Vered Neta's Blog

Alright, let’s gently but firmly kick this old debate in the shins.

“Are you a character-driven writer or a plot-driven writer?”
It sounds profound. It sounds like a real writer question. It is… mostly nonsense.

The character vs. plot debate refuses to die, partly because it feels intuitive. Some stories seem to thrive on intricate twists and high-concept premises. Others linger on people, emotions, and relationships. So we pick sides. We declare allegiance. We build entire writing identities around it.

But here’s the inconvenient truth: character vs. plot is the wrong question. Not incomplete. Not outdated. Wrong. And once you see why, a lot of storytelling confusion suddenly evaporates.

6 Reasons Character and Plot Need Each Other.

#1 – Great Stories Are Inseparable Ecosystems.
( Fancy Talk for “They Go Together Like Netflix and Procrastination”).

The best stories from the last couple of decades prove that character and plot aren’t enemies, they’re besties who finish each other’s sentences.

Take Denis Villeneuve’s Dune. Paul Atreides isn’t just standing around looking broody while cool space politics happen around him. His internal freakout about destiny IS the story, and the political scheming IS his character development. You can’t separate them without everything falling apart like a poorly constructed IKEA shelf.

Or how about Madeline Miller’s Circe? Sure, there’s mythology and gods and all that epic stuff happening, but the reason we care is that we’re watching Circe transform from the family disappointment into a total powerhouse. The plot shapes her, she shapes the plot, and honestly, trying to separate them is like trying to unscramble an egg.

And Knives Out? That delicious mystery only works because every single character has their own agenda, secrets, and spectacular capacity for making terrible decisions. Put different people in that mansion, and you’d have a completely different movie.

#2 – Character Is How We Experience Plot.
(AKA Why Wikipedia Summaries Are Boring).

Here’s a fun experiment: go read a Wikipedia plot summary of your favourite movie. Done?

Okay, did it make you cry? Did it make your heart race? Did it make you want to rewatch the whole thing right away?

Probably not, right? That’s because a plot without a character is just a list of stuff that happened. It’s like getting directions to a party versus actually going to the party and dancing badly in the kitchen.

The Hunger Games trilogy nails this. On paper, it’s another dystopian rebellion story, been there, done that, bought the faction T-shirt. But experiencing it through Katniss Everdeen’s traumatised, fiercely protective, emotionally confused brain? That’s what makes us want to volunteer as tribute alongside her. Suzanne Collins could’ve told the exact same rebellion story through a different character’s eyes and created something totally new.

Even Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk proves this point. We literally know how that evacuation ended, it’s history! But watching it unfold through the panicked perspectives of soldiers, sailors, and pilots makes our palms sweat anyway. Character transforms “facts we learned in school” into “OH GOD WILL THEY MAKE IT?!”

#3 -Plot Is How Character Becomes Visible.
(No Pressure, No Diamonds).

You can tell me someone is brave all day long, but until I see them actually do something brave, it’s just words. Plot is what puts characters in situations where they have to prove what they’re made of.

Andy Weir’s The Martian is basically a masterclass in this. Mark Watney could describe himself as optimistic and resourceful in his dating profile, but that’s boring.

Instead, we watch him science the heck out of Mars while cracking jokes about being a space pirate. The impossible survival challenges aren’t just obstacles, they’re the X-ray machine that lets us see his character down to the bones.

And Breaking Bad? Walter White doesn’t just wake up one day as a ruthless drug lord. Each plot twist, each impossible situation, each encounter with someone scarier than the last person peels back another layer until we see who he really is (and it’s not pretty, folks). The cancer, the meth lab, Gus Fring’s terrifying politeness, these aren’t decorations on a character study. They’re the whole mechanism that reveals Walter’s character like the world’s darkest onion.

#4 – The Question Ignores How We Actually Fall in Love with Stories.

Think about your favourite story moments.
Are you mentally categorising them as “character beats” versus “plot beats”? Of course not!

You remember when Katniss volunteered in place of Prim. When Tony Stark snapped his fingers. These moments are character and plot, having a beautiful baby together.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo is basically a heist story that looks at each character’s trauma and says: “How can we make you face EXACTLY the thing you’re most afraid of?” Kaz’s plan forces Inej to infiltrate a pleasure house despite her trafficking trauma. Nina has to confront her addiction. The plot isn’t just randomly torturing these characters (okay, maybe a little), it’s specifically designed to make them grow in the ways they need to.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out works the same way. That horror plot is terrifying because it’s about Chris’s specific experience as a Black man in white spaces. Change the character, and even with the exact same events, you’d have a completely different movie.

#5 – Different Genres Need Different Recipes, Not Different Ingredients.

Some people claim certain genres are “plot-driven” (action! thrillers! explosions!) while others are “character-driven” (literary fiction where people think about trees for three pages).

But this still assumes they’re separate ingredients rather than, you know, the same recipe with different proportions.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr is fancy literary fiction, right? Character-focused deep thoughts? Sure, but it also has dual timelines, converging paths, and a mystery diamond that creates tension. Meanwhile, Mad Max: Fury Road is two hours of cars going vroom and things exploding, but we care because Max and Furiosa are going through actual emotional journeys while driving really fast.

Your thriller needs characters we care about. Your literary novel needs something to actually happen. It’s not either/or…it’s BOTH, always, just mixed differently.

#6 – The Debate Is Honestly Just Procrastination with Extra Steps.

Let’s be real: arguing about character versus plot often becomes an excuse to ignore whichever one you find harder.

“I’m a character writer,” you say, while your protagonist sits in a coffee shop thinking beautiful thoughts for 200 pages with zero forward momentum.

Or “I’m all about plot,” you declare, while interchangeable cardboard cutouts race through your action sequences.

Gillian Flynn said “nope” to this entire debate when she wrote Gone Girl. Those plot twists hit like a truck precisely because they make us rethink everything we thought we knew about Nick and Amy. The unreliable narration (character technique!) enables the plot surprises. The structure (plot device!) creates space for psychological depth. Flynn doesn’t choose between character and plot, she uses them to make each other more powerful, like the world’s most twisted power couple.

The Last of Us does this, too. Joel and Ellie’s relationship doesn’t develop during commercial breaks from the survival plot. It develops THROUGH the plot, in quiet moments while scavenging for supplies and crisis moments when impossible choices have to be made.

So What Should Writers Ask Instead?

Try these questions instead:

What does my character want badly enough to make choices?What forces are making those choices difficult?How does each event change who this person is?What question is the story quietly asking again and again?

If you answer those, the character and the plot will stop fighting for dominance. They’ll start collaborating. Because the truth is:

Character without plot is static.Plot without character is hollow.And stories that last refuse to choose between them.

They don’t take sides. They move.

Now it’s YOUR turn – What’s a story that nails the character-plot combo?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post Character vs Plot: Why This Writing Debate Is Completely Wrong. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Look, we all love a good action hero who can punch their way through a brick wall.
But you know what’s even more satisfying?

Watching someone outsmart their opponents so brilliantly that you want to slow-clap at your screen or book.

These are the characters who prove that the sexiest weapon in fiction isn’t a lightsaber, it’s a really, really good brain. 

Let’s dive into seven of the most deliciously clever strategists who’ve graced our pages and screens, and figure out what makes them so darn compelling.

7 Brilliant Strategists in Movies & Books.

#1 – Tyrion Lannister (Game of Thrones).

“I drink, and I know things.” If that’s not the most iconic humble-brag in fantasy literature, I don’t know what is.

Tyrion can’t win through strength or good looks, so he becomes so sharp that he could cut you with his wit before you even realise you’d been insulted.

Remember the Battle of the Blackwater? While everyone else was thinking “more swords, bigger walls,” Tyrion was thinking “what if we just… set the entire bay on fire?”

The man turns conversation into a contact sport and somehow always comes out on top.

Writer’s Lesson: Give your smart character real problems that muscles can’t solve.
Tyrion works because being clever isn’t optional…it’s survival.
Every victory feels earned because we know he had to think his way out of trouble.

#2 – Hermione Granger (Harry Potter Series) .

Regardless of how you feel about J.K. Rowling today, the Harry Potter series introduced us to a magical world and some truly memorable characters.

So, let’s be real: Hermione is the actual hero of the Harry Potter series, and I will die on this hill.

She figures out the basilisk is travelling through pipes. She brews Polyjuice Potion at twelve years old. She spent months preparing for life on the run, complete with a magically expanded bag that’s basically Mary Poppins’s purse, but make it tactical.

What makes Hermione spectacular isn’t just that she’s smart; it’s that she’s smart in a way we can actually see. She studies, prepares, and connects dots.

Writer’s Lesson: Show the work! Let us see your strategist hitting the books, making preparations, building their knowledge base. Hermione doesn’t just have the answer; she earned it, and that makes all the difference.

#3 – Ender Wiggin (Ender’s Game) .

Imagine being such a tactical genius that adults literally use you to fight an interstellar war while you’re still young enough to need a hall pass.

What makes Ender fascinating is that he doesn’t just beat opponents, he understands them so completely that victory becomes inevitable.

But here’s the thing: Ender wins because he breaks the rules. In the Battle Room, everyone’s fighting horizontally until Ender says, “What if we pretend down is a direction we made up?” and suddenly he’s rewritten the entire game.

Writer’s Lesson: Let your strategists question everything. The most satisfying wins come from characters who look at the “rules” and say, “But why though?” Make your readers smack their foreheads going “It was so obvious“

#4 – Keyser Söze (The Usual Suspects).

If you haven’t seen The Usual Suspects, go watch it. I’m about to spoil it.

Keyser Söze understands that the best plan is one where nobody realizes there IS a plan.

The entire movie is him improvising an elaborate fiction using random objects in the police office and selling it so convincingly that we, the audience, buy it completely.

He’s playing 4D chess while everyone else is playing checkers.

Writer’s Lesson: Misdirection is your friend! What the reader thinks is happening should be different from what’s actually happening. Plant your clues early, hide them in plain sight, and make that reveal hit like a freight train. 

#5 – Lisbeth Salander (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo).

If you’re looking for someone who can hack your life, destroy your reputation, and expose every secret you’ve ever kept, all before breakfast, meet Lisbeth Salander.

What makes Lisbeth such a brilliant strategist is her ability to weaponise information in the digital age. She doesn’t just hack computers; she understands systems: technological, legal, financial, social.

Her takedown of her abusive guardian is pure strategic perfection: she gathers irrefutable evidence, ensures he can never hurt anyone again, and does it all in a way that protects herself legally. She thinks five moves ahead in a game most people don’t even realise they’re playing.

Writer’s Lesson: Information is power. Give your strategic characters skills relevant to their world, whether that’s hacking, research, or understanding complex systems. The best revenge plots are those in which the target doesn’t see it coming until it’s far too late.

#6 – Raymond “Red” Reddington (The Blacklist).

Raymond Reddington is what happens when you give someone genius-level intellect, decades of experience in international crime, and the personality of your most charming but slightly dangerous uncle who always has the best stories.

Red’s strategic brilliance lies in his ability to turn any situation to his advantage. He walks into FBI headquarters and surrenders himself, but on HIS terms, with HIS conditions, and suddenly the entire organisation is essentially working for him.

He maintains a vast network of contacts, always collecting IOUs, secrets, and leverage. He thinks in terms of long-game moves that might not pay off for years.

Writer’s Lesson: Charisma can be a strategic weapon.
Brilliant strategists don’t have to be cold or calculating; they can be warm and engaging while still being ten steps ahead. Give your strategist a deep well of knowledge to draw from.

#7 – Professor Moriarty (Sherlock Holmes Stories).

You know you’re dealing with a next-level strategist when Sherlock Holmes, THE Sherlock Holmes, considers you such a threat that he’s willing to plunge off a waterfall to take you down.

Moriarty is basically Sherlock with a different career path. He built a criminal empire so carefully structured that law enforcement can’t touch him. The conflict between Holmes and Moriarty is pure intellectual warfare. When they finally confront each other at Reichenbach Falls, the physical struggle is almost beside the point; these two have been playing chess with all of London as their board.

Writer’s Lesson: Your hero is only as interesting as their villain. If you’re writing a strategic protagonist, give them an equally brilliant antagonist. Nothing generates tension like watching two massive intellects collide.

What Writers Can Actually Use From All This.

