Stop introducing your characters. Readers don’t want a list of traits—they want the pleasure of discovering who someone is through action, dialogue, and the little details that make a story feel real. Trust your readers to connect the dots, and your fiction will become stronger, faster, and far more engaging.
I finished S.J. Morden’s One Way and immediately bought the sequel—not because I liked the protagonist, but because I had to know what happened next. It also reminded me that hardboiled and noir aren’t the same thing, and why that distinction explains Ptolemy Lane far better than I ever realized while writing him.
Some of the most memorable people in our lives were never the main characters. The same is true in fiction. If your supporting characters exist only to deliver information or move the plot along, your story misses an opportunity to create a richer, more believable world. Every character should feel like they have a life beyond the page.
Years after finishing a novel, it’s rarely the plot we remember best. It’s the people. The quiet characters who felt real, who made us laugh, who gave the story its heart. Those are the ones who stay with us—and perhaps that’s true of the people we meet in life, too.
Gone With the Wind turns ninety on Monday, yet it still feels astonishingly modern. I first encountered the novel—not the famous film—as a teenager borrowing it from my high school library, and it has stayed with me ever since. Looking back at it through the eyes of a novelist, I think I’ve finally figured out why Margaret Mitchell’s epic continues to captivate readers after all these decades.
There’s a fine line between emotional depth and narrative quicksand. Introspective narration can elevate a story into something unforgettable—or bring the pacing to a grinding halt. The difference usually comes down to one question: is the reflection adding something the scene itself cannot? When done well, introspection deepens character and theme. When overused, it turns into literary speed bumps disguised as wisdom.
Why do some stories grip you from the first page while others feel oddly lifeless, no matter how much “happens”? Robert McKee’s Story digs beneath surface action to the real engine of narrative—where pressure, choice, and consequence reveal character and create momentum that readers can feel, even if they can’t name it.
There’s a point in many manuscripts where the story quietly pulls back. The conflict softens, the dialogue becomes safer, and characters make the reasonable choice instead of the revealing one. The result is a manuscript that is technically good—but often forgettable. The moments readers remember are rarely the comfortable ones.
Does fantasy really need to be grimdark to feel “serious”? I’m not convinced. There is a difference between a story that is painful and one that is hopeless—and somewhere along the way, fantasy seems to have forgotten it.
Why does Stand By Me still hit forty years later when so many stories vanish almost as soon as the credits roll? Because it isn’t built on spectacle or plot twists. It’s built on emotional truth. Four boys, one long walk, and a story that trusts us to care about the people more than the destination. That’s a rare thing. And maybe that’s why it still works.
