There is a tension in the modern conversation around diversity in writing. On one side of the spectrum, there’s the call for more diverse characters in stories—to break the monotony of white, straight, able-bodied, cisgendered protagonists and open the door to the fuller spectrum of human experience. On the other side lies an equally impassioned […]
Some of the most unforgettable characters in literature and film are the ones who feel real to us—messy, layered, and deeply human. But what gives a character that kind of depth? More often than not, it’s their past. Specifically, how that past hurt them. Trauma is a potent engine for character motivation. It shapes how
Why the darkest wounds make the most unforgettable antagonists Some villains are bad because they want power. Others are bad because they hurt — and can’t stop hurting others. If you’re writing a villain who feels like more than a mustache-twirler — someone who believes their behavior is justified, even necessary — then you might
We all have one.That inner voice with a clipboard and bad attitude.“You’re not good enough.”“Don’t even try, you’ll only fail.”“Other people can do that. Not you.” Writers know this voice intimately.It’s the voice that stalls your writing, undermines your confidence, and rewrites your rough draft with red pen dipped in acid. But what if I
If you’ve ever had a pair of characters feel a little too agreeable, a little too in sync, like they’re sipping tea from the same soul—well, congrats on writing your inner harmony. But compelling fiction doesn’t live in inner harmony. It lives in dissonance. In the magnetic push and pull of desire, fear, and reaction.
If readers skip anything, it’s not dialogue. They’ll skim description. They’ll hop over internal monologue. But when characters speak, readers lean in. Why? Because dialogue is where fiction breathes. It’s where characters drop their masks—sometimes deliberately, sometimes despite themselves. It’s where the interior becomes exterior. And it’s where your story’s emotional voltage gets conducted, wire
I started my writing life as a proud pantser. Total discovery writer. I didn’t want to know what was going to happen in the story — that would have ruined the whole damn point. Writing was my way of finding out. The thrill was in the surprise, in chasing the glimmer of a moment or
There’s a quiet fantasy many writers carry—maybe you’ve felt it too. That one day you’ll sit down, pour brilliance onto the page, revise it with monk-like precision, and send it out into the world… only for readers to instantly see what you see, feel what you feel, and love what you love. The reality is
First off, I am totally geeking out over John Vervaeke and Shawn Coyne’s collaboration, Mentoring the Machines. I’ve been a huge fan of Vervaeke’s Awakening from the Meaning Crisis and After Socrates lecture series and of course, Shawn Coyne’s Story Grid process. When they got together to look at the impact of artificial intelligence, I
I wasn’t a natural reader growing up. I mean, I could read just fine, but it was slow. Painfully slow. I needed to hear every word in my head as I read it—feel the rhythm, the cadence. Skimming never worked for me. If the language didn’t land sonically, it didn’t land at all. For years,