So what’s the takeaway for those of us trying to write our own strategic masterminds?

Show Us the Thinking: Don’t just tell us someone’s smart, show us their thought process through internal monologue, planning conversations, or those delicious scenes where they explain their brilliant plan afterwards.

Let Them Fail Sometimes: Nothing kills tension faster than a character whose plans always work. Let them miscalculate. Show the cost of victory. Even Tyrion gets things wrong.

Make the Smart Stuff Specific: “They’re really smart” is boring. “They’re a genius at reading body language” is interesting. Give your strategist particular skills and knowledge bases.

Establish the Rules First: Strategic victories feel satisfying when they follow logic the reader could have predicted. If your character’s going to use specific knowledge to win, establish that knowledge beforehand.

Give Them Smart Opponents: A strategist who only faces idiots isn’t impressive. Create worthy adversaries who force your character to actually be clever.

Keep Them Human: Even genius strategists should have emotions, flaws, and blind spots. Perfect logic machines aren’t characters, they’re calculators with dialogue.

In Conclusion.

These seven characters remind us that fiction’s most memorable moments often come not from explosive action sequences but from that perfect moment when a brilliant plan comes together.

For writers, the challenge is crafting these intellectual chess matches in ways that keep readers engaged, surprised, and utterly satisfied when that final gambit pays off. It’s hard work, arguably harder than writing a fight scene, but when it lands? Pure magic.

Because at the end of the day, anyone can write a character who punches good. But writing a character who thinks so brilliantly that readers feel smarter just for following along? That’s the real power move.

Now it’s YOUR turn – Who’s your favourite strategic genius in fiction that didn’t make this list?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post Writing Brilliant Strategists: 7 Characters Who Think, Not Fight. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the writer’s room: your story probably starts too early.
Like, way too early.

Here’s the thing. We’ve all been there. You spend weeks crafting the perfect opening that introduces your protagonist’s mundane life, establishes the magic system with painstaking detail, and sets up seventeen different plot threads. You hit send on that manuscript or screenplay, confident you’ve nailed it.

Then comes the feedback: “It doesn’t really grab me until page 40.”

Ouch.

But here’s the good news: starting too early is one of the easiest problems to fix once you understand what you’re doing wrong. And understanding it is crucial, because today’s readers and viewers have the attention span of a caffeinated hummingbird (and honestly, can you blame them when they have TikTok, Netflix, and seventeen unread books competing for attention?)

The 7 Deadly Sins of Starting Too Early.

#1 – You’re Showing the “Before” When We Want the “Boom” .

You know that scene where your protagonist is living their ordinary life, going through their routine, being perfectly normal?

Yeah, that scene you spent three chapters on? Cut it.

The Hunger Games doesn’t waste time. Suzanne Collins knows we have a million distractions.

The book opens on reaping day, the day everything changes. We get exactly enough backstory: Katniss hunts, she’s poor, she loves her sister. Boom. Reaping. Stakes established in, like, five pages.

Or look at Fleabag. Phoebe Waller-Bridge doesn’t spend an episode showing us a typical day in the life.
We meet Fleabag mid-crisis, mid-chaos, already breaking the fourth wall and making terrible decisions.

We learn about her dead best friend and failing café through razor-sharp dialogue and flashbacks, not through a pilot episode of “Here’s My Normal Life.”

The Fix: Find the day everything changes. That’s your opening.
Everything before it? That’s the backstory you’ll sprinkle in later when we already care.

#2 – You’re Worldbuilding When You Should Be Story-Doing.

Look, I get it. You spent six months developing your magic system or dystopian government. You want to share it!

But here’s the tough love: nobody cares yet.

The Martian by Andy Weir could have opened with detailed explanations of the Mars mission and NASA protocols.

Instead, it begins with: “I’m pretty much fucked.” Mark Watney is already stranded, already problem-solving, already cracking jokes to cope with certain death. We learn about Mars and NASA while watching him MacGyver his way through survival.

Same with Everything Everywhere All at Once. The Daniels don’t open with exposition about the multiverse. They throw us into Evelyn’s chaotic laundromat, her failing marriage, her IRS audit, and THEN the multiverse crashes in. We learn the rules while running.

The Fix: Cut any scene that exists just to explain stuff. If the information matters, you’ll find a way to show it through action.

And if you can’t? It probably doesn’t matter as much as you think.

#3 – You Haven’t Found Where Your Story Actually Begins.

This is the big one. The chronological beginning of events is not the dramatic beginning of your story.

Your story begins when your protagonist can no longer avoid the central conflict.

Gone Girl opens on the morning Amy disappears. Not their first date. Not the wedding. Not them moving to Missouri.

Gillian Flynn knows we’re here for the mystery, not the meet-cute. She gives us the marriage backstory through diary entries, but only after we’re already hooked.

Or take Parasite. Bong Joon-ho doesn’t show us the Kim family’s entire descent into poverty.
We meet them already living in a semi-basement, already struggling, and then, within minutes, the plot kicks off with Ki-woo getting the tutoring job. The real story is the con and its consequences.

The Fix: Identify the central question of your story. When does that question first become unavoidable?
Start there. The rest is backstory.

#4 – You’re Setting Up Dominos Instead of Knocking Them Down.

Some of you are writing Chapter One like you’re arranging furniture before a party.

Stop arranging. Start the party.

The Social Network opens with the breakup that leads to FaceMash, which leads to Facebook.

Aaron Sorkin doesn’t show us Mark Zuckerberg’s childhood or his first programming class. We meet him already in motion, already creating, already burning bridges. The setup is the action.

Arrival drops us immediately into Louise Banks’ life as alien ships appear around the world.
Denis Villeneuve doesn’t give us a semester of Louise teaching linguistics or three chapters establishing her expertise. Aliens arrive, she gets recruited, we’re off. We learn about her skills through her communication with the heptapods.

The Fix: Start at what you currently think of as the end of Act One. Seriously.
See that moment around page 40 where things really kick off? That’s your opening.

#5 – You’re Writing Your Outline, Not Your Story.

Here’s a secret: all that backstory you need to know to write the book? Your readers don’t need it to read the book.

The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins doesn’t open with Rachel’s marriage or descent into alcoholism.

It begins with Rachel on the train, watching the couple and imagining their lives.
The backstory emerges through her unreliable narration, but we’re hooked by the present-tense mystery first.

Get Out doesn’t explain the Armitage family’s entire history before the plot begins.
Jordan Peele drops Chris into the weird weekend and lets the horror unfold. We learn what we need to know precisely when Chris does, which makes it terrifying.

The Fix: Write all that backstory in a separate document. Make a file called “Stuff Only I Need to Know.doc” and put it there. Then start your actual manuscript at the interesting part.

#6 – You’re Being Too Fair to Your Ending.

Some writers front-load information because they’re terrified of not “setting things up properly.” So they telegraph every twist and explain every skill the protagonist will use.

Stop. You’re killing your opening to save your ending, and that’s backwards.

Knives Out shows us the murder in the first act. Rian Johnson isn’t precious about the mystery.

He trusts that the joy is in watching Benoit Blanc unravel it, not in withholding information.

The Good Place could have opened with detailed explanations of how the afterlife works. Instead, Michael Schur throws Eleanor into the Good Place and lets her figure out the rules through trial and error. And when the twist comes? It works because we’ve been engaged with the characters.

The Fix: Trust yourself. If something is truly essential for your ending, you’ll find an organic way to introduce it during the story. Start with what’s exciting.

#7 – Stories No Longer Start in Balance.

Finally, there’s a structural shift worth naming.

Older storytelling often began in equilibrium:
a stable world disrupted by change.
Many modern stories begin when equilibrium is already cracking.

In Marriage Story, the marriage is already ending when the film opens. In The Bear, the kitchen is already a pressure cooker from frame one.

The story doesn’t begin with stability. It begins with strain. If your opening depicts a world that’s working just fine, ask yourself why we’re there yet.

The Fix: A helpful rule of thumb, especially for modern audiences, is this: Start as late as you can without losing emotional clarity.

Begin when: the character can no longer avoid something or a familiar strategy stops working, or the old life is still visible, but already failing. If your opening feels slightly abrupt, slightly daring, somewhat risky, you’re probably close.

Because the right beginning often feels like arriving just before a door slams. And that’s exactly where great stories want us to be.

Final Words.

Here’s the truth bomb: you probably need to delete your first three chapters. Maybe your first five.
Those weren’t wasted! They helped you figure out your story. They were your warm-up, your way into the narrative.

But they’re not the story readers need to read. Your real beginning is almost certainly later than you think.
It’s the moment when you, while writing, suddenly feel the story kick into gear. That’s your first line.

We’re living in the era of “skip intro.” Your opening needs to be the opposite of skippable. It needs to be the reason someone ignores their phone, forgets about the dishes, and reads “just one more chapter” at 2 AM.

So go look at your manuscript or screenplay right now.
Be honest: does Chapter One make you excited to read Chapter Two? If you were a stranger scrolling through Amazon’s “Look Inside” feature, would you click “Buy Now”?

If not, you know what to do. Find the boom. Start there. Cut the rest.

Your story will thank you. Your readers will thank you. And hey, you’ll thank yourself when you start getting feedback that says “I couldn’t put it down” instead of “It gets good around page 40.”

Now go forth and delete those opening chapters with confidence. You’ve got this.

(And yes, you can save them in a file called “Darlings I Murdered” if it makes you feel better. We all do it.)

Now it’s YOUR turn – Drop your first line for your latest work below, does it hook readers immediately?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post Why Readers Quit on Page One (And How to Fix Yours). appeared first on Vered Neta.

Well, we made it through another holiday season. If you’re anything like me, you survived approximately seventeen family dinners, answered the same questions about your life choices at least forty times, and seriously considered whether it’s too late to become a hermit living in a remote cabin. 

The holidays have a special way of reminding us that we all need therapy, which makes it the perfect time to examine some of the most memorable therapists to ever grace our screens.

From the brilliant to the absolutely bonkers, fictional therapists have given us some of the most compelling character dynamics in storytelling. They’re confessors, antagonists, mentors, and sometimes complete disasters. 

Let’s dive into what makes them unforgettable and what we can learn from their sessions.

The 4 Best Ones.

#1 – Dr. Jennifer Melfi (The Sopranos) .

Dr. Melfi is the gold standard for complex therapist characters. Played with nuanced precision by Lorraine Bracco, she treats mob boss Tony Soprano while wrestling with her own ethical dilemmas, fears, and attraction to her dangerous patient.

What makes her remarkable is her humanity. She’s not an all-knowing sage dispensing wisdom from on high.

She gets scared. She drinks too much after Tony reveals particularly disturbing information. She sees her own therapist to process the weight of treating a murderer. Her hands literally shake during sessions when Tony becomes threatening.

The Writing Lesson: Great supporting characters have their own arcs and inner lives that exist beyond servicing the protagonist’s journey. Dr. Melfi’s struggle with whether continuing to treat Tony makes her complicit in his crimes creates genuine tension that spans the entire series.

She’s never just a sounding board; she’s a fully realised person with her own stakes in every scene.

#2 – Sean Maguire (Good Will Hunting) .

Robin Williams‘s Oscar-winning performance as Sean Maguire gave us one of cinema’s most heartwarming therapeutic relationships. Sean is the therapist who finally breaks through to Will Hunting not through clinical technique, but through genuine human connection and vulnerability.

The “It’s not your fault” scene is legendary for a reason. Sean doesn’t maintain professional distance; he shares his own pain about losing his wife, he admits his flaws, and he meets Will’s defences with patience and love rather than clinical detachment.

The Writing Lesson: The most powerful moments in character relationships often come from mutual vulnerability. Sean works as a character because he’s not there to “fix” Will from a position of superiority. He’s a wounded person helping another wounded person, and that equality creates authenticity.

When writing mentor figures, remember that showing their scars makes their wisdom more earned and relatable.

#3 – Dr. Paul Weston (In Treatment) .

Gabriel Byrne’s Dr. Weston is fascinating because we see him both as a therapist and as a patient. The show’s structure allows us to watch him conduct sessions throughout the week, then see him fall apart in his own therapy on Fridays.

Paul is brilliant with his patients but a mess in his personal life. He has an affair, his marriage crumbles, and he projects his own issues onto his patients while trying to maintain professional boundaries. He’s ethically sound but emotionally compromised, making him endlessly watchable.

