James Field's Blog
November 16, 2025
Time and Distance in a Narrative: Keeping Your Story Moving Without Losing the Reader
Hello again, fellow fiction writers.
Have you ever read a novel where a character leaves the house, and in the next paragraph they’re mysteriously halfway across Europe—with no clue how they got there? Or one where three pages cover a single cup of tea, and then six months flash by in a line break?
That’s what happens when time and distance in a narrative get muddled. Readers lose their sense of where and when they are—and once that happens, immersion starts to crack.
Let’s dig into how to manage time and space on the page so your story flows naturally, whether it’s an intimate moment between lovers or a trek across galaxies.
⏳ What Do We Mean by “Time and Distance” in Fiction?
In narrative terms, time is the pace and progression of your story—the heartbeat of your scenes. Distance is how far your characters travel (physically or emotionally) between one event and the next.
Every story plays with both. Sometimes we stretch them out (slowing time for dramatic effect), and sometimes we collapse them (skipping the boring bits between key moments). The art lies in knowing when to do which.
🎯 Why Managing Time and Distance Matters
Readers crave continuity. They want to feel like they’re walking beside your characters, not teleporting between chapters.
Get time and distance wrong and you risk:Confusing your reader’s sense of chronology (“Wait—didn’t it just rain five minutes ago?”)Flattening tension by skipping crucial beatsBogging down pacing with irrelevant travel or filler scenes Handled well, though, it creates rhythm, tension, and believability.
🕰 Controlling Time in Narrative
Here are three common ways fiction writers handle time—plus when to use each.
1. Real-Time NarrationEvents unfold moment by moment. Perfect for high-tension scenes.
Example:
He watched the clock tick from 10:58 to 10:59. One more minute, and the bomb would go off.
This style magnifies urgency but can drag if overused.
2. Compressed TimeYou skip ahead—minutes, hours, or years—without losing the thread.
Example:
By the next morning, she’d made up her mind.
It’s efficient and keeps the story brisk, but make sure transitions are clear.
3. Expanded TimeYou slow things down to linger on emotion or detail.
Example:
As the door creaked open, she saw the shape of his hand—older now, steadier—and every memory came rushing back.
Used wisely, it deepens impact. Used too often, it feels indulgent.
🗺 Handling Distance: Getting Characters from A to B
No one wants to read every single step your hero takes from London to Rome. But skipping travel entirely can make your story feel jumpy or weightless.
Here’s how to balance it:Use transitions with intent.
Two days later, the train hissed into the station at dawn.
Simple, visual, and easy to follow.Summarise repetitive travel.
You don’t need to narrate every pit stop.
After a blur of motorways, lay-bys, and dodgy sandwiches, they reached Paris by nightfall.Highlight emotional distance too.
Physical journeys mirror internal ones. Crossing a field might take seconds, but crossing grief can take years.
🧠 A Personal Anecdote: My Teleporting Protagonist
In one of my early drafts, my hero was in Norway on one page and Cornwall two paragraphs later—no boat, no plane, no explanation. My editor’s note was priceless: “Is he part-time wizard, or did you cut a chapter?”
Lesson learned: readers will forgive almost anything—except losing their sense of where your characters are.
⚖️ Balancing Time and Distance for Pacing
Think of time and distance as your narrative zoom lens:Zoom in (slow down time) when you want emotional intensity.Zoom out (speed up time, skip distance) when moving between major plot points. If your novel feels sluggish, you’re probably lingering too long in one moment. If it feels confusing, you’ve probably leapt too far without warning.
✨ Techniques for Smooth TransitionsScene breaks and white space signal time shifts clearly.Chapter openings can anchor readers with small details: “By autumn, the city had changed.”Use sensory cues: changes in weather, lighting, or mood mark the passage of time beautifully.Emotional continuity bridges distance—if your character is angry in one scene and calm in the next, give a hint of what happened between.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Managing time and distance in your narrative isn’t about mathematical precision—it’s about rhythm and flow.
Readers don’t need to know every mile travelled or every minute ticked. They just need to feel that time is passing and space is being crossed in a believable way.
Get that right, and your story will move like a river—steady, natural, and always carrying readers forward.
Your turn: Have you ever caught a character teleporting in your own drafts—or worse, standing still for ten pages? Share your funniest pacing mishap in the comments! I answer all comments personally. James
Have you ever read a novel where a character leaves the house, and in the next paragraph they’re mysteriously halfway across Europe—with no clue how they got there? Or one where three pages cover a single cup of tea, and then six months flash by in a line break?
That’s what happens when time and distance in a narrative get muddled. Readers lose their sense of where and when they are—and once that happens, immersion starts to crack.
Let’s dig into how to manage time and space on the page so your story flows naturally, whether it’s an intimate moment between lovers or a trek across galaxies.
⏳ What Do We Mean by “Time and Distance” in Fiction?
In narrative terms, time is the pace and progression of your story—the heartbeat of your scenes. Distance is how far your characters travel (physically or emotionally) between one event and the next.
Every story plays with both. Sometimes we stretch them out (slowing time for dramatic effect), and sometimes we collapse them (skipping the boring bits between key moments). The art lies in knowing when to do which.
🎯 Why Managing Time and Distance Matters
Readers crave continuity. They want to feel like they’re walking beside your characters, not teleporting between chapters.
Get time and distance wrong and you risk:Confusing your reader’s sense of chronology (“Wait—didn’t it just rain five minutes ago?”)Flattening tension by skipping crucial beatsBogging down pacing with irrelevant travel or filler scenes Handled well, though, it creates rhythm, tension, and believability.
🕰 Controlling Time in Narrative
Here are three common ways fiction writers handle time—plus when to use each.
1. Real-Time NarrationEvents unfold moment by moment. Perfect for high-tension scenes.
Example:
He watched the clock tick from 10:58 to 10:59. One more minute, and the bomb would go off.
This style magnifies urgency but can drag if overused.
2. Compressed TimeYou skip ahead—minutes, hours, or years—without losing the thread.
Example:
By the next morning, she’d made up her mind.
It’s efficient and keeps the story brisk, but make sure transitions are clear.
3. Expanded TimeYou slow things down to linger on emotion or detail.
Example:
As the door creaked open, she saw the shape of his hand—older now, steadier—and every memory came rushing back.
Used wisely, it deepens impact. Used too often, it feels indulgent.
🗺 Handling Distance: Getting Characters from A to B
No one wants to read every single step your hero takes from London to Rome. But skipping travel entirely can make your story feel jumpy or weightless.
Here’s how to balance it:Use transitions with intent.
Two days later, the train hissed into the station at dawn.
Simple, visual, and easy to follow.Summarise repetitive travel.
You don’t need to narrate every pit stop.
After a blur of motorways, lay-bys, and dodgy sandwiches, they reached Paris by nightfall.Highlight emotional distance too.
Physical journeys mirror internal ones. Crossing a field might take seconds, but crossing grief can take years.
🧠 A Personal Anecdote: My Teleporting Protagonist
In one of my early drafts, my hero was in Norway on one page and Cornwall two paragraphs later—no boat, no plane, no explanation. My editor’s note was priceless: “Is he part-time wizard, or did you cut a chapter?”
Lesson learned: readers will forgive almost anything—except losing their sense of where your characters are.
⚖️ Balancing Time and Distance for Pacing
Think of time and distance as your narrative zoom lens:Zoom in (slow down time) when you want emotional intensity.Zoom out (speed up time, skip distance) when moving between major plot points. If your novel feels sluggish, you’re probably lingering too long in one moment. If it feels confusing, you’ve probably leapt too far without warning.
✨ Techniques for Smooth TransitionsScene breaks and white space signal time shifts clearly.Chapter openings can anchor readers with small details: “By autumn, the city had changed.”Use sensory cues: changes in weather, lighting, or mood mark the passage of time beautifully.Emotional continuity bridges distance—if your character is angry in one scene and calm in the next, give a hint of what happened between.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Managing time and distance in your narrative isn’t about mathematical precision—it’s about rhythm and flow.
Readers don’t need to know every mile travelled or every minute ticked. They just need to feel that time is passing and space is being crossed in a believable way.
Get that right, and your story will move like a river—steady, natural, and always carrying readers forward.
