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Helping fiction writers build stories that actually work Simple, practical guidance to help your fiction feel stronger, clearer, and more engaging. |
Practical advice on story structure, character, and craft—without the fluff.
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This post is part twelve of a short series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
Writers naturally spend most of their energy on two people:
After all, they usually drive the central conflict. But there’s a common mistake hiding here. Supporting characters often get treated as if they exist purely to:
👉 functional, but forgettable And that’s a shame. Because supporting characters often do far more heavy lifting than writers realise. Supporting characters shape the emotional world A protagonist rarely exists in isolation. They live among:
A character may claim to be:
Very quickly. They reveal sides of the protagonist we wouldn’t otherwise see This is one of their most valuable functions. Different supporting characters draw out different aspects of the hero. For example: A protagonist with:
Real people behave differently depending on who they’re with. Characters should too. Supporting characters create contrast Contrast helps readers understand people faster. Imagine a quiet, cautious protagonist paired with:
Why? Because differences create definition. Sometimes we understand a character best by seeing what they are not. Not every helper should agree with the protagonist This is important. Too many supporting characters exist purely to validate the hero. They constantly:
Interesting relationships usually contain friction. Even allies may:
Supporting characters can carry theme This is often overlooked. Secondary characters frequently embody alternative ways of thinking. They may represent:
Without lengthy explanation. They make the world feel populated A believable world feels inhabited. Not just by plot devices, but by people with their own concerns. Supporting characters help create this sense of life. They shouldn’t all feel as though they stand frozen in place until the protagonist enters the room. They should feel like people whose lives continue beyond the edges of the page. Small roles can leave big impressions Not every supporting character needs extensive development. Sometimes one memorable trait is enough. A character may only appear briefly but still feel vivid because of:
They help control pacing and tone Supporting characters are useful for rhythm. They can bring:
(As someone fond of dry humour myself, I may be slightly biased here.) Mentors, allies, and sidekicks need lives too This is worth saying. The classic helper roles can easily become clichés. The wise mentor. The loyal friend. The comic sidekick. There’s nothing wrong with these roles. But they become stronger when they want things beyond helping the protagonist. Ask: 👉 What does this character want? Even a simple answer helps. Want creates life. Too many supporting characters causes problems Of course, there’s a balance. A story overloaded with secondary characters can become confusing. Readers may struggle to remember:
Sometimes fewer, stronger supporting characters work much better. The best supporting characters change things This is perhaps the real test. If you removed a supporting character and nothing meaningful changed… …they may not be doing enough. Strong supporting characters influence:
Final thought Supporting characters aren’t background decoration. They’re part of the machinery that makes a story feel alive. They reveal the protagonist. They deepen conflict. They enrich the world. And sometimes, rather inconveniently for the author, they become so interesting they start trying to steal the whole story. It happens. If you’d like the full guide when it’s finished, you can join my email list here. I’ll send you a copy when it’s ready. Next week: Why World-Building Should Come Before Plot (Sometimes)
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This post is part eleven of a short series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
A common weakness in fiction isn’t the hero. It’s the villain. Or, more accurately, the antagonist. Too often, the antagonist exists for one reason only: 👉 to cause problems for the protagonist They lie. They sneer. They make threats. They generally behave like someone who twirls an imaginary moustache while waiting to be defeated. Which can work in pantomime. Less so in most fiction. First: not every antagonist is a villain This is important. Writers often assume antagonist means:
An antagonist is simply: 👉 whatever force opposes the protagonist’s goal That could be:
The antagonist is the source of meaningful resistance. Conflict needs resistance Stories become interesting when the protagonist wants something… …and something meaningful stands in the way. Not something weak. Not something convenient. Something genuinely difficult. A strong antagonist creates pressure. That pressure forces the protagonist to:
Pure evil is usually boring This may sound slightly unfair, but it’s often true. A character who is evil purely because: 👉 “they’re evil” rarely feels interesting for long. Why? Because readers instinctively ask: Why? Even if the answer is disturbing, readers want some emotional logic. Not necessarily justification. But understanding. The best antagonists make sense to themselves This is the crucial shift. A good antagonist rarely thinks: I am the villain. They usually think:
That’s what makes them believable. And often unsettling. Antagonists need goals too This is where many become more interesting instantly. Ask: 👉 What does the antagonist want? Not:
And direction makes them feel alive. A great antagonist challenges the protagonist personally The strongest antagonists don’t just block progress. They expose weakness. They challenge:
That’s why great rivalries feel powerful. The conflict becomes psychological, not just external. Sometimes the antagonist is disturbingly relatable This creates especially strong tension. Readers may think: I understand this person… and that worries me. That emotional discomfort is powerful. Because real people are rarely cartoonishly evil. They’re complicated. They rationalise. They justify. They convince themselves. Sound familiar? It should. Humans are very good at that. Strength matters A weak antagonist weakens the story. If readers constantly think: Why doesn’t the hero just deal with this? …your tension collapses. A strong antagonist should feel capable enough that victory is uncertain. That uncertainty creates suspense. Antagonists reveal the hero This is one of the hidden gifts of a strong antagonist. They force the protagonist into difficult choices. And difficult choices reveal character. You can learn more about a protagonist in one painful confrontation than in twenty pages of description. Not all antagonists need charisma Some memorable antagonists are:
Some are frightening because they feel:
The antagonist should belong in this story This matters more than writers realise. A strong antagonist feels inseparable from the story. They aren’t interchangeable. The story would feel fundamentally different with someone else in that role. That’s usually a good sign. Flaws make antagonists better too Just as perfect heroes feel flat, perfect villains often do too. Weakness creates texture. Perhaps the antagonist is:
Humanity makes them believable. Believability makes them dangerous. Final thought A great antagonist isn’t simply there to be hated. They’re there to create meaningful resistance. To challenge the protagonist. To embody conflict. And sometimes, most uncomfortably of all, to reflect parts of ourselves we’d rather not examine too closely. Because the most memorable antagonists aren’t monsters. They’re people who, under slightly different circumstances, might almost have been the hero. If you’d like the full guide when it’s finished, you can join my email list here. I’ll send you a copy when it’s ready. Next week: Why Supporting Characters Matter More Than Most Writers Think This post is part ten of a short series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
One of the strangest things about storytelling is this: Readers don’t necessarily care about:
👉 characters who feel human. And that’s an important distinction. Because many forgettable protagonists aren’t badly designed. They’re simply too distant, too perfect, or too emotionally sealed off for readers to connect with properly. Readers don’t need perfect characters In fact, perfection is often the problem. Perfect characters tend to feel:
They:
Readers connect through vulnerability This is probably the single biggest factor. Readers care when they sense: 👉 something emotionally at risk. That vulnerability might be:
Sometimes a tiny human insecurity creates more connection than pages of heroic action. Competence alone isn’t enough This catches many writers out. A protagonist who is:
…but not especially relatable. Readers usually engage more strongly when a character struggles in some meaningful way. Not because readers enjoy suffering. Because struggle creates emotional access. Characters become interesting through pressure A character sitting comfortably in normal life may be pleasant enough… …but stories become engaging when pressure begins changing behaviour. That pressure reveals:
Small details matter enormously Oddly enough, readers often connect through tiny ordinary moments. Not grand speeches. Not dramatic backstory monologues. Simple things like:
👉 this person exists beyond the plot. Readers don’t have to like a protagonist This is important. Characters do not need to be:
Understanding creates connection far more reliably than likability. Goals matter more than biography Writers sometimes spend huge amounts of time building:
But readers usually connect more through: 👉 what the character wants right now A clear desire instantly creates momentum. Even a small goal gives readers something to emotionally follow. Conflict reveals character This is one of the great storytelling truths. Characters reveal themselves through:
You can describe someone as brave for three pages. Or you can show them making one frightening choice. The second approach almost always works better. Flaws create movement Perfect characters rarely need to change. And stories are usually about change. A flaw creates tension between: 👉 who the character is and 👉 who they may eventually become That tension drives emotional development. Readers want emotional honesty This matters more than realism. A story may contain:
Readers may not have fought dragons… …but they understand:
A protagonist should affect the story Passive characters are difficult to sustain. Things shouldn’t simply happen to the protagonist endlessly. The protagonist should:
In fact, bad decisions often create excellent stories. Characters become memorable through specificity Generalised characters tend to blur together. Specificity creates life. Not necessarily through:
Final thought Readers care about protagonists when they recognise something emotionally true inside them. Not perfection. Not brilliance. Not constant heroism. Just humanity. Because at the heart of every story, no matter how strange the world becomes, readers are still looking for people who feel real enough to matter. If you’d like the full guide when it’s finished, you can join my email list here. I’ll send you a copy when it’s ready. Next week: How to Create an Antagonist Who Feels More Than Just “Evil” This post is part nine of a short series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
The extraordinary world doesn’t always mean a fantasy kingdom or alien civilisation. In many stories, it simply means entering a new emotional, social, or psychological reality. A romance may enter the extraordinary world through intimacy and vulnerability. A crime story may enter it through danger and moral uncertainty. The important thing is not whether the world is strange to us—but whether it is strange to the character. The extraordinary World is the World the Hero enters as he or she begins the main part of the "adventure”. It may be an unfamiliar location, an unusual situation or even a disturbed state of mind. It is the world, the Environment, of your story's Antagonist. The Hero might enter this World as a result of some untypical experience or dramatic external change (for example, a great loss or gain, in the Hero's life) EXAMPLES Here are some examples of Extraordinary Worlds from classic stories: * The places where Sherlock and Watson go to investigate crimes. * Elsinore made mad by Hamlet's obsession. * Miss Havisham's house and London during the late-19th century in Great Expectations. * The Land of Oz. One of the quickest ways to weaken a story is this: 👉 creating a world that feels invented rather than lived in. Readers will happily accept:
And strangely enough, making an extraordinary world believable usually has very little to do with explaining it in detail. Readers don’t need realism—they need consistency This is the important distinction. A world doesn’t have to be realistic. It simply has to feel: 👉 internally believable Readers will accept almost anything if:
The ordinary details matter most Ironically, extraordinary worlds often feel convincing because of small ordinary details. Not the giant floating city. Not the ancient prophecy. The ordinary bits. Things like:
And stories need texture too. People still behave like people This is where many fantasy and science fiction stories quietly fall apart. The setting becomes elaborate… …but the people inside it stop feeling human. Characters exist only to:
Even inside the strangest setting imaginable, people still:
The world should feel lived in A believable world feels as though it existed before the story started. Not as though it appeared moments before page one. You create this feeling through small hints:
Fictional worlds should too. Avoid explaining everything This is a very common trap. Writers spend weeks building worlds, then understandably want readers to appreciate all the effort. So the story pauses while:
They want immersion. And immersion usually comes from: 👉 experiencing the world naturally through the character Readers enjoy mystery more than total clarity Real life is full of things we don’t completely understand. Fictional worlds can work the same way. Not every:
A little uncertainty often makes a world feel larger and more authentic. Consequences make worlds believable This matters enormously. If magic exists: 👉 society would adapt to it. If monsters exist: 👉 people would behave differently. If interstellar travel exists: 👉 economics, politics, and culture would change. The extraordinary should shape ordinary life. Otherwise it can start feeling decorative rather than real. Tone matters more than complexity Some writers assume believable world-building means enormous detail. Not necessarily. A simple world with:
Readers don’t need endless information. They need confidence that: 👉 the writer understands the world. Small details create huge believability Very often, one small believable detail does more work than pages of explanation. For example:
👉 this world has texture and daily life Characters are the reader’s anchor No matter how strange the setting becomes, readers experience it emotionally through characters. That means:
The extraordinary world should affect the story This is another important point. The world shouldn’t just be decoration sitting behind the plot. It should actively shape:
Final thought Extraordinary worlds don’t feel real because every detail is explained. They feel real because:
They’re looking for a world they can emotionally believe in—if only for a few hundred pages. If you’d like the full guide when it’s finished, you can join my email list here. I’ll send you a copy when it’s ready. Next week: How to Create a Protagonist Readers Actually Care About |
James Field
Talvik, Norway You can also Find me on 
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