The Writing Lesson: Contradiction creates dimension. Paul can be both right and wrong, both helpful and harmful, both wise and foolish. Real people contain multitudes, and the best characters do too.

Don’t be afraid to show your characters excelling in one area of life while struggling in others; that’s where the complexity lives.

#4 – Dr. Sharon Fieldstone (Ted Lasso).

Dr. Sharon, played by Sarah Niles, is a refreshing portrayal of a therapist who’s professional, boundaried, and genuinely competent. When she arrives at AFC Richmond, she’s met with resistance from the relentlessly optimistic Ted Lasso, who masks his pain with jokes and folksy wisdom.

Dr. Sharon doesn’t play games, she’s direct, calm, and refuses to let Ted’s deflections derail the therapeutic process.

What makes her remarkable is her authenticity as a mental health professional. She maintains appropriate boundaries, doesn’t try to be Ted’s friend, and demonstrates real therapeutic techniques, like holding space for difficult emotions and gently challenging defence mechanisms. When Ted finally breaks down in her office, it’s earned through episodes of her patient, consistent presence.

The show also gives Dr. Sharon her own moment of vulnerability when she’s injured in an accident, reminding us that therapists are human too. Her willingness to eventually show some warmth while maintaining professionalism creates a believable therapeutic relationship that actually helps Ted heal.

The Writing Lesson: Not every character needs to be quirky or outlandish to be compelling. Dr. Sharon’s strength comes from her groundedness and competence in a show full of big personalities.

Sometimes the most powerful choice is to write a character who’s simply good at their job and secure in who they are. Her calm professionalism creates a contrast that makes the other characters’ chaos more visible. When everyone else is loud, the quiet, steady presence can steal the scene.

The 3 Worst Ones. 

#5 – Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal, The Silence of the Lambs).

The most famous psychiatrist in popular culture is, of course, a cannibalistic serial killer who manipulates his patients into murder and eats them with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Hannibal is the ultimate nightmare therapist, someone who uses the vulnerability of the therapeutic relationship as a hunting ground.

What makes Hannibal so chilling is his genuine insight. He actually is brilliant at reading people and understanding their psychology. He just uses that knowledge for evil rather than healing. His therapy sessions with Will Graham in the TV series are masterclasses in psychological manipulation, as he simultaneously treats and corrupts his patient.

The Writing Lesson: The best villains often have the same skills as heroes, they just use them toward different ends. Hannibal’s deep understanding of human nature is precisely what would make someone a great therapist, twisted toward destruction.

When creating antagonists, consider giving them abilities that would be virtuous in other contexts. It makes them more unsettling and three-dimensional.

#6 – Dr. Isaac Herschkopf/Ike (The Shrink Next Door).

Based on a true story and brought to life by Paul Rudd in this Apple TV+ series, Dr. Ike is a masterclass in insidious manipulation.

Unlike the obviously monstrous Hannibal Lecter, Dr. Ike is terrifying because he seems so helpful at first.

He slowly takes over his patient, Marty’s, life, home, business, and relationships, all while convincing Marty that this is therapeutic progress.

What makes Dr. Ike so chilling is how recognisable his tactics are. He uses therapeutic language to gaslight, he positions himself as the only one who truly understands Marty, and he gradually isolates his patient from anyone who might question the relationship. He’s the nightmare version of a therapist who stops seeing patients as people and starts seeing them as resources.

The Writing Lesson: The most unsettling villains often operate through slow erosion rather than dramatic acts. Dr. Ike shows us that you can create tremendous tension without violence, just watch a character lose their autonomy one “therapeutic intervention” at a time.

When writing manipulation, remember that abusers rarely announce their intentions. They use the language of care and concern, which makes the betrayal so much more devastating. Show the minor boundary violations that build to catastrophic consequences.

#7 – Dr. Wendy Rhoades (Billions).

Dr. Wendy Rhoades, played brilliantly by Maggie Siff, is a psychiatrist who works as the in-house performance coach at Axe Capital hedge fund.

What makes her such a complex character is her position straddling multiple worlds, she’s married to the U.S. Attorney prosecuting her boss, Bobby Axelrod, while being fiercely loyal to both men in different ways.

Wendy’s ethical compromises are gradual and rationalized. She starts as a legitimate performance coach helping traders optimize their game, but slowly becomes enmeshed in the firm’s morally questionable activities. She uses her psychological expertise not just to help people perform better, but to manipulate situations in Axe Capital’s favor. Her justification? She’s helping people win, and in the high-stakes world of finance, winning is everything.

What makes Wendy fascinating is that she’s genuinely talented and could have been an excellent traditional therapist. Instead, she’s been seduced by the money, power, and adrenaline of the hedge fund world.

She’s not a monster, she’s someone who convinced herself that the rules don’t apply when the stakes are this high.

The Writing Lesson: Moral compromise is most interesting when it happens incrementally and when characters can rationalize each step. Wendy doesn’t wake up one day deciding to be unethical, she crosses small boundaries that lead to bigger ones, always with a justification that makes sense from her perspective.

When writing characters who drift into morally gray territory, show the small compromises that pave the way for larger ones. Also, put your characters in genuine conflicts of loyalty where every choice has a cost. Wendy’s position between her husband and her boss creates impossible situations that force her to make increasingly questionable decisions.

Final Thoughts.

Fictional therapists work best when they serve multiple purposes in the story. They’re not just exposition machines who exist to let the protagonist talk through their issues (though they can do that, too). The best ones are fully realised characters with their own arcs, conflicts, and blind spots.

They’re also remarkable vehicles for exploring power dynamics. The therapeutic relationship is inherently unequal, one person is vulnerable while the other holds expertise and authority. Great writers mine this imbalance for drama, examining how that power can heal or harm, be used responsibly or abused catastrophically.

As we stumble into the new year, still recovering from Uncle Jerry’s political rants and Aunt Susan’s pointed questions about our marriage, these fictional therapists remind us of something important: everyone’s a mess, even the professionals. And sometimes, that’s what makes them worth watching.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and process my holiday trauma. I wonder if Dr. Melfi is taking new patients?

Now it’s YOUR turn – What’s the worst therapy scene you’ve ever watched?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post 7 Therapists in Film & TV Who Nailed (or Failed) It. appeared first on Vered Neta.

The box wasn’t even heavy.

That’s what I kept thinking afterwards, sitting on the third step from the bottom with my right leg at an odd angle and Christmas baubles scattered across the hallway floor. Red, gold, and silver globes catching the November light. The box had landed upright, almost apologetic. My knee had simply stopped working.

Not buckled. Not collapsed. Just…gone.

One moment, I was stepping down, thinking about fairy lights. The next, I was sitting hard on old oak with a sound coming from my throat that was more surprise than pain.

“You alright?” Martin’s voice from his study. That particular pitch that meant he’d looked up from his computer but hadn’t actually moved.

“Fine,” I said.

Automatic. The way you say fine in the Co-op queue when you’re not fine at all.

I waited. The house settled around me. Radiator ticking. Computer humming. The silence of him not coming to check.

I counted to twenty.

Then I started picking up baubles.

My knee felt strange. Not agony, but wrong. Like when you bite your cheek, and your tongue keeps probing the damage. I gathered the decorations, most of which had survived, though one of Emma’s favourite glass icicles had shattered, and sat there holding the box like a shield.

“Do you want tea?” Martin called.

“I’ll make it,” I called back.

I stood carefully. The knee held, but there was an ache now, settling in like weather. I carried the box to the living room and set it by the tree we hadn’t decorated yet. A Norway spruce, already dropping needles. I’d bought it too early. The man at the garden centre had been so enthusiastic, and I’d wanted to please him.

Strange, how often I wanted to please people I’d never see again.

The knee was worse by the evening.

Not dramatically worse, I could still walk, still make dinner, still load the dishwasher while Martin read the news on his iPad. But there was heat to it now. Swelling I could feel through my jeans. When I bent to pick up a dropped spoon, the pain made me gasp.

“What’s wrong?” Martin looked up. Briefly.

“Just my knee. I twisted it on the stairs earlier.”

“You should ice it.”

He returned to his screen.

I should ice it. I knew I should. Instead, I made tea, and we watched a documentary about Naples. Martin commented occasionally about the architecture. I shifted my leg, searching for a position that didn’t ache.

That night, I lay awake.

Martin’s breathing was deep, even, undisturbed. My knee throbbed in time with my pulse. I thought about getting up for paracetamol, but the dark stairs seemed impossible. So I lay there and thought about how I’d said “fine” without thinking. How Martin had asked if I was alright without getting up.

How these were the same thing, really.

The same automatic gesture towards care without the substance of it.

By morning, I couldn’t straighten my leg completely.

I waited a week before calling the surgery. That’s how long it takes to admit something isn’t going to fix itself. Seven days of telling yourself it’s getting better. Even as you start avoiding stairs. Holding the bannister with both hands. Planning your route through the house to minimise steps.

“It’s probably just inflammation,” I told Martin. “I’ll ring the doctor if it’s not better by Monday.”

Monday came.

I rang.

The receptionist, Karen, I recognised by her voice, offered me an appointment in three weeks.

“Unless it’s urgent?”

I looked down at my knee, swollen tight against my jeans.

“No,” I said. “Three weeks is fine.”

“Actually,” Karen said, I could hear the kindness in it, “Dr. Patel has a cancellation Thursday at ten. Would that suit?”

“Oh, I don’t want to take someone else’s…”

“Thursday at ten,” Karen said firmly. “See you then, Helen.”

Dr. Patel had kind eyes.

That was the first thing I’d noticed when she joined the practice five years ago. Still true. She examined my knee with gentle, efficient hands. Asked me to bend it, straighten it, and describe the pain.

I found myself apologising.

For bothering her. For not coming sooner. For the fact that it wasn’t really that bad.

“Helen,” she said, sitting back. “Stop apologising. You’re in pain. That’s what I’m here for.”

She explained about cartilage. About wear. About inflammation. Possible meniscus tear.

Words I half-heard while watching her face, trying to read the verdict.

“Will it heal?” I asked. “I mean, when will it be back to normal?”

The pause was brief. But I caught it.

Dr. Patel met my eyes. “At our age, things don’t heal quite the way they used to. The cartilage has less blood supply, you see. What we’re looking at is management, not a cure. Physio, exercises, anti-inflammatories. We can refer you for an MRI if it doesn’t improve, but I think we start with the physio route.”

“So it won’t be normal again.”

“It will be your normal,” she said gently. “Just perhaps a different normal than before.”

I drove home very carefully.

As if sudden movements might shatter something. The November afternoon was already dimming. Clouds low and heavy over the Cotswold stone. I parked in our drive, Martin’s car was there, home early for once, and I sat with my hands on the steering wheel.

When will it be back to normal?

I’d been asking that question for years, I realised.

Since Emma left for Bristol twelve years ago, our phone calls became bright, hurried things. Full of “must dash” and “talk soon.” Since Martin took the promotion and started working from home. Present in body but absent in every way that mattered. Since sex became something that happened occasionally, politely, like neighbours borrowing sugar.

When will we be back to normal? When will we be us again?

The house lights were on. I could see Martin moving past the kitchen window. Making himself coffee, probably. Not thinking of putting the kettle on for me.

My knee throbbed as I got out of the car.

Dr. Patel had said to rest it. To stop pushing through. But I’d been pushing through for so long, I wasn’t sure I knew how to stop.

I locked the car and limped towards the house. Towards Martin. Towards the evening that would unfold in its usual way: dinner, television, separate books, bed. All of it so achingly normal, I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t scream.

I opened the door. When Martin called, “How was it?” from the kitchen, I called back, “Fine. Just need to rest it.”

“Good,” he said. “Good.”

And something in me shifted.

Something weight-bearing and essential gave way, like cartilage worn too thin to do its job anymore.

Dr. Patel had been clear about rest.

So for the first time in decades, I sat. Really sat. Not perched on the edge of the sofa, mentally reorganising the linen cupboard. Not half-standing to fetch something I’d forgotten. Just sitting, with my leg elevated and an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel.

The house felt different when you weren’t moving through it purposefully.

I noticed things. The way the afternoon light showed the dust on my framed teaching certificate from 1985. The crack in the ceiling plaster we’d been meaning to fix for three years. The sound of Martin’s keyboard, constant as rainfall.