Your turn: Have you ever caught a character teleporting in your own drafts—or worse, standing still for ten pages? Share your funniest pacing mishap in the comments! I answer all comments personally. James
November 9, 2025
Writing Tics: Definition, Examples, and How to Spot Yours Before They Drive Readers Mad
Hello fellow fiction writers.
Most people see the word “tic” and immediately picture a tick—that tiny bloodsucker that latches onto your dog, gorges itself on haemoglobin, and swells to the size of a grape.
Well, it’s not a bad metaphor. Because a tic in writing behaves almost the same way. It starts small, almost invisible. Then it grows, bloats, and suddenly your story’s voice is swollen with repetitive quirks you can’t quite squash.
🩸 A Tic by Any Other Name
In writing, a tic is a frequent quirk in the narrative—a repeated word, phrase, or stylistic habit that worms its way through your manuscript.
The operative word there is frequent. We all have writing habits; a tic becomes a problem when it shows up so often it draws attention to itself. Like the parasite it’s named after, it feeds unnoticed at first. But eventually? Your readers start to itch.
🗣 “You Know?” Applies to Writing Too
We’ve all had that friend who peppers every sentence with “you know?” or “like.” After a few minutes, you can’t hear the story they’re telling—you can only hear them telling it.
The same thing happens in fiction. When a narrative relies on the same rhythms, beats, or descriptive crutches, it stops sounding like a story and starts sounding like a loop.
Common offenders include:Chuckled — not everyone in your novel needs to chuckle, grin, or smirk every third paragraph.Looked — if your characters spend half their lives looking, glancing, and staring, it’s time for an eye-rest.Suddenly — the universal sign that something isn’t actually surprising.Breathed / sighed / smiled softly — once per chapter, fine. Ten times, it’s a tic.
🧠 Why Writing Tics Happen
Tics are comfort zones. They’re the verbal equivalent of doodling spirals during a phone call—your brain’s way of filling silence. When we draft, we don’t notice them because they feel natural.
But readers do notice. Those repeated quirks chip away at immersion, turning vibrant prose into white noise.
🔍 How to Spot Your Writing TicsUse “Find” like a bloodhound.
Search your manuscript for words you suspect overusing—look, grin, suddenly, just, very. You might be horrified.Read aloud.
Your ear catches echoes your eyes gloss over. If you start predicting your own sentence endings, that’s a red flag.Get a second pair of eyes.
Beta readers and editors are excellent at spotting tics because they don’t have emotional ties to your pet phrases.Make a “Do Not Touch” list.
Write down your top five repeat offenders and keep it beside you during edits.
✂️ How to Get Rid of Writing TicsVary sentence openings. If everything begins with “He looked…” or “She sighed…,” shuffle the structure.Use synonyms sparingly. Replacing “looked” with “gazed,” “peered,” and “glimpsed” isn’t a cure—it’s camouflage.Replace action with subtext. Instead of “She smiled sadly,” show it through tone or dialogue.Trust your reader. You don’t have to emphasise every emotional beat; sometimes silence is stronger.
👣 My Own Writing Tic Confession
Early on, one of my beta readers circled forty-two instances of “just.” In one chapter. Her note: “Delete most. You’re not writing a contract.”
I did, and suddenly my prose felt tighter, more confident. The parasite was gone.
🧶 Wrapping It Up
Writing tics are like weeds in a beautiful garden: they sneak in quietly, multiply fast, and crowd out everything else. The cure isn’t perfection—it’s awareness.
So, next time you edit, go on a little safari through your manuscript. Hunt those sneaky “looked,” “chuckled,” and “just” creatures. Your prose—and your readers—will thank you.
Your turn: What’s your personal writing tic? (Mine used to be “suddenly.” Ironically, I never noticed it coming.) Share yours in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
Most people see the word “tic” and immediately picture a tick—that tiny bloodsucker that latches onto your dog, gorges itself on haemoglobin, and swells to the size of a grape.
Well, it’s not a bad metaphor. Because a tic in writing behaves almost the same way. It starts small, almost invisible. Then it grows, bloats, and suddenly your story’s voice is swollen with repetitive quirks you can’t quite squash.
🩸 A Tic by Any Other Name
In writing, a tic is a frequent quirk in the narrative—a repeated word, phrase, or stylistic habit that worms its way through your manuscript.
The operative word there is frequent. We all have writing habits; a tic becomes a problem when it shows up so often it draws attention to itself. Like the parasite it’s named after, it feeds unnoticed at first. But eventually? Your readers start to itch.
🗣 “You Know?” Applies to Writing Too
We’ve all had that friend who peppers every sentence with “you know?” or “like.” After a few minutes, you can’t hear the story they’re telling—you can only hear them telling it.
The same thing happens in fiction. When a narrative relies on the same rhythms, beats, or descriptive crutches, it stops sounding like a story and starts sounding like a loop.
Common offenders include:Chuckled — not everyone in your novel needs to chuckle, grin, or smirk every third paragraph.Looked — if your characters spend half their lives looking, glancing, and staring, it’s time for an eye-rest.Suddenly — the universal sign that something isn’t actually surprising.Breathed / sighed / smiled softly — once per chapter, fine. Ten times, it’s a tic.
🧠 Why Writing Tics Happen
Tics are comfort zones. They’re the verbal equivalent of doodling spirals during a phone call—your brain’s way of filling silence. When we draft, we don’t notice them because they feel natural.
But readers do notice. Those repeated quirks chip away at immersion, turning vibrant prose into white noise.
🔍 How to Spot Your Writing TicsUse “Find” like a bloodhound.
Search your manuscript for words you suspect overusing—look, grin, suddenly, just, very. You might be horrified.Read aloud.
Your ear catches echoes your eyes gloss over. If you start predicting your own sentence endings, that’s a red flag.Get a second pair of eyes.
Beta readers and editors are excellent at spotting tics because they don’t have emotional ties to your pet phrases.Make a “Do Not Touch” list.
Write down your top five repeat offenders and keep it beside you during edits.
✂️ How to Get Rid of Writing TicsVary sentence openings. If everything begins with “He looked…” or “She sighed…,” shuffle the structure.Use synonyms sparingly. Replacing “looked” with “gazed,” “peered,” and “glimpsed” isn’t a cure—it’s camouflage.Replace action with subtext. Instead of “She smiled sadly,” show it through tone or dialogue.Trust your reader. You don’t have to emphasise every emotional beat; sometimes silence is stronger.
👣 My Own Writing Tic Confession
Early on, one of my beta readers circled forty-two instances of “just.” In one chapter. Her note: “Delete most. You’re not writing a contract.”
I did, and suddenly my prose felt tighter, more confident. The parasite was gone.
🧶 Wrapping It Up
Writing tics are like weeds in a beautiful garden: they sneak in quietly, multiply fast, and crowd out everything else. The cure isn’t perfection—it’s awareness.
So, next time you edit, go on a little safari through your manuscript. Hunt those sneaky “looked,” “chuckled,” and “just” creatures. Your prose—and your readers—will thank you.
Your turn: What’s your personal writing tic? (Mine used to be “suddenly.” Ironically, I never noticed it coming.) Share yours in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
November 2, 2025
Threads in a Story: How to Tie Up Plot Elements Effectively
Hello, fellow fiction writers.
If you’ve ever read a novel that left you muttering, “Wait—what happened to the dog?” then you already understand why tying up your story threads matters.
Every subplot, every clue, every promise you make to the reader is a thread, and by the time your story ends, those threads need to come together into something satisfying—ideally not a tangled mess.
🎯 What Do We Mean by “Threads” in a Story?
Story threads are the different strands of narrative that weave your plot together. Some are big and obvious—like the main character’s goal or the central mystery. Others are smaller but just as important: a side character’s arc, a secret hinted at, or a symbol introduced early on.
If you bring it up, the reader assumes it’s there for a reason. Leaving it hanging feels like you’ve forgotten to pay off a promise.
🧶 The Problem with Loose Threads
When writers don’t resolve all their plot elements, readers notice. Even if they can’t name the problem, they feel it: a vague sense of something unfinished.
Here’s the truth: loose threads weaken trust. A reader invests emotionally in your story—so if you leave questions unanswered or arcs incomplete, it feels like you’ve broken your end of the bargain.
