Hello, fellow fiction writers.

If you’ve spent any time reading writing advice (including mine), you’ve probably noticed something:
There are a lot of rules.

• Show, don’t tell
• Avoid adverbs
• Keep POV consistent
• Cut filter words
• Don’t overuse dialogue tags
• Start the story early
• Don’t use prologues
• Don’t use parentheses
• Don’t… well, you get the idea

At some point, every writer hits a wall and thinks:
“Am I writing a novel… or following a set of instructions for assembling flat-pack furniture?”
Here’s the truth:
Writing rules are tools, not laws.
And sometimes, breaking them is exactly what the story needs.

🎯 Why Writing Rules Exist in the First Place
Most writing “rules” are really shortcuts for common problems.
They exist because:

• beginners tend to overuse certain techniques
• some habits weaken clarity or pacing
• certain patterns consistently pull readers out of the story

So the rule isn’t saying “never do this.”
It’s saying: “Be careful with this — it often goes wrong.”

⚖️ The Difference Between Breaking a Rule and Ignoring One
This is the key distinction.

• Ignoring a rule = not knowing it exists or why it matters
• Breaking a rule = understanding it… and choosing differently on purpose

One is accidental. The other is craft.

✏️ Example 1: “Show, Don’t Tell”
You’ve heard this one a thousand times.
Rule: Show emotion through action and detail.
Breaking it well:
He was afraid.
That’s telling — and sometimes it’s exactly right.
If you’ve already shown fear in the previous paragraph, repeating it through description can slow things down. A clean, direct statement can be more powerful.
When it works:

• for clarity
• for pacing
• for emphasis

✏️ Example 2: Sentence Fragments
Rule: Use complete sentences.
Breaking it well:
Too late.
Short. Incomplete. Effective.
Fragments can:

• increase tension
• reflect thought patterns
• sharpen rhythm

Used constantly, they become choppy. Used deliberately, they hit hard.

✏️ Example 3: POV Consistency
Rule: Stay in one point of view.
Breaking it well:
Sometimes a brief shift can:

• reveal crucial information
• create dramatic irony
• widen the scope of a scene

But it must feel controlled — not like the camera’s lost its footing.

✏️ Example 4: Avoiding Repetition
Rule: Don’t repeat words.
Breaking it well:
He ran because he had to run. Because stopping meant everything ended.
Repetition here adds urgency and rhythm.

👣 A Personal Lesson: The Rule I Followed Too Well
There was a time I tried to obey every rule I’d ever read.
The result?
Technically clean writing.
Emotionally… flat.
It felt like I was constantly second-guessing myself:

• “Can I use that word?”
• “Is this too direct?”
• “Am I allowed to do this?”

Once I relaxed a little — and focused on what the scene needed — the writing improved.
Not because I ignored the rules.
Because I understood when they didn’t apply.

🧠 When Breaking a Rule Actually Works
A rule break tends to work when:

• it serves the moment
• it fits the character’s voice
• it improves clarity or impact
• it feels intentional, not accidental

If you can explain why you broke the rule, you’re probably on solid ground.

🚫 When It Doesn’t Work
Let’s be honest — most rule-breaking fails.
It usually happens when:

• it weakens clarity
• it confuses the reader
• it disrupts flow
• it draws attention to itself for no reason

If the reader stops and thinks, “That’s odd,” instead of staying in the story, something’s gone wrong.

🛠 A Simple Test
When you break a rule, ask:

• Does this make the scene stronger or weaker?
• Is this clearer or more confusing?
• Would a reader notice — and if so, for the right reason?

If the answer isn’t obvious, it may be worth rethinking.

🎭 The Real Goal
The goal isn’t to:

• follow rules perfectly
• or break them rebelliously

The goal is to:
write something that works.
Rules help you get there.
Judgement keeps you there.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Writing rules are like training wheels.
They keep you upright while you’re learning balance. But at some point, you have to trust yourself enough to ride without them — carefully, deliberately, and with a clear sense of direction.
So yes, learn the rules. Use them. Respect them.
And when the moment comes…
don’t be afraid to bend them.
Just make sure you know why.