The silence underneath it all.

I’d been head of English at the comprehensive for fifteen years before I retired. Good at it, too. The sort of teacher students remembered, or so they told me at my leaving do. I’d managed a department of twelve, navigated Ofsted inspections, mentored NQTs, and still marked homework every evening.

Superwoman, my friend Cath used to call me. Half-joke, half-accusation.

I’d quite liked it, actually.

My phone buzzed. Emma.

“Mum, hi! Quick question, did I leave my green scarf there at Easter?”

“I don’t think so, darling. How are you?”

“Mad busy. Listen, I can’t really talk, I’m between meetings. The scarf’s not important. Love you!”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone. Tried to remember the last time we’d had an actual conversation. Not a quick call squeezed between other things. Not a text with a heart emoji.

Memory works strangely when you’re forced to be still.

Things surface that you’ve been outrunning.

My knee throbbed.

I shifted the ice pack. It had gone warm already. Useless.

Getting up to replace it required planning now. Like a military operation. Swing the leg down. Wait. Stand. Wait. Walk.

I made it to the kitchen. Opened the freezer. Bent to get the ice pack from the bottom drawer, and something seized in my abdomen. Not pain exactly. Just…resistance. Scar tissue, probably. Twenty-five years old now.

I straightened slowly, holding the freezer door.

Twenty-five years since the hysterectomy.

Emma would have been…what? Fifteen? No, sixteen. GCSEs that summer. I’d scheduled the surgery for February half-term so I’d be recovered for her exams. Four days in hospital, two weeks off work. Back at school for the mock results, still bleeding into industrial-strength pads and pretending I was fine.

Martin had been good that week I was in the hospital. Visited every evening. Brought grapes nobody ate.

But I’d been the one who’d reassured him. Told him I was fine, really, just tired. Made it easy for him to go back to work, back to normal.

Made it easy for everyone.

That had been my speciality, hadn’t it? Making things easy. Managing everyone’s comfort, including my own discomfort.

I wrapped the new ice pack in a tea towel. Limped back to the sofa.

The teaching had been good. Demanding, exhausting, but good. I’d loved it, actually, the electricity of a lesson that worked, the satisfaction of watching a struggling student suddenly get it. I’d stayed late for revision sessions. Run the school book club. Directed the Year 11 play every year.

And then I’d come home, make dinner, listen to Martin’s work problems, help Emma with university applications, and organise everyone’s lives with the efficiency of someone running a small country.

Superwoman.

The retirement party had been lovely. Speeches, presents, and a card signed by two hundred students. One of them had written: “You always had time for us, Miss.”

I’d cried reading that.

What I hadn’t told anyone: I’d also felt enormous, terrifying relief.

No more pretending I had energy I didn’t have. No more marking until midnight. No more smiling through pain, my back had been in agony by then, though I’d told no one.

Freedom, I’d thought. Time for me.

Except.

Except I’d filled the time with other things. Volunteered at the village library. Joined the choir. Took up watercolours. Organised Martin’s mother’s care home visits. Helped Emma move house twice.

Kept moving. Kept managing. Kept being useful.

The long walks had started around then, too.

Twenty miles. Twenty-five. Thirty once, and I’d come home with blisters like medallions, and Martin had said, “Why do you push yourself so hard?” and I hadn’t known how to answer.

Because stopping felt like failing? Because I’d spent forty years proving I could do everything and didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t doing?

Because somewhere along the way, accommodation had become my default setting, and I’d forgotten how to just be.

My knee throbbed under the ice pack.

I looked at it, swollen, useless, honest.

The body finds ways to keep going, Sara, the physio, had said. Until it can’t.

********************

I was doing my exercises, lying on my back, tightening my thigh, holding for five, when my hip cramped. Sharp, sudden. I gasped and rolled onto my side, waiting for it to pass.

My hand pressed against my lower belly.

Empty there. Had been for nearly forty years.

But I remembered, God, I remembered. Emma’s birth. Thirty-six hours of labour that ended in emergency surgery. The midwife saying, “You were very brave,” while I shook and shook, unable to stop. Martin in the corner, white-faced, holding our daughter like she might break.

The recovery had been brutal. Infection, haemorrhaging. Six weeks before, I could walk without pain.

I was back at work in three months.

Too soon, everyone said. But I’d been terrified of being left behind. Terrified of becoming just “Emma’s mum” and losing myself entirely.

So I’d powered through.

Taught through mastitis. Through Emma’s chickenpox. Through my father’s funeral, I took three days off and came back with a smile.

Made it easy for everyone.

Made it look effortless.

The hip cramp eased. I returned to the exercise. Straightened my leg. Held for five.

Four. Three. Two. One.

Lower.

Breathe.

The thing about being Superwoman is you start to believe your own press. Start to think you really can do everything. That accommodation and achievement aren’t contradictory. That you can have it all if you just manage it properly.

Start to think that needing help is a weakness.

I’d been so bloody proud of managing.

********************

That afternoon, Emma called again.

Proper call this time, video. Her face filled my screen, pretty and tired-looking. Behind her, I could see Jack moving around their kitchen.

“Mum! How’s the knee?”

“Getting better. The doctor says physio, which is tedious but necessary.”

“Oh, good. Listen, I wanted to talk about Christmas.”

I knew what was coming. Mother’s intuition. Or pattern recognition.

“It’s just that Jack’s parents really want us there this year. His mum’s not been well, and they’re getting older and…”

“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course you should go there.”

“Are you sure? Because we can still…”

“Darling, it’s fine. You should be with Jack’s family.”

“You’re the best, Mum. We’ll come for New Year, maybe? Or we’ll do something big for your birthday.”

Maybe. Or.

Words that mean no but sound like yes.

“That sounds lovely,” I said.

We chatted for another minute. She looked over her shoulder twice, laughing at something Jack said. Needed to go, dinner was burning.

After she hung up, I sat holding my phone.

I’d done it again. Made it easy. Made myself small despite decades of being the opposite: the head of department, the organiser, the woman who got things done.

Funny, how you could be Superwoman at work and a doormat at home and not see the connection.

Both required the same skill: making your own needs invisible.

Where had Emma learned to apologise for taking up space? To say maybe when she meant no? To squeeze herself between other people’s schedules?

From me, obviously.

Not from watching me fail. From watching me succeed at doing everything for everyone while pretending I didn’t mind.

I’d taught her that women who matter are women who accommodate.

Christ, what a legacy.

********************

I couldn’t sleep.

Knee hurt, but that wasn’t why. I lay there listening to Martin breathe, and I thought about all the times I’d said “fine” when I wasn’t. All the conversations I’d had with my body over the years. Just get through this, just manage, just keep going, as if willpower were enough.

As if I could simply override physical reality through sheer determination.

At two in the morning, I gave up.

Got up carefully, military operation again, and went downstairs. The house was cold and dark. I didn’t turn on the lights. Just felt my way to the living room, to the box of Christmas decorations still sitting by the naked tree.

I’d been avoiding this box. The shattered icicle.

But there were photo albums in here, too. I pulled them out. Sat on the sofa with them in my lap.

Our wedding. Martin and me, impossibly young. My dress too fussy, his hair too long. But our faces, God, our faces. So certain.

Emma as a baby. Gap-toothed at seven. Sullen at fourteen. Triumphant in her graduation gown.

Teaching photos. Me with my Year 11s on results day, all of us crying with joy. The sixth form production of Hamlet. My retirement party.

And then… the walking photos.

Martin and me on Scafell Pike. At Hadrian’s Wall. By a cairn somewhere in Scotland, windswept and grinning. We looked happy. We looked like people who told each other things.

I found the last one. Ten years ago, the Lakes. Sitting on a stone wall, legs dangling, his arm around my shoulders.

We looked like us.

When had we stopped being us?

Not suddenly. Gradually. Cell by cell. Like cartilage wearing away so slowly, you don’t notice until the support is simply gone.

I’d thought retirement would give us more time together.

Instead, Martin had taken on extra consulting work. I’d filled my diary with activities. We’d orbited each other like planets with perfectly calibrated distance.

Polite. Comfortable. Separate.

I sat there in the dark, and I thought: I’ve been managing this too. Managing the loneliness by staying busy. Managing the disappointment by lowering expectations. Managing my marriage like a department that just needs better systems.

My knee throbbed.

My body, telling the truth I’d been too efficient to hear.

********************

Morning came eventually.

I made coffee. Sat at the kitchen table. Didn’t immediately start planning Martin’s breakfast or checking what needed defrosting or mentally organising the day.

Just sat. Knee aching. Heart aching. Present, for once, in my own discomfort.

Martin came down at eight.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Knee?”

“Among other things.”

He filled the kettle. Started making toast. The familiar routine. Except this morning I watched him and thought: he has no idea. No idea at all.

And why would he? I’d spent our entire marriage making everything look effortless.

“Martin,” I said. “I want to talk.”

“Mm?” He was checking his phone.

“Not now. Tonight. A proper conversation. No television, no phones. Just us.”

He looked up. Something in my voice had reached him.

“Is this about Christmas? Because if Emma’s not coming…”

“It’s not about Emma.”

“Then what?”

“Tonight,” I said. “We’ll talk tonight.”

He looked confused. Worried, maybe.

“Okay,” he said. “Tonight.”

********************

I spent the day doing my physiotherapy exercises.

Sara had given me a sheet. Boring, repetitive movements. Lie on your back, tighten your thigh, hold for five. Sit on a chair, straighten your leg, hold for five.

Progress measured in tiny increments.

I was on my third set when I started crying.

Not sobbing. Just tears running down my face while I held my leg straight and counted. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Lower the leg.

Breathe.

Again.

The exercises were humbling. Tedious. Nothing like the satisfaction of a twenty-mile walk, the accomplishment of reaching a summit.

This was just….maintenance. Management. Acceptance of limitation.

Everything I’d spent my life resisting.

I’d been so good at powering through. So proud of my endurance. Never sick, never weak, never needing help.

And my body had finally called my bluff.

********************

Martin came home at six.

I’d made dinner, nothing fancy, just pasta, but I’d set the table properly. Candles. Wine. He noticed immediately.

“What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. Just us.”

We ate mostly in silence. Not comfortable silence. The waiting kind.

Finally, I put down my fork.

“My physio said something yesterday,” I said. “About how the body compensates. When something hurts, you shift the weight. You adjust. You keep going. Until you can’t anymore.”

Martin was looking at me carefully now.

“I think that’s what we’ve been doing,” I said. “For years. Compensating. Working around the hurt instead of addressing it.”

“Helen…”

“When did we stop talking? Really talking?”

He set down his wine glass. “We talk all the time.”

“About what? Weather? Shopping lists? When did we last talk about something that mattered?”

Long pause. He looked at his plate.

“I thought you were happy,” he said finally. Quietly.

The words landed like stones.

“I thought I was, too,” I said. “I thought if I just managed it properly, like everything else, it would be fine. But my body’s done lying.”

“Your body?”

“My knee gave out because I’ve been ignoring pain for years. Physical pain, yes. But not just that.”

His face showed discomfort. Defensiveness. Fear.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t know who we are anymore. I’m saying I taught Emma to make herself convenient by example. I’m saying you asked if I was alright from another room without getting up, and I said I was fine when I wasn’t, and that’s been our marriage for longer than I want to admit.”

Silence filled the kitchen.

“I didn’t know,” Martin said. “You always seemed…you always seemed fine. More than fine. You always seemed like you had everything under control.”

“That was the point,” I said. “That was always the point. To make it look effortless. To manage everything and everyone and never need anything myself.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“So did I.” I looked at him. “Turns out I was wrong. Turns out you can’t actually do everything, accommodate everyone, and ignore your own pain forever. Eventually, something gives out.”

He flinched.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“I want you to say you’ve noticed. That we’ve grown apart. That we’re polite strangers who happen to share a house.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’ve been working. You’ve been busy. We’ve both been…”

“Compensating,” I said. “Exactly.”

Silence.

Martin’s jaw worked. His hands curled into fists, then released.

“You stopped first,” he said finally. Very quietly. “After you retired. You filled every moment with activities. I thought you didn’t want me around.”

And there it was. The truth we’d both been avoiding.

Maybe I had pulled away first. Maybe he had. Maybe it had happened so gradually that blame was pointless.

