundamental question of every character: Which philosophy defines you?
As a writer, I now ask myself: What is my dojo? I am a Miyagi-Do writer who values craft, but I need the redemption-seeking, Strike Hard energy of Johnny Lawrence to push past fear, finish the manuscript, and put my voice out into the world.
So, the next time writer’s block paralyses you, remember the lessons of the Valley. Don’t let fear win. Don’t be a spectator. Don’t let your inner Kreese tell you you’re not good enough.
You have the skill, you have the heart, and you have the story. Sweep the leg of self-doubt and write!
We spend so much time in life trying to smooth out our rough edges, hiding our mistakes, and presenting a curated version of ourselves. Yet, when we turn to art—to books, films, and songs—it is precisely the necessary flaw that draws us in. The human element in storytelling isn’t about celebrating perfect heroes or neat resolutions; it’s about validating the messy, contradictory, and often irrational reality of being alive. This devotion to imperfection is what makes human-created stories powerful, enduring, and utterly distinct from anything a machine can generate.
A story that truly resonates doesn’t show us life as it should be, but as it is. It gives us a protagonist who is brilliant but deeply selfish, a moment of profound courage followed by a wave of crippling doubt, or a happy ending tainted by a lingering sadness. These complexities aren’t narrative mistakes; they are the signposts of authenticity. By embracing the flaw—the lie a good person tells, the fear a brave person harbors—writers acknowledge the full, difficult spectrum of human experience, creating a profound connection based on shared vulnerability rather than manufactured idealism.
The Paradox of Choice
In its simplest form, a plot is a series of choices. But the human element comes from the paradox of choice—when all options are terrible, when the ‘right’ path costs everything, or when a character chooses poorly out of love, fear, or stubborn pride. This is where the narrative moves beyond simple logic and into the realm of philosophy and emotion. An AI can calculate the optimal choice for a character to succeed; a human writer knows the most compelling choice is often the one that ensures tragedy.
This is where stories earn their emotional weight. We are fascinated by the flawed choice because it reflects our own daily navigation of difficult trade-offs. We watch a character sacrifice their career for a family member, knowing that the “good” outcome carries a personal cost. Or we see them choose a temporary comfort that guarantees long-term pain. By exploring these deeply complex, no-win situations, human writers create meaning not just from the resolution, but from the anguishing process of deciding, cementing the story’s connection to our own tangled lives.
The Language of Internal Contradiction
What makes a human character real is their internal contradiction. We are creatures of paradox: we crave peace but thrive on conflict; we seek certainty but are driven by curiosity; we are capable of immense kindness and equally immense cruelty. The best human storytelling doesn’t shy away from this dual nature; it puts it front and center. It is in the space between what a character says and what they truly feel that the story’s emotional tension resides.
This use of internal contradiction is the ultimate expression of the human element. It’s what gives a villain a compelling rationale, a hero a secret weakness, and a love story its inevitable hurdles. We, the readers, recognize the truth in these paradoxes because they live within us. By crafting narratives that honor the complexity of the human heart, writers don’t just entertain—they confirm our shared, complicated reality, solidifying the idea that our stories are irreplaceable and eternally necessary.
In an age of constant noise and information overload, it’s easy to think of storytelling as just another form of communication. We talk about plot, character, and theme as if they’re puzzle pieces we’re assembling for a specific effect. But this approach misses the true magic of human-driven narrative: its ability to communicate the things we can’t—or won’t—say aloud. A great story isn’t just a series of events; it’s a vehicle for empathy, a way to share the deepest parts of ourselves without speaking a single word. It’s in the quiet spaces between the lines that the most profound connections are made.
The unique power of human storytelling lies in its capacity to translate raw, messy emotion into something tangible and relatable. When we write about a character’s heartbreak, we’re not just describing a fictional event; we’re tapping into a universal feeling of loss that every reader has experienced. We use a character’s nervous habit to show their insecurity, or a forgotten detail to hint at a deeper trauma. These aren’t just literary techniques; they’re emotional shortcuts that bypass the conscious mind and go straight to the heart. It’s this ability to express the unspoken truths of the human experience that makes storytelling an indispensable part of our culture.