Your turn: Have you ever broken a writing rule and realised it actually improved the scene? Or gone too far and had to rein it back in? Either way, that’s where the real learning happens.

Hello fellow fiction writters.

Have you ever read a book where one chapter feels like a tense thriller… and the next reads like a sitcom?
It’s a strange experience. Not always bad — but often unsettling. Like the story can’t quite decide what it wants to be.
That’s usually a problem with tone consistency.
Tone is one of those invisible elements of writing. When it works, readers don’t notice it at all. When it doesn’t, something feels off — even if the plot, characters, and dialogue are all technically fine.
Let’s talk about what tone actually is, why it matters, and how to keep it steady without making your story feel flat.

🎯 What Do We Mean by “Tone”?
Tone is the emotional flavour of your writing.
It’s the difference between:

• dark vs light
• serious vs playful
• tense vs relaxed
• hopeful vs bleak

It’s not what happens — it’s how it feels.
Two writers can describe the same event and create completely different tones.

✏️ A Quick Example
Neutral:
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Dark tone:
He pushed the door open and stepped into the kind of silence that never meant anything good.
Light tone:
He opened the door and immediately regretted it — mostly because of the smell.
Same action. Different tone.

🧠 Why Tone Consistency Matters
Readers don’t just follow events — they settle into a mood.
Once they understand the tone, they relax. They know what kind of emotional experience they’re having.
If the tone suddenly shifts without warning, it can feel like the ground has moved under their feet.
That can break immersion faster than a plot hole.

🚫 What Tone Inconsistency Looks Like
1. Sudden Genre Drift
A dark, serious story suddenly includes slapstick humour.
Example:
A tense hostage scene interrupted by a character slipping on a banana peel.
Unless handled very carefully, that’s going to jar.

2. Emotional Whiplash
A character moves from grief to comedy in a single beat.
Example:
She stared at the coffin… then laughed at a joke two lines later.
Readers need space for emotional transitions.

3. Voice Slipping
The narrative voice suddenly changes style.
Example:

• formal, reflective prose → casual, modern slang

It feels like a different narrator walked in.

👣 A Personal Anecdote: The Accidental Comedy Scene
In one of my earlier drafts, I wrote a tense, eerie sequence in a haunted setting. I was very pleased with it.
Then, halfway through, I added a bit of humour — just a small line to lighten the mood.
Then another.
Then another.
By the end of the scene, what started as atmospheric horror had quietly turned into a slightly awkward comedy.
It wasn’t intentional. It just drifted.
That’s the danger. Tone doesn’t always shift dramatically — it often slides.

⚖️ Can Tone Change?
Yes — but it needs to feel controlled and earned.
Stories often move between tones:

• tension → relief
• darkness → hope
• humour → seriousness

The key is transition.

🛠 How to Maintain Tone Consistency
1. Know Your Core Tone
Ask yourself:

• What is the dominant emotional feel of this story?

Everything else should orbit that.

2. Let Tone Shift Gradually
If you’re moving from light to dark (or vice versa), build the bridge.
Example:

• subtle unease
• growing tension
• then full darkness

Not:

• joke → tragedy → joke

3. Watch Your Language Choices
Word choice carries tone.

• “stumbled” vs “lurched”
• “said” vs “snapped”
• “room” vs “chamber”

Tiny choices, big effect.

4. Keep Character Reactions Grounded
Characters anchor tone.
If something serious happens, let characters respond seriously — even if humour returns later.

5. Read Sections in Isolation
Sometimes a scene feels fine on its own, but clashes with the chapter before it.
Reading in sequence helps spot tonal jumps.