Maybe we’d both been Superwoman in our own ways, managing, accommodating, avoiding the mess of actual need.

“I don’t want to leave you,” I said. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need to stop pretending it doesn’t hurt. The knee, yes. But everything else, too. I need you to actually want to know how I am. And I need to learn how to tell you, even when it makes me look weak or needy or not like Superwoman.”

Martin’s eyes were wet.

I’d rarely seen him cry.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

“Neither do I. But I know we can’t fix it by managing it. By compensating around it. By pretending we’re fine.”

He nodded slowly.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

And this time, this time, he waited for the answer.

Two weeks later, I had my second physio appointment. Sara watched me do the exercises. Nodded approvingly.

“You’re progressing,” she said. “Slowly, but that’s how it works.”

“Thrilling,” I said.

She smiled. Handed me a new sheet with more boring movements to add to my collection.

“The knee will probably never be what it was,” she said. “But it can be functional. Strong enough. You just have to accept it’s different now.”

Strong enough.

Not perfect. Not pain-free. Just…enough.

I folded the sheet and put it in my bag.

“Can I ask you something?” Sara said. “Are you doing the exercises?”

“Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Most days.”

“And are you resting when it hurts, or pushing through?” I looked at her. She looked back, patient and knowing.

“Trying to rest,” I said. “It’s harder than it sounds.”

“I know,” she said. “Especially for women like you.”

“Women like me?”

“Women who’ve spent their lives being capable. Being strong. Not needing help.” She smiled. “The body doesn’t care how impressive you’ve been. It just needs you to listen.”

********************

That evening, Emma called.

“Mum? I’ve been thinking. About Christmas.”

“It’s fine, darling. Really.”

“No, listen. Jack and I talked. We’re going to his parents’ on Christmas Day, but we want to come to you on Boxing Day. Just for the day. Is that okay?”

Something in my chest loosened.

“That would be lovely,” I said.

“And Mum? I’m sorry I’ve been rubbish lately. I know I always say I’m too busy and then I don’t…I don’t make time. Like you don’t matter as much.”

“Emma…”

“Jack pointed it out, actually. He said I treat you like you’ll always just fit around everyone else. And he’s right. I learned that from watching you, I think. How you always accommodate everyone.”

I sat down carefully, phone pressed to my ear.

“I’m trying to learn differently,” I said quietly.

“Yeah?” Emma’s voice was soft. “Good. About time, Mum.”

After we hung up, I sat there for a long moment.

Then Martin came in from the garden, he’d been clearing leaves, something he hadn’t done in years, and said, “Tea?”

“I’ll make it,” I said, automatically.

“No,” he said. “I’ll make it. You rest that knee.”

Such a small thing. Tea.

But I sat, and he made it, and when he brought it to me, he sat down too.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About New Year’s. Maybe we could go away somewhere? Nothing strenuous. Just a country hotel. Walks we can manage. Proper time together.”

“You hate country hotels.”

“I hate being asked to hike twenty-five miles in a day,” he said. “A gentle walk, a nice dinner, time to talk? That sounds good, actually.”

I looked at him. Really looked. He looked nervous. Hopeful. Present.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s book something.”

********************

The next Saturday, we walked to the village together. Just to the post office and back. Less than a mile.

My knee twinged on the hill. I stopped.

Martin stopped too. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t suggest we turn back. Just stopped and stood beside me while I caught my breath.

A robin landed on the wall next to us. Bright-eyed, absurdly confident.

“We used to do this,” Martin said. “Just walk. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I miss it,” he said. “I miss you.”

I looked at him. His hair was grey now. So was mine. We’d gotten old while I wasn’t paying attention, too busy managing everything to notice time passing.

“I miss us too,” I said.

We stood there in the cold December air. The robin hopped closer, tilted its head.

“It’s going to be different now,” I said. Not a question.

“Yes,” Martin said.

I didn’t know if it would be better. Didn’t know if we could unlearn decades of accommodation and avoidance. Didn’t know if my knee would ever stop hurting or if I’d ever manage a long walk again.

But I knew we were trying. Actually trying, not just compensating.

That was something.

“Ready?” Martin asked.

I tested my weight on both legs. The knee held. Complained, but held.

“Ready,” I said.

We walked home together.

Martin matched my pace without comment. When I needed to stop again at our gate, he stopped. No impatience. No suggestion I should have stayed home.

Just stopped.

Inside, the Christmas tree still wasn’t decorated. The box sat there, waiting. A project we kept putting off.

“Should we do the tree?” Martin asked.

“Not today,” I said. “I’m tired.”

No apology. No excuse. Just the truth.

“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

Maybe. For once, it didn’t sound like no.

I sat on the sofa, elevated my knee, and wrapped it in ice. Martin brought me tea without being asked. Sat beside me.

We didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. Just sat together while the winter afternoon faded and the house grew dark around us.

My knee throbbed under the ice pack. Honest, unignorable, real.

Teaching me, finally, what I’d spent sixty-four years refusing to learn:

That pain acknowledged is pain that can heal.

That strong enough is enough.

That rest isn’t failure.

Outside, the robin sang its evening song. Inside, Martin’s hand found mine.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

I squeezed his fingers.

“Yes,” I said. “Slowly.”

The way everything worthwhile happens.

The way cartilage doesn’t heal but bodies learn to carry weight differently.

The way marriages break and maybe, if you’re lucky, break open into something truer.

We sat there as darkness fell, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn’t planning the next thing or managing the next crisis or proving I could handle everything.

I was just here.

Hurting, yes.

But here.

And it was enough.

********************

Later, when I went upstairs to bed, slowly, carefully, one step at a time, I paused on the third step from the bottom.

The step where my knee had given out. Where everything had started to unravel. Or perhaps, where everything had started to come together.

Hard to say, really.

I put my hand on the bannister. Felt the smooth wood under my palm. Tested my weight.

The knee held.

I climbed the rest of the stairs and went to sleep.

And for once, I didn’t dream of running.

THE END

 

The post The Year My Knees Learned the Truth – January Short Story. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Romantic comedies ruled the ’80s and ’90s. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks practically invented the professional meet-cute, Julia Roberts showed us how to fall in love while shopping for books, and Hugh Grant’s floppy hair had more charisma than half of Hollywood combined. That golden age might have faded a little, but let’s be honest, our appetite for love stories with a side of laughter isn’t going anywhere.

Rom-coms work because they remind us that falling in love is rarely straightforward, it’s awkward, hilarious, messy, and, when the stars align, magical. And as summer slips away (goodbye rooftop cocktails and whirlwind holiday flings, hello oversized sweaters and pumpkin spice), what better time to look back at how some of the most beloved rom-coms have made the leap from page to screen? Because even if summer romance has packed its bags, the season for cosy re-watches and swoon-worthy stories is eternal.

So grab your popcorn, queue up your streaming service of choice, and let’s dive into seven adaptations that prove true love always plays better with a punchline.

7 Secrets to Craft a Rom-Com That Hooks Every Reader.

#1 – Crazy Rich Asians.
Based on Kevin Kwan’s novel.

When Crazy Rich Asians landed in cinemas, it felt like stepping into a modern-day fairytale, if fairytales involved private jets, couture gowns, and a wedding so extravagant it made everyone rethink their budget for floral arrangements.

Rachel (Constance Wu) and Nick (Henry Golding) might look like your standard rom-com couple: smart, independent woman meets charming, secretly loaded man, but throw in a disapproving mother-in-law, a houseful of snarky cousins, and Singapore’s most lavish parties, and you’ve got yourself rom-com nirvana.

Why it works: The genius of Crazy Rich Asians is that it doesn’t just dazzle with glamour; it grounds all that spectacle in real emotional conflict. Sure, the “wedding of the century” scene is jaw-dropping, but it’s the quiet mahjong match between Rachel and Nick’s formidable mother, Eleanor (Michelle Yeoh), that delivers the emotional punch. Comedy flows naturally from supporting players like Awkwafina’s Peik Lin, but it never distracts from the central romance; it highlights it.

The rom-com element it nails: Conflict. A romance without obstacles is just… nice. And nice doesn’t make for great cinema. Here, the hurdles aren’t random; they come from cultural traditions, generational expectations, and questions of identity.

Lesson for writers: Supporting characters and cultural context aren’t just background, they’re fuel. Use them to raise the stakes, add humour, and deepen the love story. A rom-com world should feel as alive and complicated as real love itself.

#2 – To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.
Based on Jenny Han’s YA novel.

Accidentally mailing all your secret love letters? Nightmare fuel. For Lara Jean Covey (Lana Condor), it’s the start of one of Netflix’s most delightful rom-coms.

Enter Peter Kavinsky (Noah Centineo), her fake boyfriend who quickly becomes very real, very swoon-worthy, and the internet’s collective crush for at least three years running.

Why it works: The fake-dating trope is one of rom-com’s most beloved setups, but this adaptation nails it by making the characters feel authentic. Lara Jean is shy, dreamy, and relatable; Peter is confident yet unexpectedly soft. Their dynamic feels fresh, even though the trope itself is familiar. The comedy comes from the awkwardness of being 16 and trying to control feelings you can’t, while the heart comes from watching two teens surprise themselves with real love.

The rom-com element it nails: Chemistry. Every look, every pause, every hand slipped casually into a back pocket (you know the one) makes us believe these two belong together.

Lesson for writers: Tropes aren’t clichés if you infuse them with specificity. Chemistry doesn’t come from plot devices; it comes from how your characters see and change each other. Details matter.

[image error]

#3 – This Time Next Year.
Based on Sophie Cousens’ novel.

Minnie (Sophie Cookson) and Quinn (Lucien Laviscount) were born just minutes apart on New Year’s Day, which basically screams destiny, but fate decides to toy with them first.

Sophie Cousens adapted her own novel for the screen, which means the movie stays true to its delicious mix of missed chances, serendipity, and laugh-out-loud moments.

Why it works: This is a story built on timing, on the frustrating, funny, and sometimes magical ways life keeps people apart until they’re ready to be together. Minnie and Quinn come from totally different worlds, and their collisions are full of humour, but also filled with that irresistible question: what if? By the time they finally connect, the audience has been strung along in the best way possible.

The rom-com element it nails: Timing. The “will-they/won’t-they” rhythm is central to rom-coms, and this film leans into it with confidence. Every near miss makes the resolution more satisfying.

Lesson for writers: Don’t give away the happy ending too soon. Tension is the engine of romance. Carefully placed obstacles, be it bad timing, self-doubt, or outside forces, make the final payoff feel earned.

#4 – Love, Rosie.
Based on Cecelia Ahern’s Where Rainbows End*

Rosie (Lily Collins) and Alex (Sam Claflin) are childhood best friends who are clearly meant to be together; everyone sees it but them.

Unfortunately, life keeps pulling them in different directions: missed opportunities, bad timing, and more than one awkward wedding toast later, we’re all sitting at home silently screaming, “Just kiss already!”

Why it works: The story captures the heartbreak and beauty of almost-love. Rosie’s setbacks are sometimes funny, sometimes frustrating, but always relatable. The humour in her misadventures keeps the story from tipping into pure tragedy, and the slow-burn romance makes every “almost” feel meaningful.

The rom-com element it nails: Longing. Some love stories burn fast; this one simmers for decades. It’s a masterclass in keeping audiences invested without losing them to frustration.

Lesson for writers: Long timelines require precision. Each near miss should deepen the connection rather than stall it. And sprinkling in humour ensures the audience roots for the couple, not against them.

#5 – Me Before You.
Based on Jojo Moyes’ novel

Louisa Clark (Emilia Clarke) is all quirky outfits and sunshine; Will Traynor (Sam Claflin) is broody and bitter after an accident changes his life.

Their relationship starts with sarcasm and side-eye, then slowly turns into something transformative. And yes, tissues are mandatory.

Why it works: Though it veers more toward drama, the rom-com DNA is strong. Lou’s relentless optimism and Will’s dry wit create some of the best banter in recent memory. The humour adds levity to the film’s heavier themes, making the love story feel both tender and real.

The rom-com element it nails: Banter. Quick, witty dialogue is the lifeblood of rom-coms. Lou and Will prove that laughter can bridge even the widest emotional gaps.

Lesson for writers: Don’t fear mixing tones. Humour doesn’t cheapen serious stories; it amplifies them. Let levity give your audience space to breathe so the emotional moments land harder.

