Hello, fellow fiction writers.

One of the strangest moments in writing a novel is realising your character is absolutely convinced they know what they want… and the story couldn’t care less.
This isn’t a flaw. It’s actually where good fiction lives.
If you’ve ever thought, “My character feels real, but the plot keeps stalling,” chances are you’ve got a mismatch between what your character wants and what the story needs.
Let’s untangle that.

🎯 What Does “Character Wants” Mean?
A character’s want is what they believe will fix their life.
It’s usually:

• concrete
• emotional
• personal
• often wrong

Examples:

• “I want to be left alone.”
• “I want revenge.”
• “I want to go home.”
• “I want her to love me.”
• “I want my old life back.”

Wants drive behaviour. They explain why characters act the way they do. Without a want, characters drift. With one, they move.

🧠 What Does “The Story Needs” Mean?
The story needs change.
Specifically:

• growth
• confrontation
• sacrifice
• truth
• consequence

The story doesn’t care what the character wants if that want keeps them safe, stagnant, or comfortable.
The story needs to push them into the thing they’re avoiding.

⚔️ Where the Conflict Lives
Great stories happen when:
What the character wants is in direct conflict with what the story needs.
That tension creates:

• drama
• momentum
• emotional payoff

If want and need line up too neatly, the story resolves itself far too easily.

✏️ A Simple Example
Character wants:
He wants to keep his head down and survive.
Story needs:
He must take responsibility and stand up, even if it costs him.
Every obstacle should force him to choose:

• safety
• or growth

That’s story.

👣 A Personal Anecdote: The Polite Protagonist Problem
I once wrote a protagonist who desperately wanted everyone to get along. He avoided conflict. He smoothed things over. He compromised constantly.
He was very nice.
He was also completely boring.
The story didn’t need politeness. It needed confrontation. Once I put him in situations where being nice made things worse, the book finally woke up.

🧩 Wants vs Needs in Action
Want:She wants to forget the past.
Need:She must face it.

Want:He wants freedom.
Need:He must accept responsibility.

Want:They want justice.
Need:They must confront their own guilt.
Notice how the need is always harder.

🚫 Common Mistakes Writers Make
1. Letting the Want Win Too Early
If the character gets what they want halfway through, momentum collapses.
2. Confusing Wants with Needs
“I want answers” is often just a plot device, not an internal need.
3. Protecting the Character
If you shield them from discomfort, the story starves.

🛠 How to Use This in Your Own Writing
Ask these questions:

1. What does my character think will fix everything?
2. What are they avoiding?
3. What truth would scare them most?
4. What choice would cost them the most emotionally?

That last one? That’s usually what the story needs.

🎭 Genre Examples
Thriller

• Wants: escape
• Needs: confrontation

Romance

• Wants: love without vulnerability
• Needs: emotional risk

Fantasy

• Wants: power
• Needs: humility

Literary

• Wants: meaning
• Needs: acceptance

Different genres, same engine.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Characters chase what they want.
Stories demand what they need.
Your job isn’t to help your character get comfortable — it’s to put them in situations where comfort fails and growth becomes unavoidable.
When want and need collide, readers lean in.
That’s not coincidence. That’s craft.

Your turn: What does your current protagonist want — and what do you suspect the story is quietly demanding instead? If those two things don’t match yet, you’ve just found your next breakthrough.

Hello fellow fiction authors.

Let’s be honest: we all have favourite scenes. The quiet café conversation. The long walk where the hero thinks about life. The chapter where two characters finally sit down and talk things through.
The trouble is… liking a scene doesn’t mean it deserves to be in the book.
One of the biggest reasons novels feel slow, bloated, or “nice but dull” is because they’re packed with scenes that don’t actually do anything. They may be well written. They may be emotionally sincere. They may even be fun. But if they don’t move the story forward, they’re freeloaders.
And freeloading scenes eat pacing for breakfast.

🎯 What Does “Earn Its Place” Mean?
A scene earns its place if it does at least one of these things:

• advances the plot
• reveals something important about a character
• raises tension or stakes
• forces a decision
• creates a consequence
• changes the direction of the story

Ideally, it does more than one.

If a scene could be removed and:
✔ nothing important changes
✔ the story still makes sense
✔ no emotional thread is lost
…then it probably hasn’t earned its keep.

🧠 The Comfort Scene Trap
Here’s a common pattern:
You write a big dramatic scene.
Then you write a softer one where characters rest, talk, or reflect.
Then another.
And another.
Soon your book becomes a series of emotional tea breaks.
Reflection scenes are useful — but too many in a row turn into narrative padding.