🎭 Tone by Genre (Quick Guide)

• Thriller: tension, urgency, danger
• Romance: emotional warmth, vulnerability
• Fantasy: wonder, scale, atmosphere
• Comedy: lightness, wit, timing
• Horror: dread, unease, inevitability

You can mix tones — but one usually leads.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Tone is like the background music of your story. Readers don’t always notice it, but they feel it.
Keep it steady, and your story feels cohesive and immersive. Let it drift, and even strong scenes can feel disconnected.
So next time you revise, don’t just ask:
“Does this scene work?”
Ask:
“Does this feel like it belongs in this story?”
That’s tone.

Your turn: Have you ever written a scene that accidentally changed tone halfway through? Or struggled to balance humour and seriousness? You’re definitely not alone.

Hello fellow fiction writers

Every novel begins with a promise.

You might not realise you’re making one, but you are. The moment a reader opens your book and starts the first chapter, they’re asking a quiet question:
“What kind of story is this going to be?”
And whether you intend it or not, the opening pages answer that question.
This is what writers often call the promise of the premise—the signal you give readers about the kind of experience they’re about to have. If the story later breaks that promise, readers feel confused or disappointed, even if they can’t quite explain why.

Let’s talk about how that promise works—and how to make sure you’re keeping it.

🎯 What Is “The Promise” in a Story?
In simple terms, the first chapter tells the reader:

• what kind of story they’re reading
• what tone the book will have
• what sort of problems the characters will face
• what emotional journey they can expect

Think of it like the opening scene of a film. Within minutes, you know whether you’re watching a comedy, a thriller, or a romance.
Books do the same thing.

✏️ A Simple Example
Imagine a novel that opens like this:
A detective arrives at a brutal crime scene in a rain-soaked alley.
The promise is clear:
This is probably a crime or thriller story.
But imagine that twenty pages later the book becomes a gentle countryside romance about baking pastries.
Readers would feel tricked.
Not because romance is bad—but because the opening promised something else.

🧠 Tone Is Part of the Promise
Tone matters just as much as genre.
Example:
Opening tone:
Dark, eerie, mysterious.
Readers expect:

• tension
• danger
• secrets

If the story later turns light and comedic, the shift can feel jarring unless it’s handled carefully.
Your opening chapter quietly teaches the reader how to read your story.

👣 A Lesson I Learned the Hard Way
Years ago, I started a story with a dramatic, almost horror-like opening. Stormy weather. A mysterious disappearance. Ominous hints everywhere.
The problem?
The book was actually a light science-fiction adventure with humour.
Readers kept waiting for the horror elements to return… and they never did.
The opening had promised a completely different book.
When I rewrote the first chapter to match the tone of the rest of the story, everything suddenly clicked.

🔑 What the First Chapter Should Establish
Your opening doesn’t need to explain everything. In fact, it shouldn’t.
But it should give readers a sense of:
1. The Kind of World We’re In
Is it realistic? Fantastical? Historical? Futuristic?
Example:
A starship drifts silently past a shattered moon.
That tells us a lot immediately.

2. The Type of Conflict Coming
Readers want a hint of the trouble ahead.
Example:
She hadn’t spoken to her sister in ten years—until the police knocked on her door.
Now we know the story will involve family tension and mystery.

3. The Emotional Journey
Will the story be funny? Suspenseful? Romantic? Dark?
The first chapter gives readers a taste.

🚫 A Common Mistake: The False Opening
Some writers begin with a dramatic scene that has little to do with the rest of the story.
It might be exciting, but if it doesn’t connect to the main narrative, it can feel misleading.
Readers aren’t just looking for excitement. They’re looking for direction.

🛠 A Quick Test for Your First Chapter
Ask yourself:

• What kind of story does this opening promise?
• Does the rest of the book deliver that experience?
• Would a reader feel surprised—in a good way—or misled?

If the first chapter points in the wrong direction, the story might need a small adjustment.

🎭 Genre Examples
Thriller
Opening promise: Danger, urgency, secrets.

Romance
Opening promise: Relationships, emotional stakes, connection.

Fantasy
Opening promise: A world that works differently from our own.

