Let’s say the quiet part out loud: “Show, don’t tell” is one of the most overused, underexplained pieces of writing advice in existence. You’ve heard it in workshops, seen it scribbled in the margins of your draft (“show more here!”), and maybe even quoted it to other

Look, I get it—you’ve just penned a line so breathtakingly vivid it makes you want to stand on your desk and shout, “Behold my genius!” (I’ve been there—late nights, half a dozen empty mugs scattered around me, feeling like Wordsworth reincarnated.) And then someone—probably your

There’s a moment every writer hits—usually around page 50, sometimes earlier—where the shiny new idea fades, and you’re left staring at a blinking cursor wondering how to actually get your story to the end. You’ve got characters you love (or at least tolerate), maybe a

If you’ve ever Googled “short story ideas,” you’ve probably landed on a list that reads like it was vomited out by a dozing AI in a beige sweater: “A man wakes up with no memory.” “A woman finds a mysterious key.” “Two strangers meet at a bus stop.

There’s an art to jaw‑dropping twists, and most writers treat it like a party trick—showing up with a bouquet of sparklers instead of a single, well‑placed candle. They think shock equals twist, but all too often, readers are left blinking at the smoke, muttering, “What just

I have a confession: for far too long, I approached young adult fiction like it was training wheels for “real” writing. I’d sprinkle in some pop‑culture nods, dial back the vocabulary, and pat myself on the back for being “accessible.” Then I’d watch earnest seventeen‑year‑olds

There are two kinds of writers who talk about literary devices: those who treat them like SAT flashcards, and those who treat them like forbidden arcane knowledge. Both are annoying. Both miss the point. Because literary devices aren’t tricks. They’re not academic jargon. They’re not things you

This is an outline that I'll turn into the pillar main content page, I'll update this as I go or when I'm done, and also add some notes in case anyone has questions. There’s an allure to the idea of writing a novel—

Ever opened a book “just to skim” the first page and, an hour later, realized you’re fifty pages in and hopelessly late for life? That’s the power of a stellar first chapter. It’s a story’s promise that you’re about to embark on something worth your

Finishing a novel doesn’t just mean tying off the final battle or concluding that grand love story. It means offering your reader a final emotional chord – a note that lingers and replays in their mind once they set the book aside. This concluding portion can take various forms: a

There’s a moment in every good book where you can’t blink, can’t breathe. Because the hero is facing the one thing they’ve spent the entire story avoiding, dreading, or plain denying. It’s the culmination of every choice, every wound, every tiny clue—slamming together in

By this point in the story, your protagonist has fought, struggled, adapted, and failed. They’ve had victories, but they’ve also suffered devastating losses—especially at the Second Pinch Point, which should have shattered their confidence. And now? They hit rock bottom. The Second Plot Point—also known as

Let’s be brutally honest: if your final battle fizzles, your entire novel collapses like a bad soufflé. You can have the most epic buildup, the meatiest character arcs, and a villain so deliciously twisted they deserve a cult following—but if the climactic showdown flops (or worse, feels like

By this stage, your protagonist has fought battles, stumbled, and maybe even scored a few small wins. They’ve moved beyond reacting and begun taking initiative—feeling more confident, starting to believe victory is possible. But they still don’t fully grasp what they’re up against. They think they

Writer’s block is a cliché, but that doesn’t make it any less real. You know the feeling: you open your document, type a few words, backspace them, stare at the blinking cursor, then somehow find yourself scrolling social media for “inspiration.” The standard advice—take a walk, drink

I once spent an entire afternoon staring at a single paragraph—an angry little block of text that refused to make sense, as if my characters had all gone on strike. Everything else in my manuscript felt like a muddy tangle, so of course my mind started whispering, “Just go

I once slogged through the first half of a novel that started off brilliantly—there was a murder, an eccentric detective, and this prickly sense that a grand conspiracy lurked beneath the city’s polished veneer. But by page 150, I was weirdly indifferent. The detective just kept reacting to

The first act of a novel is all about disruption—the protagonist’s life is thrown off course, they’re forced into something unfamiliar, and by the First Plot Point, they’ve officially crossed the threshold into the unknown. But now, at the First Pinch Point, things get real. This

Ever open a book’s flap, read one sentence, and think: Okay, I need to see how this ends? That’s the power of a great premise—the spark that grabs curiosity, frames conflict, and gives your story a reason to exist. But there’s a difference between a vague

Every great story has a moment where the protagonist crosses a threshold—where they step into the unknown and can’t turn back. This is the First Plot Point, the hinge that swings the story from Act One into Act Two. If the inciting incident is the spark, the First

First chapters are brutal. They have to do everything—hook the reader, establish the protagonist, set up the world, hint at the larger conflict, and most importantly, make us care enough to keep turning pages. But most first chapters don’t. They meander. They front-load backstory. They introduce too many

(In Which We Discover That Story Structure Is Your Friend, Not Your Dictator) There’s a moment in every writer’s life when we glance at our ragged draft and think, Wait, did I forget to build a proper skeleton under all these words? That’s where story structure swoops

You’ve got about three seconds—maybe a sentence or two—to convince a reader not to toss your book aside. Harsh? Absolutely. But that’s the reality in a world brimming with distractions and unlimited reading options. A killer opening is your best chance at survival. But how do

A character’s life is rolling along—maybe not perfectly, maybe not happily, but predictably—until suddenly, everything changes. The ground shifts beneath their feet. A door swings open, or slams shut. Someone arrives, or disappears, or delivers an ultimatum. And in that moment, the protagonist is faced with a

I used to think storytelling was pure magic—some ethereal force that separates the Tolkiens of the world from the rest of us mere mortals. Then I realized there’s a very real, almost clinical side to the craft. Plot arcs, pacing, emotional payoffs—they’re practically little buttons we