#6 – Turtles All the Way Down.
Based on John Green’s novel

Aza Holmes (Isabela Merced) is a teenager living with OCD who reconnects with her childhood crush, Davis (Felix Mallard). Their romance is messy, tender, and at times awkwardly funny, just like real first love.

Why it works: This isn’t a glossy rom-com filled with grand gestures; it’s quiet and authentic. The humour comes in small doses, moments of levity between Aza’s spirals, that remind us romance doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

The rom-com element it nails: Authenticity. The film leans into imperfections, showing that love can exist alongside struggle. The laughs may be softer, but they’re no less important.

Lesson for writers: Realness resonates. Don’t be afraid to let your characters be vulnerable, flawed, or messy. Comedy can come from honesty as much as from hijinks.

 

#7 – The Idea of You.
Based on Robinne Lee’s novel.

Anne Hathaway as Solène, a sophisticated 40-year-old single mom, falling for Hayes (Nicholas Galitzine), a much younger boy band star?

On paper, it sounds like pure tabloid fodder. On screen, it’s surprisingly smart, funny, and deeply romantic.

Why it works: This film could’ve leaned on clichés but instead grounds itself in emotional truth. Hathaway plays Solène with warmth and wit, while Galitzine’s Hayes feels both magnetic and vulnerable. The comedy comes from the absurdity of their worlds colliding, but the story digs deeper into themes of agency, desire, and societal judgment.

The rom-com element it nails: Breaking expectations. By centring a mature heroine and exploring an unconventional age-gap romance, the film pushes the rom-com into new, refreshing territory.

Lesson for writers: Don’t box yourself in. Rom-coms don’t have to be about twentysomethings meeting cute in coffee shops. Bold premises and layered conflicts can breathe new life into a familiar genre.

Final Thoughts.

From the glittering spectacle of Crazy Rich Asians to the slow-burn ache of Love, Rosie, and the raw honesty of Turtles All the Way Down, these adaptations prove rom-coms aren’t one-size-fits-all. They can be big or small, silly or serious, sweet or bittersweet. What matters is that they make us laugh, make us care, and remind us that love is as complicated as it is joyful.

For writers, the lessons are clear:

Embrace tropes, but twist them.Let humour soften heartbreak.Make supporting characters earn their place.Play with timing to build tension. And don’t shy away from authenticity or depth.

Because at the end of the day, love is awkward, unpredictable, and often ridiculous, and that’s precisely why we’ll always want to watch two people fumble their way toward it, whether on the page or the screen.

Now it’s YOUR turn – Which rom-com adaptation is your favourite?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post 7 Rom-Com Adaptations We Love. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Picture this: You’re watching a movie, or reading a book, and suddenly…bam! There’s something in the background, a minor detail, a subtle hint that makes you go, “Wait a second, what’s that all about?”

Maybe it’s a colour, an object, or even an eerie silence. That, my friend, is symbolism at work, quietly doing its thing, deepening the story and giving you all the feels.

Symbolism isn’t just a cool trick up a writer or director’s sleeve. It’s the magic dust that makes a story sparkle and stick with you long after you’ve turned off the TV or closed the book. While everyone talks about colour, nature, and objects as symbols (and for good reason), let’s dive into some fresh ways symbolism is popping up in movies and books over the last 10-15 years.

Ready for a wild ride through the world of hidden meanings? Here we go!

5 Ways Symbolism Transforms Modern Storytelling.

#1 – Techy Symbols: Are We More Human or More Alien?

We’re living in a digital world, right? Social media, A.I., virtual realities… it’s all around us. So it’s no surprise that technology has become the ultimate symbol in recent stories.

In the hands of creative geniuses, tech isn’t just a tool, it’s a reflection of who we are, or maybe who we’re becoming.

Take “Ex Machina”, it’s more than just a slick sci-fi flick. The AI, Ava, is this cold, calculating, gorgeous machine. But symbolically? Ava is both the pinnacle of human achievement and a terrifying glimpse into a world where technology no longer needs us. She’s a reminder that in our quest to be the smartest species, we might end up creating something that makes us feel… well, obsolete.

And in “Black Mirror” (a whole series packed with tech symbolism), things get even crazier. In the episode “Nosedive”, social media ratings take over people’s lives, think of it as Instagram on steroids.

Your value as a person? It’s based on how many likes you get. It’s hilarious, it’s terrifying, and it’s definitely a symbol for how obsessed we’ve become with online approval and validation. It’s not just about tech, it’s about what tech is doing to our humanity

#2 – Cities: The Concrete Jungle Inside Our Heads.

We often think of cities as just… cities. But in modern stories, urban landscapes have become totally symbolic. The hustle and bustle of skyscrapers, the neon lights, and the endless noise, what if they represent our own mental chaos?

Welcome to the world of symbolism in city settings, where the concrete jungle mirrors emotional turbulence, growth, and everything in between.

“Blade Runner 2049” is a prime example. The sprawling, bleak, neon-lit Los Angeles isn’t just a setting; it’s a visual metaphor for the internal conflict of the main character, K.

The city is decaying, polluted, and lifeless, just like K’s perception of his own identity. The more he digs into his personal journey, the more the city’s dark and lonely vibe feels like a reflection of his inner turmoil. Cities can represent isolation, moral decay, or even hope, depending on how the story wants to spin it!

Then there’s “The Dark Knight”, where Gotham City is like this wild mix of a pressure cooker and a moral battleground. The city’s crime-ridden streets and towering buildings aren’t just cool backdrops, they show the moral chaos and power struggles of the characters, especially Batman and the Joker.

Gotham isn’t just Gotham; it’s a living, breathing symbol of the choices we make when faced with evil.

#3 – Music and Sound: Not Just for Background Vibes.

You know how the right soundtrack can turn an ordinary scene into something extraordinary? Music and sound have long been used to set the emotional tone of a scene, think triumphant orchestras for battle scenes or soft piano for tender moments. 

But modern filmmakers and storytellers are taking it to a whole new level, using sound not just to accompany the action, but to symbolise the emotional core of the story itself. It’s like the music becomes a secret character, guiding you through the character’s psyche.

Let’s start with “La La Land”, a movie that’s all about the highs and lows of following your dreams and finding love. But the music isn’t just there to make you want to dance; it’s deeply symbolic of the emotional arc of the characters. 

Take, for example, the jazz Sebastian plays in his club. It’s not just a musical style; it symbolises his personal struggle to keep his artistic integrity in a world that’s constantly pulling him in other directions. As the movie progresses, the music reflects the tension between his relationship with Mia and his dreams.

The soaring, bold scores during their moments of joy contrast with the sombre, more reflective tones when they face tough decisions. It’s as if the music is saying, “These are the emotions you can’t express in words.”

In “Her”, music is used even more subtly but with just as much impact. The soft, ambient soundtracks are like an emotional map for Theodore’s journey. At the beginning, the music feels a little distant, mirroring Theodore’s loneliness and emotional detachment. 

But as he grows closer to the AI, Samantha, and opens up to his own feelings, the music shifts in tone, softer, more intimate, and, dare I say, more hopeful. The way music swells and recedes tracks his internal transformation, making us feel exactly what he’s going through without a single word being spoken.

Music and sound, when used in this symbolic way, can dig deeper than any dialogue could. They help us understand the emotional undercurrents of a story, filling in the gaps between what the characters say and what they truly feel. Whether it’s the melancholy tones of a jazz piano, the ambient whispers of an electronic score, or the silence that speaks volumes, these elements give modern stories an emotional depth that resonates long after the credits roll.

#4 – Memory and Time: When Time Bends and Memory Gets Messy.

Here’s something we all can relate to: how time feels is not always how it works. Time flies when you’re having fun and drags when you’re stuck in a waiting room. And when it comes to memory, well, that’s even trickier. 

Have you ever tried to recall a moment, only to realise that your memory of it is a little hazy, or even entirely different from someone else’s recollection?

Time and memory aren’t just tools for storytelling; they are symbols that shape the entire emotional experience of modern films and books.

“Inception” plays with the very fabric of time. Dream worlds don’t obey the rules of reality, which is exactly why they make such a powerful metaphor for the human psyche. In the dream layers, time stretches and bends; what feels like hours in a dream can pass in mere minutes in the real world. 

This manipulation of time isn’t just a narrative device; it’s symbolic of how memory and perception work.
Just like in dreams, our memories can become distorted or out of order, and our perception of time often has nothing to do with what actually happened. The deeper Cobb and his team go into the dream layers, the more the boundaries between past and present, reality and illusion, blur.

The movie challenges us to think about how we construct our memories and what they say about who we are.

In “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”, time and memory are central to the story’s emotional impact. The entire plot revolves around the process of erasing memories of a failed relationship, but here’s the catch: the more the characters try to forget, the more they realise they want to remember. 

The movie shows us that even painful memories are part of who we are. Time, in this case, isn’t linear. It’s messy and fragmented, just like the way we experience life. The film uses the erasure of memories to symbolically represent how we often try to rid ourselves of the pain of the past, but in doing so, we lose the lessons and emotional growth that come with those memories.

The beauty of these films is how they use time and memory to symbolise the human struggle with regret, identity, and acceptance. 

Both “Inception” and “Eternal Sunshine” ask profound questions: What is the cost of revisiting painful memories? What does time really mean in the context of our lives? By manipulating time and memory in such creative ways, these stories tap into universal emotions, helping us connect with the characters on a much deeper, more visceral level.

These symbolic explorations of memory and time serve as reminders that life itself isn’t always neat and tidy. Our memories shape us in ways we might not even realise, and time, well, it’s a lot less dependable than we think.

#5 – Silence: The Unsung Symbol.

In a world that never stops talking, silence can say a lot. When used strategically in stories, silence becomes a potent symbol of tension, isolation, or reflection. It’s not just about being quiet, it’s about what’s left unsaid, what’s unheard.

In “A Quiet Place”, the need for silence isn’t just about survival from monsters (although, you know, that’s a big part of it).

It symbolises the emotional restraint and trauma the characters have experienced. It’s also a reminder of how we communicate with each other when words aren’t enough. Silence becomes a symbol of loss, love, and the strength to protect.

In “The Artist”, the transition from silent films to talkies is symbolic of the fear of obsolescence.
The characters must adapt to a changing world, and the silence in the early part of the movie symbolises the protagonist’s growing isolation and the struggle to find his place in a world that’s moving forward without him

Wrapping It Up: Symbolism is the Secret Sauce!

And there you have it, symbolism isn’t just for deep thinkers or literary nerds; it’s the secret sauce that takes a good story and turns it into something unforgettable. Whether it’s through technology that reflects our anxieties about the future, urban landscapes that mirror emotional chaos, or music and sound becoming the unsung heroes of a film’s emotional depth, modern stories are packed with symbolism that enriches every single frame or sentence.

The brilliance of symbolism lies in its subtlety. It’s often there in the background, waiting for us to catch on and make the connection. When done right, symbolism doesn’t just tell you what’s happening, it helps you feel it, often on a deeper level. It challenges us to look beyond the surface, to interpret what’s unspoken, and to reflect on the emotional and philosophical currents that drive the story.

Next time you’re diving into a book or movie, try to tune in to the symbols at play. Whether it’s a piece of music that resonates with a character’s journey, a city that feels like the emotional state of its residents, or the manipulation of time that mirrors the complexity of human experience, these symbols are there for a reason. 

And once you start noticing them, you’ll see how they make stories even richer, deeper, and more real. Now go ahead, grab that book, press play on that movie, and uncover the hidden gems that make stories truly come alive!

Now it’s YOUR turn – What’s a symbol in a story that’s stuck with you?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post How Symbolism Shapes Modern Narratives. appeared first on Vered Neta.

This summer, I decided to give myself a BHAG, yep, a Big Hairy Audacious Goal. And not just any BHAG: finishing my novel Crime Cleaners.

The seed for it was planted last year when I dared myself to write a TV pilot. The Universe (in its usual, not-so-subtle way) kept nudging me, whispering, “This idea is too good to stay tucked in a drawer.” So, I thought, why not expand it into a full-blown novel?

Of course, life being life, the manuscript never made it past the “dreaming about it in the shower” stage.
Fast-forward to June: with a little push from my mentor and a lot of coffee-fueled determination, I declared I would finish the book in three months. Three months! For someone who’s never written crime before.
(Yes, I know. What was I thinking?)