Comedy
Opening promise: A tone that invites the reader to smile.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Your first chapter isn’t just the beginning of the story.
It’s a handshake with the reader.
It says:
“Here’s the kind of journey we’re about to take together.”
When that promise is clear—and when the rest of the story fulfils it—readers feel satisfied.
And the best compliment a reader can give a book is simple:
“This was exactly the story I hoped it would be.”

Your turn: Think about your current novel. What promise does your first chapter make to the reader? And does the rest of the story keep it?

Hello fellow fiction writers

Most writers love writing dialogue. It’s fun, it moves quickly, and it often feels like the moment your characters finally wake up and start talking for themselves.
But here’s the catch: dialogue isn’t just conversation. In fiction, dialogue has a job to do.
When it works well, readers barely notice it — they’re too busy racing through the scene. When it doesn’t, the story suddenly feels awkward, slow, or strangely artificial.
So let’s talk about what dialogue is actually for, and just as importantly, what it isn’t.

🎯 What Dialogue Is Really For
Dialogue in fiction serves several key purposes.
1. Revealing Character
One of the strongest uses of dialogue is showing who a character really is.
People don’t all speak the same way. Some hedge their words. Some blurt things out. Some dodge questions like politicians at a press conference.
Example:
Version 1 (flat):
“I’m angry with you,” she said.
Version 2 (revealing character):
“Oh no, everything’s perfectly fine,” she said. “Apart from the fact you lied to me.”
The second line tells us more about the character’s personality — and her emotional state.

2. Creating Conflict
Good dialogue almost always contains tension.
If two characters simply agree with each other, the scene loses energy fast.
Example:
Weak dialogue:
“We should leave early.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
Nothing happens.
Stronger dialogue:
“We should leave early.”
“And miss the only chance we’ve got to confront him?”
Now we have friction — and friction keeps readers interested.

3. Moving the Story Forward
Dialogue should push the narrative somewhere new.
Characters might reveal information, make decisions, or create consequences.
Example:
“I spoke to the police this morning,” he said. “They’ve reopened the case.”
Suddenly the story has shifted.

4. Adding Rhythm and Variety
Dialogue breaks up long passages of description or internal thought. It gives the reader breathing space.
Think of it as the conversation beats in the music of the story.

🚫 What Dialogue Isn’t For
Dialogue can do a lot — but there are some things it’s terrible at.

1. Dumping Information
This is the classic “As you know, Bob…” problem.
Example:
“As you know, Bob, our father died ten years ago in a mysterious accident that left us both traumatised.”
Nobody talks like this.
Readers can smell information dumps from a mile away.
Instead, let information emerge naturally.
Example:
“You never talk about Dad,” she said.
One line. Same backstory hinted at.

2. Repeating What the Reader Already Knows
Another common problem is characters restating events we’ve already seen.
Example:
“We went to the station, then we missed the train, and then we came back here.”
If the reader witnessed those events, there’s no need to replay them.

3. Filling Empty Space
Sometimes writers use dialogue simply to keep something happening on the page.
Characters chat about the weather, what they had for lunch, or other harmless but irrelevant topics.
Real people talk like that. Fictional characters usually shouldn’t.
Unless the small talk is hiding tension or revealing something important, it’s probably unnecessary.

👣 A Personal Observation
In one of my early drafts years ago, I had a scene where two characters spent nearly three pages discussing what they were going to do next.
Three pages.
They discussed. They analysed. They reconsidered.
And at the end of it… they decided exactly what the reader already knew they would do.
When I cut that scene down to half a page, the chapter suddenly came alive.
Lesson learned: dialogue works best when something changes.

🛠 A Simple Dialogue Test
When editing your dialogue, ask yourself:

• Does this reveal character?
• Does this create tension?
• Does this move the story forward?

If the answer to all three is no, the dialogue probably needs trimming or rewriting.