🪡 Examples of Story Threads (and How to Tie Them)
1. The Main Plot Thread
This one’s the heart of your story—the “will they, won’t they,” “can they escape,” or “will they survive” question that drives your narrative.
Example:
In The Lord of the Rings, the main thread is simple: destroy the Ring. Every chapter either pushes that goal forward or challenges it, and by the end—boom—it’s resolved.
How to tie it:
End with the question answered and the emotional fallout addressed. Readers don’t just want to see the task completed; they want to see how it changes your characters.
2. Subplot Threads
These add texture and depth. Maybe your detective has a broken marriage, or your space captain is secretly afraid of the dark. These side threads reveal character and theme—but they still need closure.
Example:
In Pride and Prejudice, the romance between Lydia and Wickham isn’t the main story, but it ties off the theme of reckless love versus sensible love. It’s resolved before the main ending, keeping the focus tidy.
How to tie it:
Make sure your subplots reflect or contrast the main plot’s outcome. If your hero learns courage, maybe their friend learns wisdom. They should echo, not distract.
3. Mystery or Foreshadowing Threads
Ah, the Chekhov’s gun rule—if you show a gun in Act One, it better go off by Act Three.
Example:
If you mention an old letter hidden in a drawer, readers expect it to matter later. Don’t forget about it!
How to tie it:
Pay off foreshadowed elements in ways that feel earned, not forced. The letter might save the day—or reveal something devastating—but it must serve a purpose.
4. Thematic Threads
Themes are like invisible glue—less about events, more about ideas. But even these need to reach resolution.
Example:
In To Kill a Mockingbird, the theme of moral courage and justice is wrapped up beautifully in Scout’s final reflection about empathy—seeing through someone else’s eyes.
How to tie it:
Let your characters’ final choices reinforce your theme. Readers shouldn’t have to be told the message—it should resonate through the ending.
👣 Personal Anecdote: The Case of the Vanishing Butler
In my early writing days, I once created a butler character who knew “too much.” He popped up mysteriously in Chapter Three, hinted ominously at secrets… and then vanished.
When my critique partner finished reading, she said, “So—what happened to the butler?” I had no idea. I’d literally forgotten he existed.
Lesson learned: if you introduce a thread, track it. Readers will remember what you forget.
🧵 How to Keep Track of Your ThreadsMake a thread list.
Jot down every subplot, promise, or question you raise.Mark their resolutions.
Write where and how each one is tied off. If it’s not, you’ve found a loose end.Weave them together.
Don’t resolve everything in one scene. Let threads converge organically throughout the climax and denouement.Use callbacks.
Referencing an early scene or symbol in your ending gives readers that satisfying “full circle” feeling.Trim unnecessary threads.
If a subplot doesn’t support the main story, cut it. Not every idea deserves a payoff.
🧩 The Difference Between “Tied Up” and “Too Neat”
A word of caution: tying up threads doesn’t mean every single thing needs a perfect bow. Real life—and good fiction—leaves some ambiguity.
Readers want closure, not tidiness. The trick is to answer the emotional questions, even if the practical ones linger.
Example:
At the end of Inception, we don’t know if the top falls—but we do know Cobb’s made peace with his guilt. That’s the emotional thread tied.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Stories are like tapestries—beautiful when woven, a mess when unfinished. Every thread you introduce carries a promise to your reader: This matters.
Keep track of those threads. Resolve them meaningfully. And when in doubt, remember: a good ending doesn’t just tie up loose ends—it ties the reader’s heart to the story long after they’ve turned the last page.
Your turn: Have you ever caught yourself forgetting a story thread—or read a book where one was left dangling? Share your “loose end” stories in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
If you’ve ever read a novel that left you muttering, “Wait—what happened to the dog?” then you already understand why tying up your story threads matters.
Every subplot, every clue, every promise you make to the reader is a thread, and by the time your story ends, those threads need to come together into something satisfying—ideally not a tangled mess.
🎯 What Do We Mean by “Threads” in a Story?
Story threads are the different strands of narrative that weave your plot together. Some are big and obvious—like the main character’s goal or the central mystery. Others are smaller but just as important: a side character’s arc, a secret hinted at, or a symbol introduced early on.
If you bring it up, the reader assumes it’s there for a reason. Leaving it hanging feels like you’ve forgotten to pay off a promise.
🧶 The Problem with Loose Threads
When writers don’t resolve all their plot elements, readers notice. Even if they can’t name the problem, they feel it: a vague sense of something unfinished.
Here’s the truth: loose threads weaken trust. A reader invests emotionally in your story—so if you leave questions unanswered or arcs incomplete, it feels like you’ve broken your end of the bargain.
🪡 Examples of Story Threads (and How to Tie Them)
1. The Main Plot Thread
This one’s the heart of your story—the “will they, won’t they,” “can they escape,” or “will they survive” question that drives your narrative.
Example:
In The Lord of the Rings, the main thread is simple: destroy the Ring. Every chapter either pushes that goal forward or challenges it, and by the end—boom—it’s resolved.
How to tie it:
End with the question answered and the emotional fallout addressed. Readers don’t just want to see the task completed; they want to see how it changes your characters.
2. Subplot Threads
These add texture and depth. Maybe your detective has a broken marriage, or your space captain is secretly afraid of the dark. These side threads reveal character and theme—but they still need closure.
Example:
In Pride and Prejudice, the romance between Lydia and Wickham isn’t the main story, but it ties off the theme of reckless love versus sensible love. It’s resolved before the main ending, keeping the focus tidy.
How to tie it:
Make sure your subplots reflect or contrast the main plot’s outcome. If your hero learns courage, maybe their friend learns wisdom. They should echo, not distract.
3. Mystery or Foreshadowing Threads
Ah, the Chekhov’s gun rule—if you show a gun in Act One, it better go off by Act Three.
Example:
If you mention an old letter hidden in a drawer, readers expect it to matter later. Don’t forget about it!
How to tie it:
Pay off foreshadowed elements in ways that feel earned, not forced. The letter might save the day—or reveal something devastating—but it must serve a purpose.
4. Thematic Threads
Themes are like invisible glue—less about events, more about ideas. But even these need to reach resolution.
Example:
In To Kill a Mockingbird, the theme of moral courage and justice is wrapped up beautifully in Scout’s final reflection about empathy—seeing through someone else’s eyes.
How to tie it:
Let your characters’ final choices reinforce your theme. Readers shouldn’t have to be told the message—it should resonate through the ending.
👣 Personal Anecdote: The Case of the Vanishing Butler
In my early writing days, I once created a butler character who knew “too much.” He popped up mysteriously in Chapter Three, hinted ominously at secrets… and then vanished.
When my critique partner finished reading, she said, “So—what happened to the butler?” I had no idea. I’d literally forgotten he existed.
Lesson learned: if you introduce a thread, track it. Readers will remember what you forget.
🧵 How to Keep Track of Your ThreadsMake a thread list.
Jot down every subplot, promise, or question you raise.Mark their resolutions.
Write where and how each one is tied off. If it’s not, you’ve found a loose end.Weave them together.
Don’t resolve everything in one scene. Let threads converge organically throughout the climax and denouement.Use callbacks.
Referencing an early scene or symbol in your ending gives readers that satisfying “full circle” feeling.Trim unnecessary threads.
If a subplot doesn’t support the main story, cut it. Not every idea deserves a payoff.
🧩 The Difference Between “Tied Up” and “Too Neat”
A word of caution: tying up threads doesn’t mean every single thing needs a perfect bow. Real life—and good fiction—leaves some ambiguity.
Readers want closure, not tidiness. The trick is to answer the emotional questions, even if the practical ones linger.
Example:
At the end of Inception, we don’t know if the top falls—but we do know Cobb’s made peace with his guilt. That’s the emotional thread tied.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Stories are like tapestries—beautiful when woven, a mess when unfinished. Every thread you introduce carries a promise to your reader: This matters.
Keep track of those threads. Resolve them meaningfully. And when in doubt, remember: a good ending doesn’t just tie up loose ends—it ties the reader’s heart to the story long after they’ve turned the last page.