The Alchemy of Empathy
One of the most powerful functions of a human-crafted story is its ability to build bridges between individuals. When you read a book or watch a film, you are, for a brief time, living inside someone else’s skin. You feel their triumphs and their failures, understand their motivations, and see the world through their eyes. This act of shared experience is a kind of alchemy—transforming a stranger’s perspective into a part of your own understanding. It’s what allows a story to foster compassion for people and situations we’ve never encountered in our own lives.
This empathetic connection is something that transcends logic and data. An algorithm can’t feel the lump in your throat when a character says goodbye for the last time. It can’t understand the complex mix of joy and sadness that comes with bittersweet endings. These feelings are the domain of human consciousness, and by channeling them into our work, we create stories that serve as a mirror and a window. They reflect our own experiences back to us while also giving us a clear view into the lives and hearts of others. In a world that often feels fractured and disconnected, this act of empathetic sharing is more valuable than ever.
The Echo of Authenticity
In a world filled with slick, AI-generated content, authenticity is the new currency. We’re drawn to stories that feel real, that carry the weight of lived experience even if they’re set in a fantasy world. That’s because the human touch—the small, imperfect details, the contradictory emotions, the honest flaws—is what breathes life into a narrative. A character who makes a bad decision for a good reason, or who finds unexpected courage in a moment of despair, feels authentic because we know those complexities exist within ourselves.
This authenticity is the echo of our own lives in our work. Every story we write is a product of our personal history, our struggles, our triumphs, and our unique way of seeing the world. It’s a testament to the idea that our messy, imperfect lives are our greatest creative resource. When we lean into that human element, we don’t just write a good story; we create a piece of art that can endure because it carries the indelible signature of a human soul. And in the end, that’s what we’re all searching for—a genuine connection in a world that often feels artificial.
The prologue and the epilogue have long been a subject of debate in the writing world. Some argue they are unnecessary, a crutch for lazy writing. I, however, see them as powerful narrative tools. When used with a clear purpose, they can frame a story, deepen its world, and provide a sense of finality that a regular chapter simply can’t. The decision to include or omit them is never a casual one; it’s a deliberate choice based entirely on the needs of the story.
The Prologue: Setting the Stage
A prologue isn’t just a fancy first chapter; it’s a choice to provide context that the main story can’t. Its primary function is to set the stage by offering a glimpse into a time or place that’s crucial for the reader’s understanding, but not a direct part of the narrative’s main timeline. For example, in a project like Empire of Embers, a prologue could serve as a window into the great, fiery war that reshaped the world a century ago. This event is a historical foundation for the entire story, but showing it in a prologue prevents me from having to cram a clunky info-dump into the first chapter. A prologue can also be used to establish a tone or a sense of foreboding, hinting at a larger danger or prophecy that the characters are completely unaware of in their day-to-day lives.
The Epilogue: A Final Word
An epilogue is the narrative equivalent of a final, lingering look back. It’s a section that takes place after the final chapter, often months or even years later. Its purpose is to provide a sense of long-term closure after the main conflict has been resolved. While the final chapter of a novel wraps up the immediate plot, an epilogue gives you a chance to show the enduring consequences of the characters’ actions. It’s where you get to show where the heroes are now, what the world looks like after their struggle, and whether the peace they fought for has truly taken hold. It’s a way to tie up loose ends, give the reader a satisfying glimpse into the future, or even subtly set the stage for a sequel without disrupting the flow of the main story.
Why I Don’t Always Include Them
Despite their power, I don’t include a prologue or an epilogue in every novel I write. For a prologue, if the events aren’t immediately relevant to the first chapter, it can feel like a distraction that slows down the opening. Sometimes, it’s more effective to jump straight into the action and let the reader discover the world’s history organically as the story unfolds. Similarly, an epilogue isn’t always the right choice. After a high-stakes climax, the most powerful and realistic conclusion might be to simply end the story. It allows the reader to sit with the final emotions and wonder about what happens next, rather than having every loose end neatly tied up. It’s a balance between giving the reader closure and respecting the integrity of the narrative.
The Purpose of a Tool
Ultimately, my decision to include or omit a prologue or epilogue comes down to a single question: does the story need it? These are not narrative requirements, but powerful tools. A prologue is only useful if it introduces a crucial mystery or provides context that can’t be woven into the main narrative. An epilogue is only necessary if the story’s themes demand a look at the long-term consequences. The most important thing is that a story feels complete, and sometimes, that means leaving the beginning as the beginning and the end as the end.
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.
A. R. Hurst 