🎭 A Quick Example
Let’s compare two versions of a short scene.
Version 1:
“Did you bring the money?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Let’s go inside.”
Nothing wrong with it, but nothing particularly interesting either.
Version 2:
“Did you bring the money?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still standing out here?”
“Because the last time I trusted you, someone tried to kill me.”
Now the scene has tension, history, and intrigue.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Dialogue isn’t just characters chatting.
In fiction, it’s a tool for:

• revealing character
• creating tension
• advancing the plot
• shaping the rhythm of the story

When dialogue is doing one of those jobs, it feels natural and alive. When it’s not, readers sense something’s off — even if they can’t quite explain why.
So the next time you’re editing a conversation scene, ask yourself a simple question:
What is this dialogue actually doing for the story?
If it earns its place, keep it.
If not… well, even very polite conversations sometimes need to end early.

Hello fellow fiction writers.

Let me introduce you to some of the quietest troublemakers in fiction writing: filter words.
They’re small. Harmless-looking. You use them every day. And yet, they have an unfortunate habit of putting a pane of glass between your reader and your story.
If you’ve ever been told your prose feels “distant” or “less immersive,” filter words might be the culprits.
Let’s talk about what they are, why they matter, and how to handle them without turning your manuscript into a sterile grammar exercise.

🎯 What Are Filter Words?
Filter words are verbs that remind the reader they’re watching the story through the character, rather than experiencing it directly.
Common filter words include:

• saw
• noticed
• felt
• heard
• realised
• thought
• watched
• wondered
• decided
• seemed

They’re called “filter” words because they filter the action through the character’s perception.

✏️ A Quick Example
With filter word:
She saw the door creak open.
Without filter word:
The door creaked open.
The second version pulls the reader closer. We’re not being told she saw it — we’re just there.

🧠 Why Filter Words Create Distance
When you use a filter word, you remind the reader:
“This is being observed.”
Instead of letting them experience it.
It’s subtle, but it matters.
Compare:
Filtered:
He felt the cold wind on his face.
Closer:
Cold wind lashed his face.
The second version is more immediate. It doesn’t explain perception — it delivers sensation.

👣 A Personal Editing Moment
I once ran a search for the word “felt” in one of my drafts.
Forty-seven results.
Apparently, my characters were doing a tremendous amount of feeling.
When I rewrote even half of them, the prose tightened instantly. The scenes felt sharper — ironically, without the word felt anywhere near them.

⚖️ Are Filter Words Always Bad?
No.
They’re useful when:

• you need to clarify perspective
• you’re shifting awareness
• the act of noticing matters

For example:
She realised the man across the room was the same one from the train.
Here, the realisation is the event. That’s different.
The key is awareness. Overuse dulls impact.

🔥 Common Filter Word Fixes
Here’s how to tighten some frequent offenders:

“She saw…”
Before:
She saw a shadow move behind her.
After:
A shadow moved behind her.

“He heard…”
Before:
He heard a scream from upstairs.
After:
A scream ripped through the upstairs hallway.

“She felt…”
Before:
She felt nervous.
After:
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“He realised…”
Before:
He realised he was in danger.
After:
The knife was closer than he’d thought.

Notice what happens: you move from explanation to experience.

🛠 How to Spot Filter Words in Your Manuscript
During edits:

1. Search for: saw, felt, heard, noticed, realised, thought
2. Ask: Is this necessary?
3. If not, rewrite the sentence so the reader experiences the event directly.

You don’t have to remove all of them. Just the ones that dilute immediacy.

🚫 The Danger of Over-Correction
Be careful not to strip all interiority from your writing.
Internal thoughts and awareness matter. The goal isn’t to eliminate perspective — it’s to avoid constantly reminding readers that perspective exists.
Readers want to be in the character’s head, not watching them use it.

🎬 Wrapping It Up
Filter words aren’t villains. They’re just a little over-eager.
Used sparingly, they clarify.
Used constantly, they create distance.
If you want your fiction to feel immersive, immediate, and alive, check how often you’re telling readers what your character perceived — instead of letting them perceive it themselves.
Sometimes, the strongest prose simply removes the middleman.

Your turn: Which filter word sneaks into your drafts the most? Mine was “felt.” I’m still suspicious of it.