Which meant only one thing: a crash course in all things crime, thriller, and tension. Because if suspense is the lifeblood of a good mystery, I needed a transfusion.

And that’s when it hit me. You know that moment when you stay up way past bedtime, telling yourself just one more chapter, only to see the sunrise peeking through your blinds? That’s not an accident.
That’s suspense at work, engineered, brick by brick, by a writer who knows exactly how to twist the knife.

And over the last decade, storytellers have been upping the ante, blending timeless tricks with daring new techniques that keep us flipping pages (or binging episodes) like our lives depend on it.

Here are 7 tension-building techniques that’ll keep your story buzzing like a live wire.

7 Secrets to Take Your Plot from Tame to Tension-Filled.

#1 – The Ticking Clock: Deadlines that Tighten the Screws.

There’s something about a ticking clock that makes us all squirm. Maybe it’s leftover exam anxiety, or the fact that most of us have raced to catch a train with seconds to spare, but the moment you add a deadline to a story, the tension shoots through the roof.

Time pressure doesn’t just speed things up; it makes every decision heavier, every mistake costlier. Characters can’t waffle when the sand in the hourglass is almost gone, they have to act, and usually under the worst possible circumstances.

The beauty of this trick is that it works on both big, explosive scales (the bomb goes off at midnight unless…) and on smaller, intimate ones (the truth has to come out before the wedding starts).

Either way, readers feel that same sweaty-palmed urgency. Our heartbeats start syncing with the countdown, and suddenly we’re racing right alongside the characters, praying they’ll make it, or morbidly curious if they won’t.

Take Before I Go to Sleep, with Nicole Kidman uses a chilling version of the ticking clock.
Christine, the protagonist, suffers from amnesia and wakes up every morning with no memory of her life.
Each day is essentially a reset button. The ticking clock here is brutal: she has only the span of a single day to piece together who she is, what’s happening around her, and who she can trust, before sleep erases it all.

That daily reset builds relentless tension, because every scrap of truth must be uncovered (and acted on) before the clock strikes midnight

#2 – Suspense Objects: When an Item Carries the Weight of Fear.

Sometimes it isn’t a villain lurking in the shadows or a bomb about to go off that ties our stomachs in knots; sometimes it’s an object.

A single, ordinary-looking item that quietly hums with danger because of what it represents. Think about it: a lipstick-stained glass, a bloodied shoe, a locked box no one dares to open.

These objects aren’t just props; they’re narrative landmines.

Why do they work so well? Because objects are deceptively static.
They just sit there, until suddenly, they don’t. The suspense isn’t only in the thing itself, but in the audience’s anticipation: who’s going to find it, when will it resurface, and what chaos will it unleash when it does?
That tension can simmer for pages or scenes, making the reveal all the more explosive.

Take Tenet, Christopher Nolan’s time-bending thriller. On the surface, the “inverted bullet” is nothing more than a hunk of lead. But when the Protagonist discovers bullets moving backwards through time, that object flips the rules of the entire story.

Suddenly, every stray bullet casing is loaded with dread, proof of a hidden war where cause and effect no longer apply. The audience leans in, waiting to see what the next encounter with one will mean: is it evidence, a warning, or the start of something catastrophic?

That’s the beauty of suspense objects: they may be silent, but they scream potential disaster.

#3 – False Victories: Relief That Turns Sour.

There’s nothing juicier than watching characters and audiences believe they’ve triumphed, only to realise the story has sucker-punched them.

False victories deliver that gut-dropping whiplash: the relief evaporates, dread floods in, and suddenly the characters are worse off than before. Suspense thrives on these cruel reversals.

Writers love false victories because they toy with emotional rhythm.
A narrative can’t be all tension, all the time; we’d flatline. But letting readers exhale, only to pull the rug out, amplifies the next wave of panic tenfold. It’s the storytelling equivalent of “the call is coming from inside the house.”

Take The Night Agent. Peter believes he’s finally uncovered a trustworthy ally or solved a crucial piece of the conspiracy, and for a moment, we breathe alongside him. But almost instantly, betrayal slams the door shut. The person he trusted is compromised, or the apparent breakthrough leads straight into another trap.

Those false victories don’t just raise tension; they make us paranoid, scanning every new development with suspicion

#4 – Multi-Perspective Suspense: Seeing Danger From All Sides.

One of the sharpest tools in a suspense writer’s kit is letting the audience peek behind multiple curtains.

When we follow more than one perspective, the story transforms into a dramatic irony playground. We know Character A is about to walk into Character B’s trap, and the dread is exquisite.

This technique is effective because it engages the reader as an active participant. Instead of passively waiting for reveals, we’re actively calculating the collision course. The tension doesn’t just live in what’s hidden; it thrives in the unbearable wait for two (or more) storylines to smash together.

Think of Big Little Lies. The story unfolds through multiple women’s perspectives, each adding new layers of secrecy, pain, and motive. We, the audience, are ahead of some characters but behind on others, always juggling truths and half-truths. By the time the infamous school fundraiser night arrives, the suspense is unbearable, not because of a single secret, but because we’ve been living in multiple conflicting truths, just waiting for the explosion.

#5 – Cliffhangers with a Twist: The Art of the Cruel Cut.

Cliffhangers are the bread and butter of suspense, but the best storytellers don’t just slam the brakes mid-action…they add a twist of the knife.

A truly effective cliffhanger doesn’t merely delay resolution; it changes the question. Instead of “Will they survive?” it becomes “Wait… what just happened?”

Audiences adore (and hate) this because it creates double suspense: first, the immediate situation, then the brain itch of the new uncertainty. It’s why binge-watching exists. Who can stop when you’ve been served a revelation with no follow-up?

Case in point: Severance. The finale drops one of the most gasp-worthy cliffhangers of recent years: just as characters in the “innie” world manage to awaken in their “outie” lives and start unravelling their reality, the screen cuts to black. We don’t just wonder if they’ll succeed, we’re floored by the implications of what we’ve glimpsed. It’s suspense squared, the kind that keeps fans dissecting episodes for months.

#6 – Unconventional Structures: Breaking Time to Build Tension.

Sometimes suspense isn’t about what happens but how it’s told. Messing with structure, fractured timelines, looping narratives, and nested stories can leave audiences off-balance in the best way.

When we’re unsure of where we stand in time or truth, the act of piecing the story together becomes its own source of tension.

The magic of unconventional structures lies in their ability to mirror uncertainty. If a character is lost, traumatised, or desperately trying to make sense of the world, the form of the story itself can pull us into that experience. The suspense isn’t just in the plot; it’s baked into the storytelling fabric.

Take Station Eleven. Instead of a linear pandemic narrative, the series splinters across decades, weaving between pre-collapse life and the fragile communities built after. That non-linear approach forces viewers to hold fragmented knowledge, anticipating how different timelines will intersect. The suspense lives not only in survival, but in the haunting gaps between what we know and what hasn’t yet been revealed.

#7 – Wild Cards: The Character Who Blows It All Up.

If suspense thrives on uncertainty, then nothing is more deliciously destabilising than a wild card character.

These are the unpredictable players, the loose cannons, the tricksters, the ones whose motives are murky at best. With them in the mix, every scene hums with the question: “What will they do next?”

Wild cards keep tension alive because they prevent the narrative from becoming too neat. Just when you think you’ve mapped the trajectory, they zig where everyone else zags. Sometimes they’re allies, sometimes enemies, and often both within the same story beat.

Think of Villanelle in Killing Eve. As a brilliant but unhinged assassin, she transforms every encounter into a suspense bomb. Will she kill, seduce, vanish, or do something utterly bizarre? Her presence alone destabilises the narrative, ensuring that even the quietest moments hum with dread and anticipation.

Final Thoughts.

Suspense isn’t about cheap jump scares or dangling readers over the edge of a cliff just for the thrill of it.
It’s about trust, the delicious pact between writer and audience that says, “I’m going to make you sweat, but I promise it will be worth it.”

Whether it’s a countdown clock, a haunting object, a false victory, or a wild card you didn’t see coming, these techniques all serve the same purpose: to keep the pages turning and the audience perched on the very edge of their seat.

And here’s the magic: suspense isn’t just for crime novels or high-octane thrillers. Romance, fantasy, literary fiction, even comedy, all of them can hum with tension if you know how to twist the screws just right. Suspense is less about genre, more about rhythm: stretching, tightening, and then releasing, like a storyteller’s heartbeat syncing with the reader’s.

Now it’s YOUR turn – What’s the most suspenseful story you’ve read or watched lately?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post How to Write Suspense That Hooks Readers. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Let’s be honest: sometimes the world feels like one big tragic mess…with traffic. Life throws wars, heartbreak, injustice, medical diagnoses, and family dinners at us, and just when we think we can’t take it anymore… someone cracks a joke.

And somehow, we feel better.

That’s the magical power of humour. And guess what? It works just as well in stories. Whether on the page or on the big screen, humour isn’t just the comic relief; it’s often the key to unlocking life’s most brutal truths.

In fact, humour is like a Trojan horse. It sneaks past our defences, carrying deep emotional payloads hidden inside a bellyful of jokes. When used well, it makes the unbearable bearable, the complex digestible, and the tragic somehow beautiful.

So let’s explore seven ways humour helps us tackle serious themes in writing and movies and peek at some brilliant examples that make us laugh, cry, and rethink everything in between.

7 Ways Writers Use Humor to Tackle Tough Topics.

#1 – Humour Makes the Unbearable Bearable.

Let’s start with the big one. Some themes, like war, genocide, or suicide, are so heavy that they risk sinking the entire story. That’s where humour floats in like a life raft.

Used sparingly and smartly, humour can create a breather, a pause button, or even a survival mechanism. It doesn’t erase the pain; it helps us stay in the room with it.

Look at Life is Beautiful . Yes, it’s an “oldie”, but it earns its spot. In this Oscar-winning gem, Roberto Benigni’s tells the story of a Jewish-Italian man who uses humour and imagination to shield his son from the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp. On paper, that sounds horrifying. How can you make jokes in a Holocaust film?

But Benigni doesn’t use humour to make light of genocide. He uses it to emphasise the resilience of the human spirit. His comedic approach makes the tragedy hit harder, not softer. It’s precisely because we laugh with the characters that we care so deeply when things take a tragic turn.

Or take The Midnight Library by Matt Haig. Who tells the story of a woman stuck in the fog of depression and lands in a magical library between life and death, she begins hopping through alternate versions of her life. Sounds grim? It kind of is. But Haig sprinkles just enough dry humour and clever dialogue to make the journey feel life-affirming rather than bleak.

#2 – Humour Builds Connection with the Audience.

Let’s face it: nobody wants to be lectured.
We don’t want a morality play.

We want characters who feel real, flawed, funny, and full of contradictions.

Humour makes them likeable, even when the story is tackling themes like loss, trauma, or mental illness.

It’s like saying, “Hey, I get you,” with a wink.

A great example of this is Taika Waititi’s Jojo Rabbit, a satire about a 10-year-old boy in Nazi Germany whose imaginary friend is Adolf Hitler (played by Waititi himself, complete with a gloriously ridiculous moustache). That setup alone is enough to raise eyebrows.

But the humour here disarms the audience. We’re drawn into Jojo’s world, and as the absurdity gives way to heartbreak, the impact is devastating. The film sneaks empathy in through a side door, using jokes to build a bond between the viewer and the characters.

Or the book (later adapted to a movie), Where’d You Go, Bernadette by Maria Semple. Bernadette is brilliant, eccentric, socially allergic, and deeply troubled. But oh, she’s funny. Her sardonic tone and biting commentary make her instantly engaging. The story covers anxiety, isolation, and identity, but we’re too busy chuckling to notice we’ve stumbled into something profound.

#3 – Humour Exposes Hypocrisy and Absurdity.

Sometimes the world is just… ridiculous. And satire is the best way to call out the madness.

Humour here doesn’t lighten the blow…
it delivers it. By exaggerating real-life absurdities, stories shine a spotlight on what’s broken, from political systems to social norms.

Just watch Don’t Look Up, where scientists discover a comet is about to destroy Earth. Great. So they tell the world.

The world… shrugs. Welcome to a scathing satire of climate denial, celebrity culture, and the 24-hour news cycle. It’s outrageous, hilarious, and terrifying because it feels just a bit too real.