Example of a weak scene purpose:
They sit in the kitchen, drink coffee, and agree that things are complicated.
Nothing changes. Nobody decides anything. The plot stays parked.
Stronger version:
They sit in the kitchen, drink coffee, and she realises he’s lying. She decides not to trust him anymore.
Now the scene has teeth.

✏️ A Simple Scene Test
Ask yourself three questions about every scene:

1. What does the character want here?
2. What gets in the way?
3. How is the situation different by the end?

If the answer to question three is “It isn’t”… you’ve found a problem.

👣 A Personal Anecdote: The Chapter I Loved (and Cut)
I once had a chapter I adored. Two characters walking along a frozen road, talking about their pasts. Beautiful atmosphere. Lovely dialogue. It felt meaningful.
My editor said: “It’s nice. But it doesn’t change anything.”
She was right. It didn’t affect the plot. It didn’t alter their relationship. It didn’t force a decision. It was a scenic lay-by.
I cut it.
The book got tighter. The tension improved. And nobody missed it except me.

🔍 Examples of Scenes That Earn Their Place
✔ Plot-driving scene: She finds the letter that proves her brother is alive.
✔ Character-revealing scene: He refuses to abandon the dog, even when it risks his escape.
✔ Tension-raising scene: The villain appears earlier than expected.
✔ Turning-point scene: She chooses to lie — and everything changes.
These scenes do something. They create motion.

🚫 Examples of Scenes That Don’t (Yet)

• characters repeating information the reader already knows
• long conversations that end in agreement
• travel scenes with no obstacles
• internal monologues that don’t lead to action
• scenes that exist only to explain backstory

That doesn’t mean these scenes are useless — but they need sharpening.
​
🛠 How to Fix a Weak Scene
Instead of deleting immediately, try this:

• Add a conflict
• Give the character a choice
• Introduce a surprise
• Let something go wrong
• Change the emotional direction
• Make information costly

Before:
They discuss the plan.
After:
They argue about the plan — and split up over it.
Same topic. Totally different impact.

⚖️ Not Every Scene Must Explode
“Earn its place” doesn’t mean “must contain a murder”.
Quiet scenes can still work if they:

• deepen a relationship
• reveal fear or desire
• prepare the reader for a coming clash
• show consequences of earlier actions

Stillness is fine. Stagnation is not.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Your story isn’t a diary. It’s a chain of meaningful moments.
Every scene is asking a silent question:
Why am I here?
If it can’t answer:

• because something changes
• because something is learned
• because something is risked
• because something is decided

…then it may be time to let it go.
And yes, cutting scenes hurts. But what you gain is a story that moves, tightens, and grips.
Which is what readers came for in the first place.

Your turn: Have you ever cut a scene you loved — and discovered the book was better for it? Or are you still arguing with one right now? Either way, you’re among friends.

Hello, fellow fiction writers.

Some words quietly lock things down in a story. Others leave them pleasantly vague. Knowing the difference can sharpen your scenes, guide your reader’s attention, and stop your prose from wobbling between “mysterious” and “confusing.”
I learned this the hard way. In an early draft, my hero walked into a room in one chapter and the room in the next. A beta reader asked, “Is this the same room or a new one?” I had no idea. That’s when I realised: tiny words decide big things.
Let’s look at how absolute words work, how non-absolute words work, and when you want each.

🎯 What Do We Mean by “Absolute” vs. “Non-Absolute”?

• Absolute (definite) words point to something specific and fixed.
  They say, you know exactly which one I mean.
• Non-absolute (indefinite) words keep things open.
  They say, one of many or not fully pinned down yet.

In fiction, this choice affects:

• clarity
• suspense
• pacing
• focus

And yes, it affects whether readers feel grounded or lost.

🚪 “A Door” vs. “The Door”
This one’s a classic.
Non-absolute:
She pushed open a door and stepped into darkness.
We don’t know which door. That’s fine—maybe we don’t need to yet.
Absolute:
She pushed open the door and stepped into darkness.
Now it’s specific. There’s a particular door we’re meant to picture.
When to use which:

• Use a/an when introducing something new:
  He noticed a house at the end of the lane.
• Switch to the once it’s established:
  He walked towards the house.

If you keep swapping between them without reason, readers start second-guessing your geography.

🧍 “Someone” vs. “Something”
Non-absolute:
Someone was standing in the hallway.
This creates mystery.
Absolute:
The man was standing in the hallway.
Now we’re meant to know who he is—or at least that he matters.
Writers can use this deliberately:

• Non-absolute to delay revelation
• Absolute to signal importance

Think of it as turning the spotlight on and off.

