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.
Readers are remarkably good at putting two and two together. Yet many writers, worried that a character’s emotions or motivations might not be obvious enough, add a sentence explaining what the reader has already understood. Those explanations rarely add clarity—they usually weaken the scene. Here’s how to recognize when you’re explaining the obvious, and when an explanation genuinely earns its place.
Every writer thinks the manuscript is in pretty good shape—right up until the editorial feedback arrives. From confidence and outrage to revision, gratitude, and complete memory loss, here are the twelve stages writers cycle through when an editor gets involved.
What makes a book unforgettable? It often isn’t the plot—it’s the people. The characters who quietly step onto the page, feel completely real, and stay with us long after we’ve finished the final chapter.
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.
Most writers love writing but dread rewriting. Yet revision isn’t evidence the first draft failed—it’s where good stories become great ones. Like weeding a garden, editing isn’t about destroying what you’ve grown. It’s about giving the best parts room to flourish.
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.
Serial fiction may look old-fashioned, but today’s audiences consume serialized stories everywhere—from television and podcasts to newsletters and streaming platforms. As publishing tools evolve, serialization offers new ways for readers to discover stories, engage with characters over time, and become part of an ongoing reading experience.
Most writers think of serial fiction as a publishing format. Mark Posey argues it is something even more valuable: a practical lesson in storytelling craft. Because every installment must earn a reader’s return, serial fiction exposes weaknesses in pacing, structure, and chapter endings that can hide inside a completed novel. The skills it teaches—curiosity, momentum, and reader engagement—strengthen every form of storytelling.