Or read My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite, where Korede keeps cleaning up after her little sister’s murders. Like, literally. This Nigerian noir novel uses deadpan humour to slice into gender roles, family dynamics, and systemic injustice. The absurdity makes you laugh, until you realise how plausible it all feels.

#4 – Humour Reveals the Humanity in Tragedy.

In real life, people joke at funerals. They laugh in waiting rooms. Gallows humour is how many of us stay sane. So when fictional characters face dark times with a sense of humour, it doesn’t break the mood; it grounds it.

Because people are weird. And weird is wonderful.

Take Fleabag. Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s creation is raw, reckless, and razor-sharp. She’s grieving and spiralling, but instead of melodrama, we get deadpan looks to the camera, brutally honest monologues, and inappropriate jokes. It’s hilarious. It’s heartbreaking. It’s life.

Another favourite of mine is The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion. Don Tillman, a brilliant but socially awkward genetics professor, sets out to find a wife using a scientifically rigorous questionnaire. What unfolds is a surprisingly tender story about neurodivergence, emotional isolation, and learning to love without scripts.

The humour, quirky, deadpan, and sometimes unintentional, makes Don’s inner world accessible and deeply human. You laugh with him, and through that laughter, you start to see the tragedy of someone trying so hard to connect in a world that doesn’t quite get him.

[image error]

#5 – Humour Encourages Reflection Without Defensiveness.

If you want people to rethink their worldview, humour is your secret weapon. No soapboxes. No finger-wagging. Just jokes that sneak truth past people’s defences. Humour invites readers and viewers to laugh first… and think later.

The Menu explores a pretentious, high-end dinner that turns into a delicious takedown of elitism, class warfare, and the commodification of art. It’s tense. It’s gory. It’s hilarious. And somehow, amid the chaos, you’ll start questioning why we put certain people, and particular tastes, on pedestals.

The satirical novel The Sellout by Paul Beatty doesn’t ask politely for your attention; it grabs it and dunks it in biting wit. Beatty tackles race, politics, and historical trauma with such outrageous humour that you can’t look away. You laugh, you cringe, and then you go back and read it again because… damn.

#6 – Humour Enhances the Impact of the Tragic.

Here’s the emotional one-two punch: make us laugh, then make us cry. That emotional whiplash can leave a bigger impact than either emotion alone. When we care about characters because they made us laugh, their pain hits harder.

One of my favourite examples is About Time. On the surface, it’s a charming rom-com about a man who can time-travel.

But as the story unfolds, it becomes a deeply emotional meditation on love, loss, and the fleeting nature of life. The film is full of playful British humour, awkward dinner scenes, time-travel mishaps, and self-deprecating narration, but by the end, it breaks your heart in the gentlest, most beautiful way.

The humour makes you feel safe, and then…bam, it teaches you to cherish the ordinary moments that slip by unnoticed.

Or the excellent book A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. Ove is grumpy, suicidal, and not exactly cuddly. But he’s also a magnet for chaos: stray cats, clueless neighbours, runaway trailers. The humour makes us root for him… which makes his backstory and slow emotional thaw incredibly moving

#7 -Humour Reflects How People Cope in Real Life.

If you’ve ever laughed at a wildly inappropriate moment, congratulations…you’re human.

Humour isn’t just entertainment. It’s a coping mechanism, a shield, a pressure valve. And great stories reflect that truth.

Just look at The Big Sick. Based on Kumail Nanjiani’s real-life love story, this rom-com tackles illness, culture clash, and heartbreak with jokes…Lots of them.

From awkward parents to failed stand-up gigs, the humour makes the love story authentic. Because love isn’t always poetic, it’s often messy and funny and real.

Another great example is Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman.
Eleanor has strict routines, no friends, and no filter. Her trauma is deep, but her voice is hilariously blunt.
The dry humour doesn’t mask the pain—it reveals it. And we love her all the more because she makes us laugh in spite of it all.

Final Thoughts: Humour Isn’t an Escape…It’s an Entry Point.

There’s a myth that serious themes require solemn storytelling. That humour somehow cheapens tragedy, dilutes truth, or distracts from depth.

But the opposite is often true.

Humour is one of the oldest tools humans have for processing the unprocessable. It gives us courage. It makes bitter truths easier to swallow. It builds connection, fosters reflection, and reminds us of our shared humanity.

Whether it’s a sarcastic protagonist deflecting pain, a biting satire revealing societal absurdity, or a laugh in the midst of heartbreak, humour invites us to engage with stories we might otherwise avoid.

So go ahead. Write that dark comedy. Pen that witty tragicomedy. Add a joke to your trauma narrative. Life is messy, and sometimes the best way to get through it is to laugh.

Now it’s YOUR turn – What story made you laugh and cry at the same time?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post Serious Laughs: Using Humour to Tell Powerful Stories. appeared first on Vered Neta.

Let me share a little secret about my novel, “Full Circle”. It didn’t start out as a story about Prague or the Russian invasion. Nope. My original idea was a tale about race and the bonds of friendship.
The big question behind it all? “Can Black and white people be true friends without race getting in the way?”

The book was going to bounce between Birmingham, Alabama, in 2014, and Prague in 1968. In both places, one character would be on the receiving end of racism. Not the in-your-face kind, but the quiet, paper-cut kind. The kind that stings more because it’s subtle, daily, and often brushed aside. I even toyed with calling it Small Cuts. Clever, right?

Then came my beta readers. Wonderful, honest humans who gently pointed out: “This isn’t your story to tell.” And they were right. While I could research and empathise all day long, I couldn’t authentically capture the lived experience of a Black American facing systemic racism. So I zoomed in on the story I could tell truthfully, the one in Prague, centred on a Jewish student during the Russian invasion. That story became “Full Circle”, and the entire journey raised a burning question:

How do we respectfully write stories set in cultures that aren’t our own?

Grab your metaphorical passport, friends, because we’re going on a journey through the wonderful, messy terrain of cross-cultural storytelling.

Culture Is a Mosaic, Not a Monolith. Here’s the thing: Writers are curious creatures. We’re drawn to the unfamiliar, the unknown, the stories that live beyond our picket fences. Writing across cultures is one of the most powerful tools we have to build empathy. But let’s be real…it’s also a minefield. One wrong step and boom: you’ve exoticised, stereotyped, or flat-out offended.

In today’s hyper-aware world, audiences are paying attention. And that’s a good thing. It means we’re being held to higher standards. No more “Well, I meant well…” as a free pass.

So, how do we do it right? What does respectful representation actually look like?

7 Steps to Writing Diverse Stories Well.

Step One: Remember Why Representation Matters (And No, It’s Not About Diversity Bingo).

Representation isn’t just about variety. It’s about validity. Seeing your story, or something close to it, in a book or on screen sends the message: “You exist. You matter.”

But when all we see are stereotypes: the wise old Asian, the spicy Latina, the Arab terrorist, the greedy Jew,  it tells a different story: “You’re a type, not a person.”

Take Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Through the eyes of Nigerian protagonist Ifemelu, we explore identity, race, and immigration in both Nigeria and America. It’s a story rich in specificity, but that’s what makes it universal. You don’t need to be Nigerian to relate to feeling like an outsider or questioning who you are in a new place.
By the way, check her TED talk about The danger of a single story… absolutely brilliant.

In a nutshell, great representation deepens the world for everyone.

Step Two: Research Like You Mean It.

Can you write about a culture that isn’t yours? Yes.

Should you? That depends. But if you decide to take the plunge, do your homework.

Lazy writing is where the wheels come off. Google alone won’t cut it. You need to read books, watch documentaries, talk to people, and spend time in that culture’s spaces if possible. Better yet, work with cultural consultants.

Consider Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan. It’s dripping with details: food, family dynamics, Singlish expressions that make the Singaporean-Chinese world come alive. Why? Because Kwan knows that world inside and out. Authenticity is in the texture.

Now contrast that with The Great Wall, a fantasy flick featuring Matt Damon as the hero who saves ancient China. Beautiful visuals, but culturally tone-deaf. It transformed a sweeping legend into another “white saviour” saga. Big yikes.

Moral of the story? If you’re going to step into someone else’s cultural shoes, don’t just try them on for a scene. Live in them for a while.

Step Three: Stereotypes Are Easy. Nuance Takes Guts.

We all have mental shortcuts about cultures, some harmless, many not. The key to writing across cultures is pushing past the stereotypes.

Take Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng. It tells the story of a mixed-race Chinese-American family in 1970s Ohio.

Ng doesn’t hammer you over the head with race talk. Instead, it weaves into the characters’ daily lives: the father’s discomfort with his identity, the mother’s broken dreams, the kids’ struggle to fit in. It’s a story first, race included, not a story about race.

Now, remember Sixteen Candles? The infamous Long Duk Dong character? A cringey caricature complete with gongs and broken English. It didn’t age well because it was never respectful to begin with.

Good writing resists flattening people. It goes deeper.

Step Four: Ask Yourself, “Whose Story Is This, Really?” .

Here’s the spicy bit: Just because you can write a story doesn’t mean you should.

Jeanine Cummins’ American Dirt attempted
to tell a powerful migrant story about a Mexican woman fleeing cartel violence.
The problem? Many Latinx readers found the book riddled with stereotypes, factual errors, and a tone that felt more like trauma tourism than empathy.

Compare that with Moonlight, directed by Barry Jenkins. While it isn’t cross-cultural in the traditional sense, it’s a perfect example of a filmmaker telling a story from within his community. The result? A nuanced, quiet masterpiece that resonates far beyond the Black queer experience it portrays.

So ask yourself: Why am I telling this story? Do I bring lived experience, deep knowledge, or genuine curiosity? Or am I just chasing a trend?

Step Five: Collaborate, Don’t Colonise.

You don’t have to do it alone. In fact, you shouldn’t.

Look at Pixar’s Coco. While the creators weren’t Mexican, they collaborated with cultural advisors, travelled through Mexico, talked to families, and listened.

The result? A film that Mexican and Latinx audiences overwhelmingly embraced.

Compare that to Disney’s Pocahontas.
Pretty visuals, but riddled with historical inaccuracies and romanticised colonisation. The difference? Coco collaborated. Pocahontas assumed.

Invite people into your process, not as checkboxes, but as co-creators. Authenticity is a team sport.

Step Six: Sweat the Small Stuff.

Names, slang, gestures, meals, clothing, these aren’t just decorative. They’re loaded with meaning.

In Pachinko by Min Jin Lee, the details are stunning. Korean names, honorifics, historical tensions, family customs, they’re all woven in with care. Lee spent years researching. It shows.

On the flip side, we’ve all seen movies where characters wear the wrong traditional outfit or say something so off that it pulls you right out of the story. (Looking at you, Hollywood wardrobe departments that confuse cheongsam with hanbok.)

If your Indian character eats beef or your Nigerian one casually says “cheerio,” it’s not quirky. It’s sloppy.

Details either build your world or unravel it. Choose wisely.

Step Seven: Support Own Voices.

Here’s some good news: the tide is turning. The publishing and film industries are finally giving more space to Own Voices storytellers, those telling stories from within their communities.

Books like Angie Thomas’ The Hate U Give or Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous couldn’t have been written from the outside. They ring with emotional truth.

Lulu Wang’s The Farewell is another gem. Based on her own family experience, it tells the story of a Chinese-American woman grappling with cultural clashes and a family secret. It’s funny, poignant, and feels utterly lived-in.

Writing across cultures isn’t off-limits. But it also isn’t a free-for-all. Sometimes, the most respectful thing you can do is amplify someone else’s voice instead of speaking over it.

So, What’s the Bottom Line?

Writing across cultures isn’t about walking on eggshells. It’s about writing with care. About asking: “What do I owe the people I’m writing about?”

The answer? Curiosity. Humility. Honesty. And above all, respect.

When you get it right, your story doesn’t just work; it resonates. Because the best stories don’t divide us by what makes us different, they connect us through what makes us human.

So go ahead, explore the world with your pen. Just bring your empathy, your map, and maybe a trusted travel guide or two.

And remember: if you’re going to write in someone else’s house, at least take your shoes off at the door.

Now it’s YOUR turn – What story got cross-cultural representation just right for you?

Would love to get your input in the comment box below.

The post Telling Diverse Stories With Empathy. appeared first on Vered Neta.