🧠 “That” vs. “Which”
These two are small but mighty.

• That introduces essential information
• Which introduces extra information

Example:Correct with “that”:
She chose the dress that made her feel brave.
Meaning: not just any dress—this specific one.
Correct with “which”:
She chose the blue dress, which was still warm from the sun.
The colour isn’t essential to choosing—it’s extra detail.

Why this matters in fiction:
Using that tells readers: this detail matters.
Using which says: nice to know, but not crucial.
That’s narrative control, not grammar fussiness.

🗺 “Here” vs. “There”
These also play with certainty.
Absolute:
He stayed here.
Less defined:
He stayed there.
“Here” anchors the scene to the narrator or POV character.
“There” creates distance.
Used well, this can subtly show emotional separation or closeness.

👣 A Personal Anecdote (The Case of the Wandering Object)
I once had a character pick up a letter in Chapter Two and later read the letter in Chapter Four… except I’d accidentally turned it back into a letter again in between.
An editor flagged it with: “Is this the same letter or a new one?”
It was the same one. My wording said otherwise. That tiny slip made a key plot point wobble.

🛠 How to Use Absolute and Non-Absolute Words on Purpose

1. Introduce with non-absolute terms.
   a man, a door, a voice
2. Fix with absolute terms once known.
   the man, the door, the voice
3. Use non-absolute words to create suspense.
   Something moved in the trees.
4. Use absolute words to create certainty.
   The creature stepped into the light.
5. Check “that” and “which” carefully.
   They guide what your reader treats as essential.

⚖️ When Vagueness Is Good (and When It Isn’t)
Vagueness works when:

• you want mystery
• you want emotional distance
• you’re delaying information

It fails when:

• readers can’t picture the scene
• objects or people seem to change
• continuity becomes fuzzy

Confusion isn’t the same as intrigue.
​​
🎬 Wrapping It Up
Words like a, the, that, and which look harmless, but they’re actually steering wheels. They tell the reader what’s definite, what’s flexible, and what deserves attention.
Used carelessly, they blur your story.
Used deliberately, they sharpen it.
So next time you edit, don’t just look at big plot points. Look at the tiny words doing the heavy lifting. They’re quietly deciding how solid your fictional world feels.

Your turn: Which tiny word trips you up most--a/the or that/which? Or have you ever confused yourself with one of them? Share your confession in the comments.

Hello fellow fiction authors.

Let’s talk about words that refuse to be pushed around.
You know the ones. Words that sound perfectly happy on their own… until we try to dress them up with very, quite, extremely, or a bit. That’s when things quietly go wrong.
These are words that can’t be modified — words that are already absolute, complete, or binary. And while this might sound like a technical issue, it pops up in fiction all the time, often without the writer noticing.

🎯 What Does “Cannot Be Modified” Actually Mean?
Some words describe an absolute state. They’re either true or they’re not. There’s no sliding scale.
If a word already means the maximum, adding a modifier doesn’t strengthen it — it weakens it.
Think of it like saying someone is very dead.
You either are… or you aren’t.

✏️ Common Words That Don’t Accept Modifiers
Here are some of the most frequent offenders in fiction, with examples.

Unique
“Unique” means one of a kind. There are no degrees.
Incorrect:
Her voice was very unique.
Correct:
Her voice was unique.
If you want emphasis, change the sentence, not the word.

Perfect
Perfect already means without flaw.
Incorrect:
It was almost perfect.
Correct:
It was perfect.
—or--
It was close to what she wanted.

Dead / Alive
No middle ground here.
Incorrect:
He was nearly dead.
Correct:
He was gravely injured.
—or--
He was dying.

Empty / Full
Again — binary states.
Incorrect:
The room was completely empty.
Correct:
The room was empty.
(Yes, “completely” sneaks in everywhere. It’s very enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic.)

Impossible
Impossible already means cannot happen.
Incorrect:
It was very impossible to escape.
Correct:
Escape was impossible.

Finished / Complete
If something’s finished, it’s done.
Incorrect:
She was almost finished writing the letter.
Correct:
She was nearly done writing the letter.
—or--
She hadn’t quite finished the letter.

👣 A Personal Anecdote: My “Very Perfect” Phase
Once upon a time, I wrote a sentence describing a very perfect plan. An editor circled it and wrote in the margin:
“Choose one.”
She was right. If something needs boosting, it probably isn’t perfect. And if it is perfect, it doesn’t need help.
That single note cured me of half my unnecessary modifiers.