Your turn: Have you ever caught yourself forgetting a story thread—or read a book where one was left dangling? Share your “loose end” stories in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
October 29, 2025
🎃 Halloween Treat — Dead Easy is Free for 3 Days!
I’ve created a short teaser for Dead Easy: Edgar Allan Poe Retold — Poe’s most haunting tales, reimagined in clear, modern English.
“Dead Easy — But the nightmares stay with you.”
🔥 Day One of 3 — Free on Amazon for Halloween!
🕯️ Grab your copy of Dead Easy: Edgar Allan Poe Retold — free 29–31 October.
Get it on Amazon here.
October 26, 2025
The Reveal in Storytelling: How and When to Unveil the Truth
Hello, fellow fiction authors.
Few things thrill readers more than the reveal—that delicious moment when a hidden truth comes to light, flipping everything they thought they knew upside down. Done right, it can make your story unforgettable. Done poorly, it can feel like a cheap trick or a shrug.
Whether it’s a killer unmasked, a secret identity exposed, or an emotional truth finally confessed, the reveal is storytelling gold. Let’s look at how to handle it with style.
🎯 What Exactly Is “The Reveal”?
In fiction, the reveal is when you deliver information the reader (and often your characters) has been waiting for. It’s not just about surprise—it’s about satisfaction.
Think of it as your story’s “aha!” moment. It connects the dots between setup and payoff, turning mystery into meaning.
In short:
👉 The setup builds curiosity.
👉 The reveal delivers emotional reward.
✨ Why the Reveal Matters
Readers love to feel clever. They want to sense that you’ve been planting clues all along and that the ending fits perfectly. A good reveal makes readers go:
“Of course! I should have seen that coming.”
A bad reveal, on the other hand, makes them go:
“Wait, what? Where did that come from?”
The trick is to surprise your readers without betraying their trust.
🔍 Examples of Great Reveals
1. The Classic Mystery Reveal
Example: Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express
Christie’s masterstroke wasn’t just the killer’s identity—it was the twist that everyone on the train was guilty. Perfectly foreshadowed, utterly shocking, and completely fair.
2. The Emotional Reveal
Example: J.K. Rowling’s Snape’s true loyalty in Harry Potter.
Readers learned that years of cruelty masked deep love and sacrifice. That’s the power of an emotional reveal—it reshapes our understanding of a character.
3. The Personal Reveal
Example: Elizabeth’s realisation in Pride and Prejudice.
When she sees Darcy in a new light, we’re right there with her, recognising our own blind spots.
Not all reveals need to be jaw-dropping; some just gently turn the story’s emotional compass.
🧠 My Own “Oops” Moment with a Reveal
In one of my early drafts (a mystery set in a creepy old mansion, naturally), I hid the murderer so well that… no one figured it out. Including my beta readers.
They didn’t gasp at the reveal—they frowned. Why? Because I hadn’t laid any groundwork. I’d kept the secret too secret.
Lesson learned: a reveal without foreshadowing feels random. It’s not enough to shock—you have to earn it.
🪄 How to Craft a Great RevealPlant Clues Early.
Scatter breadcrumbs the reader can look back on. They should almost guess it, but not quite.Raise Questions.
Keep readers curious. Every unanswered question is a tiny thread pulling them forward.Build Emotional Stakes.
The reveal should matter to the characters, not just the plot. What does it cost them? What does it change?Control Timing.
Drop the reveal when tension is at its peak—right when readers are desperate for answers.Follow Up with Consequences.
The story doesn’t end at the reveal; it turns. Characters must react, reassess, and move toward resolution.
💡 The Difference Between Surprise and Reveal
Writers often mix these up.Surprise is a shock.Reveal is an explanation. Both are useful, but a reveal carries emotional weight because it makes sense of everything that came before. A twist for twist’s sake might make readers jump—but a reveal makes them feel.
🪶 A Few Quick “Reveal” TricksEnd chapters with small reveals to maintain tension.Let secondary characters discover something first.Hint through dialogue or sensory detail (a smell, a memory, a glance).Use irony—let readers know something the protagonist doesn’t, then watch the tension build.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
The reveal isn’t just a plot device—it’s your story’s emotional payoff. Whether you’re writing a thriller, romance, or sci-fi epic, readers stick around because they’re chasing answers.
When that truth finally drops—and it clicks—you’ve given them the best gift a writer can offer: satisfaction.
So go ahead—hide your secrets, plant your clues, and let your readers chase the truth until they reach that perfect, unforgettable reveal.
Your turn: What’s your favourite story reveal—big or small? Share it in the comments (spoiler warnings welcome!). I answer all comments personally. James
Few things thrill readers more than the reveal—that delicious moment when a hidden truth comes to light, flipping everything they thought they knew upside down. Done right, it can make your story unforgettable. Done poorly, it can feel like a cheap trick or a shrug.
Whether it’s a killer unmasked, a secret identity exposed, or an emotional truth finally confessed, the reveal is storytelling gold. Let’s look at how to handle it with style.
🎯 What Exactly Is “The Reveal”?
In fiction, the reveal is when you deliver information the reader (and often your characters) has been waiting for. It’s not just about surprise—it’s about satisfaction.
Think of it as your story’s “aha!” moment. It connects the dots between setup and payoff, turning mystery into meaning.
In short:
👉 The setup builds curiosity.
👉 The reveal delivers emotional reward.
✨ Why the Reveal Matters
Readers love to feel clever. They want to sense that you’ve been planting clues all along and that the ending fits perfectly. A good reveal makes readers go:
“Of course! I should have seen that coming.”
A bad reveal, on the other hand, makes them go:
“Wait, what? Where did that come from?”
The trick is to surprise your readers without betraying their trust.
🔍 Examples of Great Reveals
1. The Classic Mystery Reveal
Example: Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express
Christie’s masterstroke wasn’t just the killer’s identity—it was the twist that everyone on the train was guilty. Perfectly foreshadowed, utterly shocking, and completely fair.
2. The Emotional Reveal
Example: J.K. Rowling’s Snape’s true loyalty in Harry Potter.
Readers learned that years of cruelty masked deep love and sacrifice. That’s the power of an emotional reveal—it reshapes our understanding of a character.
3. The Personal Reveal
Example: Elizabeth’s realisation in Pride and Prejudice.
When she sees Darcy in a new light, we’re right there with her, recognising our own blind spots.
Not all reveals need to be jaw-dropping; some just gently turn the story’s emotional compass.
🧠 My Own “Oops” Moment with a Reveal
In one of my early drafts (a mystery set in a creepy old mansion, naturally), I hid the murderer so well that… no one figured it out. Including my beta readers.
They didn’t gasp at the reveal—they frowned. Why? Because I hadn’t laid any groundwork. I’d kept the secret too secret.
Lesson learned: a reveal without foreshadowing feels random. It’s not enough to shock—you have to earn it.
🪄 How to Craft a Great RevealPlant Clues Early.
Scatter breadcrumbs the reader can look back on. They should almost guess it, but not quite.Raise Questions.
Keep readers curious. Every unanswered question is a tiny thread pulling them forward.Build Emotional Stakes.
The reveal should matter to the characters, not just the plot. What does it cost them? What does it change?Control Timing.
Drop the reveal when tension is at its peak—right when readers are desperate for answers.Follow Up with Consequences.
The story doesn’t end at the reveal; it turns. Characters must react, reassess, and move toward resolution.
💡 The Difference Between Surprise and Reveal
Writers often mix these up.Surprise is a shock.Reveal is an explanation. Both are useful, but a reveal carries emotional weight because it makes sense of everything that came before. A twist for twist’s sake might make readers jump—but a reveal makes them feel.
🪶 A Few Quick “Reveal” TricksEnd chapters with small reveals to maintain tension.Let secondary characters discover something first.Hint through dialogue or sensory detail (a smell, a memory, a glance).Use irony—let readers know something the protagonist doesn’t, then watch the tension build.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
The reveal isn’t just a plot device—it’s your story’s emotional payoff. Whether you’re writing a thriller, romance, or sci-fi epic, readers stick around because they’re chasing answers.
When that truth finally drops—and it clicks—you’ve given them the best gift a writer can offer: satisfaction.
So go ahead—hide your secrets, plant your clues, and let your readers chase the truth until they reach that perfect, unforgettable reveal.