🧠 Why Writers Do This (All the Time)

• We’re chasing emphasis
• We’re drafting quickly
• We’re trying to sound dramatic
• We’re leaning on habit

Modifiers feel like an easy fix. But in many cases, they blur meaning instead of sharpening it.

🛠 How to Fix Modifier Problems in Your Manuscript
Here’s a simple editing trick:

1. Find a modifier (very, quite, extremely, almost, completely)
2. Ask: Does this word already mean “all the way”?
3. If yes — cut the modifier or change the sentence

Example:Before:
She was very certain he was lying.
After:
She was certain he was lying.
—or--
She had no doubt he was lying.
Stronger. Cleaner. Clearer.

⚖️ When Modifiers Are Fine
Not every modifier is evil. They work best with gradable words:

• tired
• angry
• cold
• nervous

Very tired makes sense.
Very unique does not.
The key is knowing the difference.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Words that can’t be modified don’t need boosting — they need respect.
Cutting unnecessary modifiers tightens your prose, sharpens meaning, and makes your writing feel more confident. And confident prose keeps readers immersed in the story rather than distracted by fuzzy phrasing.
If a word already says everything it needs to say, let it speak for itself.

Your turn: Which modifier do you overuse most — very, quite, or almost? Confessions are safe here.

Hello, fellow fiction writers.

English has a nasty habit of looking simple while quietly laying traps. Some words get misused so often they start to feel correct—even when they’re not. In fiction, these little slips can chip away at clarity and pull readers out of the story.
Let’s look at some of the most commonly misused words and phrases, why they matter, and how to get them right without turning writing into a grammar slog.

🎯 Why This Matters in Fiction
Readers may not know why something feels wrong, but they’ll feel it. Repeated misuse creates friction, and friction kills immersion. Clean, confident word choices keep readers focused on the story—not the sentence.

✏️ Commonly Misused Words and Phrases (With Clear Examples)
“Assure” vs. “Ensure”These two get swapped constantly—and they’re not interchangeable.

• Assure = to give confidence to a person
• Ensure = to make certain something happens

Incorrect:
She ensured him everything would be fine.
Correct:
She assured him everything would be fine.
Correct:
She ensured the door was locked.
👉 If there’s no person involved, you probably want ensure.

“Series” Can Be Singular
This one surprises people.
Incorrect:
A series of events were about to unfold.
Correct:
A series of events was about to unfold.
“Series” is singular—even when it feels plural.

“Blonde” Is Never an Adjective
This one crops up a lot in fiction.

• Blonde = a noun (and traditionally feminine)
• Blond = the adjective

Incorrect:
She had blonde hair.
Correct:
She had blond hair.
Correct:
She was a blonde.
Yes, it feels picky. Readers notice anyway.

“If I Were” vs. “If I Was”
This one depends on meaning.

• If I were = hypothetical or unreal
• If I was = something that might have happened

Correct:
If I were braver, I’d tell her the truth.
(Hypothetical.)
Correct:
If I was rude earlier, I apologise.
(Possible reality.)
Fiction lives in hypotheticals—so were often wins.

“Among” vs. “Between”
This isn’t about numbers anymore—it’s about relationships.

• Between = distinct, separate items
• Among = part of a group

Correct:
The treaty was negotiated between the three nations.
(Separate entities.)
Correct:
She felt safe among friends.
(Group.)

“Less” vs. “Fewer”
If you can count it, use fewer.
Incorrect:
There were less people at the meeting.
Correct:
There were fewer people at the meeting.
Yes, signs get this wrong. Your novel shouldn’t.

"Literally"This one gets everywhere.
Incorrect:
He was literally dying of embarrassment.
Unless he needed medical assistance, he wasn’t.
Correct:
He was dying of embarrassment.
👉 Literally should mean actually. If it doesn’t, cut it.
"Unique"Something can’t be very unique or quite unique.
Incorrect:
Her voice was very unique.
Correct:
Her voice was unique.
It either is or it isn’t—no sliders involved.
"Begs the Question"This phrase doesn’t mean “raises the question,” no matter how often it’s used that way.
Incorrect:
This begs the question: why didn’t she leave sooner?
Correct:
This raises the question…
“Begs the question” actually refers to a circular argument. In fiction, you almost always mean raises.
"Could Care Less"This one’s infamous.
Incorrect:
I could care less what he thinks.
That means you do care… at least a bit.
Correct:
I couldn’t care less what he thinks.
One tiny word flips the meaning completely.
"Effect vs. Affect"These two cause more writerly sighs than almost anything else.
Affect is usually a verb (to influence)
Effect is usually a noun (the result)
Example:
The storm affected her mood.
The effect was immediate.
When in doubt, check. Even editors do.
"Irregardless"It’s widely used—and still wrong.
Incorrect:
Irregardless of the risk, she went ahead.
Correct:
Regardless of the risk…
Yes, it appears in some dictionaries. No, that doesn’t mean it won’t make readers wince.