Your turn: What’s your favourite story reveal—big or small? Share it in the comments (spoiler warnings welcome!). I answer all comments personally. James
October 19, 2025
The Chase in Storytelling: How to Keep Readers Glued to the Page
Hello, fellow fiction writers.
Every writer wants the same magical reaction from readers: “I couldn’t put it down.”
That’s the dream, right? But what actually makes a story so gripping that readers ignore texts, skip lunch, and stay up until 2 a.m.? It’s not just plot twists or pretty prose. It’s the chase—that constant sense of movement, pressure, and urgency that keeps your characters (and your readers) on edge.
Whether you’re writing romance, horror, sci-fi, or literary fiction, every story needs a chase. It’s not always a literal footrace—it’s the pursuit of something that matters so deeply to your protagonist that we must see how it ends.
🎯 What We Really Mean by “The Chase”
Let’s be clear: “the chase” doesn’t have to involve speeding cars, laser fights, or people sprinting through dark alleys (though those are fun). It’s the engine of tension that drives your story forward—the emotional momentum that makes readers say, “Just one more chapter…”
In craft terms, it’s what thriller writers call suspense, romance writers call emotional tension, and literary writers might call narrative drive.
But whatever you call it, it’s the same heartbeat that keeps readers hooked.
🧠 The Psychology Behind It
Humans are wired to crave resolution. When we see someone struggling toward a goal—escaping danger, winning love, uncovering a secret—we feel that pull too. It’s called the Zeigarnik effect: the brain hates unfinished business.
Your story’s chase plays right into that. The moment your reader feels anxiety, curiosity, or anticipation, they’re locked in. They need to know what happens next.
🚀 Examples of “The Chase” in Different GenresThriller: The obvious one. The hero’s racing to stop a bomb before it explodes. Classic chase.
Example: Jason Bourne trying to uncover his past before his enemies find him.Romance: The chase might be emotional—the push and pull between two people who should be together but can’t admit it yet.
Example: Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. The tension isn’t physical—it’s pride, misunderstanding, and longing.Fantasy: The chase could be for a quest goal or survival.
Example: Frodo carrying the Ring to Mordor, constantly hunted.Mystery: The chase is intellectual—the detective racing against time to piece clues together before the killer strikes again.Literary fiction: The chase might be internal—a search for meaning, redemption, or self-forgiveness.
Example: In The Kite Runner, Amir’s lifelong pursuit of redemption drives every scene.
🪶 A Personal Example (and Lesson Learned)
In one of my earlier novels, I had a great premise… or so I thought. A haunted mansion, eerie sounds, lost souls—the works. But halfway through, my beta readers said: “It’s spooky, but I don’t feel any urgency.”
Ouch.
The problem? My protagonist had no clear pursuit. She was reacting to events, not chasing anything. Once I gave her a goal—to uncover the secret of the mansion before it consumed her—the whole story tightened up. Suddenly, readers were racing through the chapters.
🔧 How to Build a Strong Chase in Any StoryGive your protagonist a clear goal.
Readers need to know what your main character wants—and what stands in the way.Raise the stakes.
Make failure costly. Emotional, physical, or moral stakes all work, as long as they matter deeply to the character.Add time pressure.
A ticking clock is one of the best tools for tension. (“She has 24 hours to find the antidote.”)Keep complications coming.
Just when things seem to go right—bam! Something new goes wrong.Control the pacing.
Alternate fast scenes with breathers. Even a quiet moment should hum with unanswered questions.End scenes on a question or beat of uncertainty.
That’s your secret weapon for “page-turner” energy.
✨ A Better Word Than “Chase”?
If “the chase” doesn’t fit your genre or style, think of it as “the pursuit,” “the tension thread,” or simply “narrative momentum.”
Whatever term you choose, the goal’s the same: to keep your readers emotionally invested from page one to “The End.”
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Every story—no matter how quiet or explosive—needs its version of the chase. It’s what turns pages, keeps readers anxious, and makes your characters unforgettable.
So ask yourself: What’s my protagonist chasing? If you can answer that clearly, you’ve already built the backbone of a story no one will want to put down.
Your turn: What’s your favourite example of a “chase” in fiction—literal or emotional? Share it in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
Every writer wants the same magical reaction from readers: “I couldn’t put it down.”
That’s the dream, right? But what actually makes a story so gripping that readers ignore texts, skip lunch, and stay up until 2 a.m.? It’s not just plot twists or pretty prose. It’s the chase—that constant sense of movement, pressure, and urgency that keeps your characters (and your readers) on edge.
Whether you’re writing romance, horror, sci-fi, or literary fiction, every story needs a chase. It’s not always a literal footrace—it’s the pursuit of something that matters so deeply to your protagonist that we must see how it ends.
🎯 What We Really Mean by “The Chase”
Let’s be clear: “the chase” doesn’t have to involve speeding cars, laser fights, or people sprinting through dark alleys (though those are fun). It’s the engine of tension that drives your story forward—the emotional momentum that makes readers say, “Just one more chapter…”
In craft terms, it’s what thriller writers call suspense, romance writers call emotional tension, and literary writers might call narrative drive.
But whatever you call it, it’s the same heartbeat that keeps readers hooked.
🧠 The Psychology Behind It
Humans are wired to crave resolution. When we see someone struggling toward a goal—escaping danger, winning love, uncovering a secret—we feel that pull too. It’s called the Zeigarnik effect: the brain hates unfinished business.
Your story’s chase plays right into that. The moment your reader feels anxiety, curiosity, or anticipation, they’re locked in. They need to know what happens next.
🚀 Examples of “The Chase” in Different GenresThriller: The obvious one. The hero’s racing to stop a bomb before it explodes. Classic chase.
Example: Jason Bourne trying to uncover his past before his enemies find him.Romance: The chase might be emotional—the push and pull between two people who should be together but can’t admit it yet.
Example: Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. The tension isn’t physical—it’s pride, misunderstanding, and longing.Fantasy: The chase could be for a quest goal or survival.
Example: Frodo carrying the Ring to Mordor, constantly hunted.Mystery: The chase is intellectual—the detective racing against time to piece clues together before the killer strikes again.Literary fiction: The chase might be internal—a search for meaning, redemption, or self-forgiveness.
Example: In The Kite Runner, Amir’s lifelong pursuit of redemption drives every scene.
🪶 A Personal Example (and Lesson Learned)
In one of my earlier novels, I had a great premise… or so I thought. A haunted mansion, eerie sounds, lost souls—the works. But halfway through, my beta readers said: “It’s spooky, but I don’t feel any urgency.”
Ouch.
The problem? My protagonist had no clear pursuit. She was reacting to events, not chasing anything. Once I gave her a goal—to uncover the secret of the mansion before it consumed her—the whole story tightened up. Suddenly, readers were racing through the chapters.
🔧 How to Build a Strong Chase in Any StoryGive your protagonist a clear goal.
Readers need to know what your main character wants—and what stands in the way.Raise the stakes.
Make failure costly. Emotional, physical, or moral stakes all work, as long as they matter deeply to the character.Add time pressure.
A ticking clock is one of the best tools for tension. (“She has 24 hours to find the antidote.”)Keep complications coming.
Just when things seem to go right—bam! Something new goes wrong.Control the pacing.
Alternate fast scenes with breathers. Even a quiet moment should hum with unanswered questions.End scenes on a question or beat of uncertainty.
That’s your secret weapon for “page-turner” energy.
✨ A Better Word Than “Chase”?
If “the chase” doesn’t fit your genre or style, think of it as “the pursuit,” “the tension thread,” or simply “narrative momentum.”
Whatever term you choose, the goal’s the same: to keep your readers emotionally invested from page one to “The End.”
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Every story—no matter how quiet or explosive—needs its version of the chase. It’s what turns pages, keeps readers anxious, and makes your characters unforgettable.
So ask yourself: What’s my protagonist chasing? If you can answer that clearly, you’ve already built the backbone of a story no one will want to put down.
Your turn: What’s your favourite example of a “chase” in fiction—literal or emotional? Share it in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
October 12, 2025
“That” in Writing: When to Use It, When to Lose It, and How to Get It Right
Hello, fellow fiction writer.
If you’ve ever sat staring at a sentence and thought, “Do I need that ‘that’ or not?” — congratulations, you’re officially a writer.
“That” is one of those words we can’t live without—but also one we overuse like salt in bad soup. Sometimes it’s invisible, sometimes it’s clunky, and sometimes it’s just plain wrong. Let’s look at how to spot when that earns its keep and when it’s just loitering around your sentences.
🎯 Why “That” Trips Writers Up
Because “that” is everywhere. It’s one of English’s most flexible little words—it can be a pronoun, a conjunction, a determiner, or a relative pronoun.
In fiction, though, the problem isn’t understanding its grammatical category—it’s knowing when to cut it, keep it, or replace it for smoother flow.
✏️ The Three Big Problems: Underuse, Overuse, and MisuseLet’s break it down.
1. Overuse — When “That” Is Just Taking Up Space
We often drop “that” into sentences out of habit, even when it’s not needed. Too many of them make your writing feel heavy.
Example (overused):
She said that she thought that the storm would hit soon.
Cleaner version:
She said she thought the storm would hit soon.
See? Nothing lost, everything gained.
👉 Quick tip: If your sentence still makes sense without “that,” cut it.
2. Underuse — When “That” Actually Belongs There
Sometimes writers, in their zeal to cut words, chop out a “that” the reader needs for clarity.
Example (underused):
He told me the car he bought was stolen.
Wait… whose car? His or mine?
Fix:
He told me that the car he bought was stolen.
Now it’s clear—he’s the one with the hot wheels.
👉 Quick tip: If removing “that” causes confusion or makes readers backtrack, keep it.
3. Misuse — When “That” Stands Where “Who” Should Be
This one’s common in fiction. We use “that” when referring to people instead of “who.”
Example (misused):
She’s the woman that lives next door.
Better:
She’s the woman who lives next door.
👉 Quick tip: Use “who” for people, “that” for things, and “which” for non-restrictive clauses. (We’ll unpack that in another post!)
👣 A Personal Oops Moment
In one of my earlier drafts, my editor circled a paragraph and wrote: “Count how many ‘thats’ are in this section.”
I counted.
There were fourteen.
In three paragraphs.
I’d been writing like “that” was going out of fashion. Once I trimmed them, the scene felt leaner, sharper, and way more readable.
🧠 When “That” Adds Flow (and You Should Keep It)
Sometimes cutting “that” makes your sentence sound choppy or weirdly abrupt. Here are a few cases where it actually helps the rhythm:
✅ Keep “that” when:It smooths the sentence:
He assured her that everything was fine.
(Without “that,” it sounds clipped: He assured her everything was fine.)It prevents ambiguity:
She realised that lying had consequences.It adds natural cadence to dialogue or narration.
Fiction is about voice, after all—sometimes we think in “thats.”
🛠 Tips for Fiction WritersDo a “that” search in your manuscript. You’ll be surprised how many are hanging around.Read aloud. If a sentence feels smoother without it, delete it.Don’t overcorrect. Some “thats” are essential for clarity and natural rhythm.Let voice guide you. If your character would say it in conversation, keep it.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
“That” is neither your enemy nor your saviour—it’s just a word that needs supervision.
Use it when it clarifies. Cut it when it clutters. And remember: the goal isn’t perfection; it’s flow.
In the end, your reader won’t notice your brilliant use of “that.” But they will notice if your writing feels heavy or confusing because of it.
Your turn: Are you a chronic “that”-user or a ruthless cutter? Try running a “that” search in your latest chapter—you might be shocked at how often it sneaks in! Share your results in the comments.
If you’ve ever sat staring at a sentence and thought, “Do I need that ‘that’ or not?” — congratulations, you’re officially a writer.
“That” is one of those words we can’t live without—but also one we overuse like salt in bad soup. Sometimes it’s invisible, sometimes it’s clunky, and sometimes it’s just plain wrong. Let’s look at how to spot when that earns its keep and when it’s just loitering around your sentences.
🎯 Why “That” Trips Writers Up
Because “that” is everywhere. It’s one of English’s most flexible little words—it can be a pronoun, a conjunction, a determiner, or a relative pronoun.
In fiction, though, the problem isn’t understanding its grammatical category—it’s knowing when to cut it, keep it, or replace it for smoother flow.
✏️ The Three Big Problems: Underuse, Overuse, and MisuseLet’s break it down.
1. Overuse — When “That” Is Just Taking Up Space
We often drop “that” into sentences out of habit, even when it’s not needed. Too many of them make your writing feel heavy.
Example (overused):
She said that she thought that the storm would hit soon.
Cleaner version:
She said she thought the storm would hit soon.
See? Nothing lost, everything gained.
👉 Quick tip: If your sentence still makes sense without “that,” cut it.
2. Underuse — When “That” Actually Belongs There
Sometimes writers, in their zeal to cut words, chop out a “that” the reader needs for clarity.
Example (underused):
He told me the car he bought was stolen.
Wait… whose car? His or mine?
Fix:
He told me that the car he bought was stolen.
Now it’s clear—he’s the one with the hot wheels.
👉 Quick tip: If removing “that” causes confusion or makes readers backtrack, keep it.
3. Misuse — When “That” Stands Where “Who” Should Be
This one’s common in fiction. We use “that” when referring to people instead of “who.”
Example (misused):
She’s the woman that lives next door.
Better:
She’s the woman who lives next door.
👉 Quick tip: Use “who” for people, “that” for things, and “which” for non-restrictive clauses. (We’ll unpack that in another post!)
👣 A Personal Oops Moment
In one of my earlier drafts, my editor circled a paragraph and wrote: “Count how many ‘thats’ are in this section.”
I counted.
There were fourteen.
In three paragraphs.
I’d been writing like “that” was going out of fashion. Once I trimmed them, the scene felt leaner, sharper, and way more readable.
🧠 When “That” Adds Flow (and You Should Keep It)
Sometimes cutting “that” makes your sentence sound choppy or weirdly abrupt. Here are a few cases where it actually helps the rhythm:
✅ Keep “that” when:It smooths the sentence:
He assured her that everything was fine.
(Without “that,” it sounds clipped: He assured her everything was fine.)It prevents ambiguity:
She realised that lying had consequences.It adds natural cadence to dialogue or narration.
Fiction is about voice, after all—sometimes we think in “thats.”
🛠 Tips for Fiction WritersDo a “that” search in your manuscript. You’ll be surprised how many are hanging around.Read aloud. If a sentence feels smoother without it, delete it.Don’t overcorrect. Some “thats” are essential for clarity and natural rhythm.Let voice guide you. If your character would say it in conversation, keep it.
🎬 Wrapping It Up
“That” is neither your enemy nor your saviour—it’s just a word that needs supervision.
Use it when it clarifies. Cut it when it clutters. And remember: the goal isn’t perfection; it’s flow.
In the end, your reader won’t notice your brilliant use of “that.” But they will notice if your writing feels heavy or confusing because of it.
Your turn: Are you a chronic “that”-user or a ruthless cutter? Try running a “that” search in your latest chapter—you might be shocked at how often it sneaks in! Share your results in the comments.
October 5, 2025
Tautology in Writing: What It Is and How to Avoid It in Your Fiction
Hello again fellow fiction writers.
Writers love words. Sometimes we love them too much. We pile them on, thinking we’re being clear, only to end up saying the same thing twice in slightly different ways. That’s called tautology, and it can weigh your prose down like bricks in a backpack.
The good news? Once you know how to spot tautology, it’s easy to trim it out and let your sentences breathe.
🎯 What Is Tautology?
A tautology is when you use two or more words that mean the same thing, creating needless repetition. It doesn’t add clarity—it just bloats your sentence.
Think of it as a verbal echo. Your brain already heard it once; it doesn’t need the encore.
✏️ Common Examples of Tautology
Here are some everyday examples you’ve probably seen (or written):Free gift (aren’t all gifts free?)Advance planning (as opposed to planning in the past?)Final outcome (just say “outcome”)Added bonus (bonus already means something extra)Close proximity (proximity already implies closeness)Past history (all history is in the past)
🧠 Why Tautology Trips Writers Up
Fiction writers often slip into tautology without realising it. Why? Because when we’re drafting, we’re focused on getting the idea across, not polishing. We throw in “extra” words to feel safe, to hammer home our point. But instead of helping, those words drag the pace and make your prose feel clumsy.