👣 A Personal ConfessionI once used ensure when I meant assure throughout an entire manuscript. My editor highlighted every instance and wrote: “You’re comforting objects again.”
She was right. The fix took minutes. The embarrassment lasted much longer.

🛠 How to Catch These Before Readers Do

1. Keep a personal watch list.
   Everyone has pet problem words. Know yours.
2. Don’t trust frequency.
   Just because something’s common doesn’t mean it’s correct.
3. Use targeted searches during edits.
   Check problem words intentionally.
4. Let your editor be fussy.
   That’s what they’re for.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Misused words don’t make you a bad writer—they just make you a human one. What does matter is cleaning them up before readers stumble over them.
Clear language keeps your story smooth. Confident word choices build trust. And once you know these traps exist, they’re easy to sidestep.

Your turn: Which of these catches you out most often? Or is there a sneaky word you always have to double-check? Share it in the comments—misery loves company. I answer all comments personally. James

Hello fellow fiction writers.

Let’s talk about something that seems tiny, harmless, and utterly forgettable… until it isn’t.
Word consistency.

You know the sort of thing. A character has a mobile in Chapter One and a cell phone in Chapter Three. A hallway becomes a corridor, then a passage, then somehow a lobby. Nobody screams. Nobody dies. And yet, something in the reader’s brain quietly twitches.
That twitch? That’s immersion cracking.

🎯 What Is Word Consistency?
Word consistency means using the same word for the same thing throughout your manuscript, unless there’s a clear, intentional reason not to.
This applies to:

• Objects (sofa vs couch)
• Locations (road vs street)
• Titles (Doctor vs Dr)
• Terms (magic system rules, technology names, ranks)
• Names and nicknames

Consistency isn’t about being boring. It’s about being trustworthy.

🧠 Why Readers Notice (Even If They Don’t Know They Do)
Readers build mental maps as they read. When you keep changing labels, you force them to redraw that map.
Example:
She ducked into the alley.
Two pages later:
The passageway smelled of damp cardboard.
Is this the same place? A different one? A nearby one? The reader shouldn’t have to pause and solve the puzzle.

✏️ A Quick Example in Action
Inconsistent:
He sat on the sofa and turned on the television.
Later:
He sprawled on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.
Nothing’s wrong here, but the shift is unnecessary. Pick one set and stick with it unless character voice demands otherwise.

Consistent:
He sank into the sofa and turned on the television.
Later:
He stayed on the sofa long after the credits rolled.
Smooth. Invisible. Trust-building.

👣 A Personal Anecdote: My Case of the Shape-Shifting Room
In one manuscript, I had a room that was variously described as a study, an office, and a library.
An editor finally asked, “Is this one room, or is your house expanding when I’m not looking?”
Lesson learned. One room. One name. No magic architecture.

⚖️ When Inconsistency Is Actually OK
There are times when variation works:
1. Character Voice
Different characters may use different words.
Example:

• A teenager says phone
• A professor says mobile device

That’s characterisation, not inconsistency.

2. Emotional Context
A place may feel different depending on mood.
Example:

• home when safe
• house when tense

Just make sure the shift is deliberate and meaningful.

🛠 Common Areas Where Writers Slip
Watch out for these frequent offenders:

• British vs American spelling (colour vs color)
• Hyphenation (email vs e-mail)
• Capitalisation (the king vs the King)
• Repeated synonyms for the same object
• Fantasy and sci-fi terminology creep

Once readers notice one inconsistency, they start hunting for others.

🔍 How to Keep Your Word Use Consistent

1. Create a style sheet
   List your choices: spellings, terms, names, capitalisation.
2. Use search wisely
   Pick one term and search for its alternatives.
3. Decide early
   Make choices before drafting—or lock them down in edits.
4. Read for rhythm, not meaning
   You’ll spot inconsistency when you listen rather than analyse.
5. Let your editor be picky
   This is where editors shine.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Word consistency doesn’t shout for attention—but it quietly does its job, page after page. It keeps readers relaxed, oriented, and immersed.
When words stop wobbling, the story stands firmer.
So pick your terms. Commit to them. And let your readers stay lost in the story—not distracted by whether that thing was a corridor, a hallway, or something else entirely.

Your turn: What’s the strangest word inconsistency you’ve ever caught—yours or someone else’s? Confessions welcome in the comments. I answer all comments personally. James