👣 A Personal Oops Moment
In one of my early stories, I wrote:
“He nodded his head in agreement.”
Of course he did—what else would he nod? His elbows? My beta reader circled it and wrote, “Your characters nodding heads is getting redundant. Just say ‘he nodded.’” It was a small cut, but the whole paragraph instantly read cleaner.
✅ How to Spot and Fix Tautology
Here are some quick tips to hunt down tautology in your drafts:Look for redundancy in phrases.“She whispered softly” → “She whispered.”“He shouted loudly” → “He shouted.”Trust strong words to do their job.
If you write “sprinted,” you don’t need “quickly.”Watch out for double modifiers.“Absolutely essential” → “Essential.”“Unexpected surprise” → “Surprise.”Read aloud.
Your ear will catch what your eyes miss. If it sounds repetitive, it probably is.
📝 Examples in Fiction
Tautology (weak):
She sat down on the chair and looked at the red-coloured rose.
Tighter version:
She sat on the chair and looked at the red rose.
Tautology (weak):
He kicked the ball with his foot.
Tighter version:
He kicked the ball.
See how cutting those redundancies makes the prose sharper?
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Tautology isn’t the end of the world—it’s just one of those sneaky habits we all fall into. But trimming it out makes your writing cleaner, faster, and more professional.
So the next time you revise, hunt down those redundant echoes. Your readers will thank you, and your prose will thank you too.
Your turn: What tautology do you find sneaking into your drafts? Drop it in the comments—I promise, you’re not the only one. I answer all comments personally.
James
Writers love words. Sometimes we love them too much. We pile them on, thinking we’re being clear, only to end up saying the same thing twice in slightly different ways. That’s called tautology, and it can weigh your prose down like bricks in a backpack.
The good news? Once you know how to spot tautology, it’s easy to trim it out and let your sentences breathe.
🎯 What Is Tautology?
A tautology is when you use two or more words that mean the same thing, creating needless repetition. It doesn’t add clarity—it just bloats your sentence.
Think of it as a verbal echo. Your brain already heard it once; it doesn’t need the encore.
✏️ Common Examples of Tautology
Here are some everyday examples you’ve probably seen (or written):Free gift (aren’t all gifts free?)Advance planning (as opposed to planning in the past?)Final outcome (just say “outcome”)Added bonus (bonus already means something extra)Close proximity (proximity already implies closeness)Past history (all history is in the past)
🧠 Why Tautology Trips Writers Up
Fiction writers often slip into tautology without realising it. Why? Because when we’re drafting, we’re focused on getting the idea across, not polishing. We throw in “extra” words to feel safe, to hammer home our point. But instead of helping, those words drag the pace and make your prose feel clumsy.
👣 A Personal Oops Moment
In one of my early stories, I wrote:
“He nodded his head in agreement.”
Of course he did—what else would he nod? His elbows? My beta reader circled it and wrote, “Your characters nodding heads is getting redundant. Just say ‘he nodded.’” It was a small cut, but the whole paragraph instantly read cleaner.
✅ How to Spot and Fix Tautology
Here are some quick tips to hunt down tautology in your drafts:Look for redundancy in phrases.“She whispered softly” → “She whispered.”“He shouted loudly” → “He shouted.”Trust strong words to do their job.
If you write “sprinted,” you don’t need “quickly.”Watch out for double modifiers.“Absolutely essential” → “Essential.”“Unexpected surprise” → “Surprise.”Read aloud.
Your ear will catch what your eyes miss. If it sounds repetitive, it probably is.
📝 Examples in Fiction
Tautology (weak):
She sat down on the chair and looked at the red-coloured rose.
Tighter version:
She sat on the chair and looked at the red rose.
Tautology (weak):
He kicked the ball with his foot.
Tighter version:
He kicked the ball.
See how cutting those redundancies makes the prose sharper?
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Tautology isn’t the end of the world—it’s just one of those sneaky habits we all fall into. But trimming it out makes your writing cleaner, faster, and more professional.
So the next time you revise, hunt down those redundant echoes. Your readers will thank you, and your prose will thank you too.
Your turn: What tautology do you find sneaking into your drafts? Drop it in the comments—I promise, you’re not the only one. I answer all comments personally.
James
September 28, 2025
Starting the Story Sooner: What It Means and Why It’s So Important
Hello, fellow fiction writers.
We’ve all been there—you hand your manuscript to a beta reader, and the first thing they say is, “It takes a while to get going.” Ouch.
Here’s the hard truth: readers these days are impatient. If your story doesn’t hook them fast, they’ll put the book down and scroll TikTok instead. That’s why starting your story sooner is one of the most important things you can do as a fiction writer.
But what does that actually mean? And how do you pull it off without chopping all the good stuff? Let’s break it down.
🎯 What “Starting the Story Sooner” Really Means
It doesn’t mean rushing. It doesn’t mean skipping all the setup. It means dropping readers into the action—the conflict, the tension, the reason your character’s life is about to change—without pages of throat-clearing first.
In plain terms: start as close to the story problem as possible.
✏️ A Tale of Two Openings
Opening 1 (Telling/Too Slow):
It was a beautiful spring morning. Jane woke up, brushed her teeth, picked out her clothes, and wondered if she’d have toast or cereal for breakfast. She thought about her school years and her best friend who moved away…
Are you yawning yet? Readers will be.
Opening 2 (Starting Sooner):
Jane ducked as the first bullet smashed through the kitchen window, scattering glass across her untouched toast. She’d only been awake ten minutes, and someone already wanted her dead.
Boom. We’ve met Jane. We’ve got tension. And we want to know what happens next.
🧠 Why It’s So ImportantModern readers have less patience. With so much competition for attention, you can’t afford three chapters of backstory before things get moving.It sets expectations. Your opening scene tells readers what kind of ride they’re in for—thriller, romance, horror, fantasy. If it’s too slow, they may misjudge your book’s tone.It hooks the right audience. Starting with action and conflict draws in the readers who’ll actually love your story.
👣 Personal Anecdote: My Own False Start
In one of my early drafts (long since buried in a drawer), my first chapter was twenty pages of my protagonist walking around a small town, saying hi to neighbours, and reflecting on how bored he was. My critique partner looked at me and said: “You know the story doesn’t actually start until Chapter 3, right?”
I cut the first two chapters, started where the conflict hit, and suddenly the book came alive. Painful, yes. Worth it? Absolutely.
🚀 How to Start the Story Sooner
Here are a few practical tricks you can use in your own writing:Ask yourself: What’s the first moment of change? That’s probably where your story should begin.Cut the warm-up. Most drafts start with the author easing in. That’s fine—just trim it later.Drop backstory in later. You don’t need your character’s entire life history up front. Weave it in when it becomes relevant.Hook with conflict or curiosity. It doesn’t have to be a car chase—an overheard secret, a missed train, or a strange visitor can do the job.Start in motion. A character making choices, reacting to something, or stepping into new territory is always more engaging than one just waking up.
📝 Quick Before-and-After Example
Before (Too Slow):
Mark stared out the window, thinking about his dull job and the argument he had last week with his boss. He sighed, wondering if life would ever change.
After (Starting Sooner):
Mark’s boss fired him before lunch. By dinner, he’d stolen the company car and was halfway to Mexico.
See how much more promise the second one has?
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Starting your story sooner doesn’t mean cutting all setup—it means giving readers what they came for: conflict, tension, and change. If you hook them quickly, they’ll happily follow you anywhere, even through the slower, quieter scenes that come later.
Your turn: Have you ever chopped your first chapter (or two… or three) to get to the real story? Share your war stories in the comments—I promise, you’re not alone. I answer each comment personally.
We’ve all been there—you hand your manuscript to a beta reader, and the first thing they say is, “It takes a while to get going.” Ouch.
Here’s the hard truth: readers these days are impatient. If your story doesn’t hook them fast, they’ll put the book down and scroll TikTok instead. That’s why starting your story sooner is one of the most important things you can do as a fiction writer.
But what does that actually mean? And how do you pull it off without chopping all the good stuff? Let’s break it down.
🎯 What “Starting the Story Sooner” Really Means
It doesn’t mean rushing. It doesn’t mean skipping all the setup. It means dropping readers into the action—the conflict, the tension, the reason your character’s life is about to change—without pages of throat-clearing first.
In plain terms: start as close to the story problem as possible.
✏️ A Tale of Two Openings
Opening 1 (Telling/Too Slow):
It was a beautiful spring morning. Jane woke up, brushed her teeth, picked out her clothes, and wondered if she’d have toast or cereal for breakfast. She thought about her school years and her best friend who moved away…
Are you yawning yet? Readers will be.
Opening 2 (Starting Sooner):
Jane ducked as the first bullet smashed through the kitchen window, scattering glass across her untouched toast. She’d only been awake ten minutes, and someone already wanted her dead.
Boom. We’ve met Jane. We’ve got tension. And we want to know what happens next.
🧠 Why It’s So ImportantModern readers have less patience. With so much competition for attention, you can’t afford three chapters of backstory before things get moving.It sets expectations. Your opening scene tells readers what kind of ride they’re in for—thriller, romance, horror, fantasy. If it’s too slow, they may misjudge your book’s tone.It hooks the right audience. Starting with action and conflict draws in the readers who’ll actually love your story.
👣 Personal Anecdote: My Own False Start
In one of my early drafts (long since buried in a drawer), my first chapter was twenty pages of my protagonist walking around a small town, saying hi to neighbours, and reflecting on how bored he was. My critique partner looked at me and said: “You know the story doesn’t actually start until Chapter 3, right?”
I cut the first two chapters, started where the conflict hit, and suddenly the book came alive. Painful, yes. Worth it? Absolutely.
🚀 How to Start the Story Sooner
Here are a few practical tricks you can use in your own writing:Ask yourself: What’s the first moment of change? That’s probably where your story should begin.Cut the warm-up. Most drafts start with the author easing in. That’s fine—just trim it later.Drop backstory in later. You don’t need your character’s entire life history up front. Weave it in when it becomes relevant.Hook with conflict or curiosity. It doesn’t have to be a car chase—an overheard secret, a missed train, or a strange visitor can do the job.Start in motion. A character making choices, reacting to something, or stepping into new territory is always more engaging than one just waking up.
📝 Quick Before-and-After Example
Before (Too Slow):
Mark stared out the window, thinking about his dull job and the argument he had last week with his boss. He sighed, wondering if life would ever change.
After (Starting Sooner):
Mark’s boss fired him before lunch. By dinner, he’d stolen the company car and was halfway to Mexico.
See how much more promise the second one has?
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Starting your story sooner doesn’t mean cutting all setup—it means giving readers what they came for: conflict, tension, and change. If you hook them quickly, they’ll happily follow you anywhere, even through the slower, quieter scenes that come later.
Your turn: Have you ever chopped your first chapter (or two… or three) to get to the real story? Share your war stories in the comments—I promise, you’re not alone. I answer each comment personally.
September 21, 2025
Spelling and Word Meaning in the U.S. vs. the U.K.: What Fiction Writers Need to Know
Hello, fellow fiction writers. If you’ve ever sent your manuscript to an editor across the pond, you might’ve gotten it back looking like it’s bleeding red ink. And no—it’s not because your writing’s terrible. It’s because American and British English have different spellings, word choices, and even meanings.
For fiction writers, this can be a sneaky source of confusion. Your story might be perfectly polished in Chicago style, but if you’re aiming for a U.K. audience, suddenly your “color” becomes “colour” and your “apartment” mysteriously turns into a “flat.”
Let’s unpack the most common differences, with a few anecdotes and examples along the way.
🎯 Why US vs UK English Matters for Fiction Writers
Readers notice details—and nothing pulls a U.K. reader out of a story faster than “gray sidewalks,” just as “neighbours with torches” can throw off U.S. readers. Knowing the spelling and word differences between American and British English keeps your fiction consistent and your readers happy.
✏️ Common US vs UK Spelling Differences
Here are the most frequent American vs British spelling variations fiction writers need to watch out for:-or vs -our (color/colour, honor/honour)-ize vs -ise (organize/organise, recognize/recognise)-er vs -re (theater/theatre, center/centre)-l vs -ll endings (traveled/travelled, canceled/cancelled)
🔄 US vs UK Word Meaning Differences Every Writer Should Know
Sometimes the spelling’s the same, but the meaning isn’t. These American vs British English words can cause awkward mix-ups in your manuscript:Pants → U.S.: trousers / U.K.: underwearChips → U.S.: potato chips / U.K.: friesTorch → U.S.: flaming stick / U.K.: flashlightRubber → U.S.: eraser / U.K.: condomBoot → U.S.: footwear / U.K.: car trunk
👣 A Funny American vs British English Anecdote
In one of my drafts, a U.K. character said his “pants were too tight.” My U.S. readers thought: skinny jeans problem. My British readers thought: oversharing about his underwear. Proof that word meaning differences can completely change a scene.
🛠 Tips for Fiction Writers Navigating US and UK EnglishPick your market first: Are you writing mainly for American or British readers?Stay consistent: Don’t mix “color” and “grey” in the same book.Use the right style guide: Chicago Manual of Style (US), Oxford/New Hart’s Rules (UK).Adjust dialogue: Let characters use region-specific words naturally—but don’t overdo it into parody.Check with your editor: Always tell them which convention you want to follow.
🚀 Wrapping It Up
Understanding US vs UK English differences in spelling and word meaning isn’t about “right vs wrong”—it’s about knowing your readers and keeping your story smooth. Whether it’s “color” or “colour,” “flashlight” or “torch,” choose your lane and stick with it.
Your turn: Have you ever had a funny U.S./U.K. word mix-up in your writing—or in real life? Share it in the comments; I’d love to hear your story! I answer every comment personally.
For fiction writers, this can be a sneaky source of confusion. Your story might be perfectly polished in Chicago style, but if you’re aiming for a U.K. audience, suddenly your “color” becomes “colour” and your “apartment” mysteriously turns into a “flat.”
Let’s unpack the most common differences, with a few anecdotes and examples along the way.
🎯 Why US vs UK English Matters for Fiction Writers
Readers notice details—and nothing pulls a U.K. reader out of a story faster than “gray sidewalks,” just as “neighbours with torches” can throw off U.S. readers. Knowing the spelling and word differences between American and British English keeps your fiction consistent and your readers happy.
✏️ Common US vs UK Spelling Differences
Here are the most frequent American vs British spelling variations fiction writers need to watch out for:-or vs -our (color/colour, honor/honour)-ize vs -ise (organize/organise, recognize/recognise)-er vs -re (theater/theatre, center/centre)-l vs -ll endings (traveled/travelled, canceled/cancelled)
🔄 US vs UK Word Meaning Differences Every Writer Should Know
Sometimes the spelling’s the same, but the meaning isn’t. These American vs British English words can cause awkward mix-ups in your manuscript:Pants → U.S.: trousers / U.K.: underwearChips → U.S.: potato chips / U.K.: friesTorch → U.S.: flaming stick / U.K.: flashlightRubber → U.S.: eraser / U.K.: condomBoot → U.S.: footwear / U.K.: car trunk
👣 A Funny American vs British English Anecdote
In one of my drafts, a U.K. character said his “pants were too tight.” My U.S. readers thought: skinny jeans problem. My British readers thought: oversharing about his underwear. Proof that word meaning differences can completely change a scene.
🛠 Tips for Fiction Writers Navigating US and UK EnglishPick your market first: Are you writing mainly for American or British readers?Stay consistent: Don’t mix “color” and “grey” in the same book.Use the right style guide: Chicago Manual of Style (US), Oxford/New Hart’s Rules (UK).Adjust dialogue: Let characters use region-specific words naturally—but don’t overdo it into parody.Check with your editor: Always tell them which convention you want to follow.
🚀 Wrapping It Up
Understanding US vs UK English differences in spelling and word meaning isn’t about “right vs wrong”—it’s about knowing your readers and keeping your story smooth. Whether it’s “color” or “colour,” “flashlight” or “torch,” choose your lane and stick with it.
Your turn: Have you ever had a funny U.S./U.K. word mix-up in your writing—or in real life? Share it in the comments; I’d love to hear your story! I answer every comment personally.
