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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 fifteen of a series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
Last week we looked at introducing your protagonist properly. This week I'd like to look at one simple technique that can transform the opening of your story. Instead of describing your character... ...let the reader discover them. It sounds like a small difference. It isn't. Why description isn't enough There's nothing wrong with description. Readers need to know what characters look like. Eventually. The problem comes when description does all the work. For example: David was brave, honest and fiercely loyal to his friends. Perhaps he was. But you've asked me to believe it simply because you've told me so. Readers are naturally sceptical creatures. They'd much rather see the evidence. Show me the brave person Instead of writing: David was brave. Show him doing something brave. Perhaps he:
Not something we've been informed about. Character is revealed by choices This is one of the simplest principles in storytelling. Characters become interesting when they make decisions. Imagine someone finds a wallet full of cash. What happens next? One character immediately hands it to the police. Another quietly slips the money into their pocket. A third spends half an hour wrestling with their conscience. The wallet hasn't changed. The people have. Ordinary situations work surprisingly well You don't need explosions or assassins. Some of the best character moments happen during everyday life. A character ordering coffee can reveal:
Let readers join the dots Readers enjoy working things out. If every personality trait is explained, there's very little left for them to discover. Suppose a woman quietly straightens every picture frame she passes. You don't need to add: She liked everything to be neat. We'll probably work that out ourselves. And because we discovered it, it feels more satisfying. Actions should have consequences Actions become memorable when they change something. A careless remark starts an argument. A kind gesture earns unexpected loyalty. A selfish decision causes problems later. This is where character and plot begin working together. One drives the other. Avoid the character résumé We've all read openings that feel like someone's curriculum vitae. Age. Height. Hair colour. Eye colour. Occupation. Favourite hobby. Possibly blood group if the author gets carried away. Readers don't memorise lists. They remember moments. Dialogue reveals character too People rarely say exactly what they mean. One character answers every question with a joke. Another avoids eye contact. A third talks far too much whenever they're nervous. Dialogue isn't simply about exchanging information. It's another form of action. The words people choose—and the words they avoid—tell us who they are. Contradictions make people interesting Real people are wonderfully inconsistent. Someone may appear confident while secretly terrified. A grumpy neighbour might quietly feed stray cats every evening. A ruthless businesswoman may become hopelessly sentimental about her grandchildren. Those contradictions make characters feel human. Perfect consistency often feels artificial. Let the reader ask questions One of the best openings I've read introduced a man who arrived at work every morning wearing a suit that was far too expensive for his modest job. No explanation. No backstory. Just that small detail. Immediately I wanted to know: Why? Questions pull readers through stories far more effectively than explanations. Description still has its place I'm not suggesting you never describe your characters. Of course you should. Just don't let description replace storytelling. The most memorable characters are built from:
A simple exercise Take the opening page of your novel. Now highlight every sentence that tells the reader something about your protagonist. Next, highlight every sentence where the protagonist does something that reveals who they are. Which colour dominates? If the first colour wins comfortably, you may have an opportunity to make your opening more engaging. Final thought Readers don't fall in love with characters because they're told who those characters are. They fall in love because they watch them live. Let your protagonist make choices. Let them succeed. Let them fail. Let them surprise us. If you do that, readers will build a picture of your character naturally—and they'll usually believe it far more than if you'd simply described them. 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 Foreshadow Without Giving Everything Away
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This post is part fourteen of a series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
You've created your world. You've found your protagonist. Now comes a surprisingly awkward question: How do you introduce them? I've read plenty of novels where the main character arrives with what amounts to a written police description. John was forty-two years old, six feet tall, with brown hair, blue eyes and a small scar above his left eyebrow. Fine. I now know what John looks like. But I don't care about him in the slightest. And that's the problem. Your protagonist doesn't need to make a grand entrance Writers sometimes feel the hero must arrive dramatically. The door bursts open. The hero strides in. Everyone turns. Possibly there's a thunderclap somewhere in the distance. Most protagonists don't need that. What readers really need is a reason to become curious about them. That's a much smaller—and much more useful—job. Introduce the person, not the description When we meet someone in real life, we rarely notice everything about them at once. We notice something. Perhaps they're nervous. Perhaps they're rude to the waiter. Perhaps they keep checking the door. Perhaps they're wearing a dinner jacket at nine o'clock in the morning. Something catches our attention. Characters work much the same way. Give readers one or two details that create curiosity. You can fill in the rest later. Let the character do something Personally, I think one of the best ways to introduce a protagonist is through action. Not necessarily dramatic action. Just a choice. Imagine these two introductions. Version one: Mary was a kind and generous woman who always tried to help others. Perfectly clear. And rather dull. Version two: Mary had £18 left until Friday and still put a tenner in the collection tin. Now I know something about Mary. More importantly, I want to know why she did it. Action lets the reader discover character rather than being handed a list of qualities. Small actions can reveal enormous things Your protagonist doesn't need to rescue a child from a burning building on page one. How they deal with ordinary life can tell us plenty. Do they:
Four completely different people. This is why the ordinary world is so useful. Before the main story begins throwing rocks at your hero, you have a chance to show us who they are when life is still relatively normal. Give the reader something slightly unresolved Curiosity is your friend. When introducing a protagonist, you don't need to explain everything immediately. In fact, please don't. If your character refuses to answer the telephone every time her sister calls, I don't need three paragraphs explaining their childhood argument. Not yet. Just let the telephone ring. Let her look at the name. Let her turn the phone face down. Now I'm wondering. That's far more powerful than a page of backstory. Don't empty the filing cabinet onto page one Writers know a great deal about their protagonists. We know:
Backstory is useful when the present story creates a reason for us to care about the past. Until then, it's just information. I've made this mistake myself. You invent something interesting about a character and immediately want to tell the reader. Resist. You know it. The character knows it. The reader can wait. Show the flaw early Your protagonist's weakness doesn't need a flashing arrow pointing at it. But a small early glimpse can do wonders. If your hero's problem is pride, let us see them refuse help. If it's fear, let them avoid something. If it's a need for control, let them become irritated when a tiny plan changes. These small moments prepare the reader for the larger struggle to come. And when the character finally changes, the change feels earned. Give them something they want A protagonist becomes much easier to follow when they want something. It doesn't have to be the main story goal yet. At the beginning, they may simply want:
It also gives the reader something to follow. Characters who want nothing tend to stand around waiting for the author to start the plot. You can almost hear them clearing their throats. You don't have to make them likeable This is worth repeating because writers worry about it far too much. Readers don't have to like your protagonist. They need to find them interesting enough to follow. Sherlock Holmes can be insufferable. Ebenezer Scrooge is hardly cuddly when we meet him. Plenty of excellent protagonists are selfish, bitter, dishonest or downright unpleasant. But something about them makes us curious. Why are they like this? What will happen to them? Can they change? Curiosity can carry a reader a surprisingly long way. Introduce them before the plot swallows them This is one reason Step 1 of a story matters. Once the main disruption begins, your protagonist will be reacting to extraordinary circumstances. If the first thing we see is John running from a murderer, we learn that John doesn't want to be murdered. Fair enough. Most of us share that particular character trait. But what makes John John? A brief glimpse of the person before the crisis gives the reader something to hold onto when the world changes. A simple test Look at the first scene in which your protagonist appears. Then ask yourself: What does the reader learn about this person from what they actually do? Not what the narrator tells us. Not their eye colour. Not their childhood history. What do they do? If the answer is "not very much", you may have found a problem. Final thought Introducing your main character isn't about giving readers all the information they need. It's about giving them a reason to want more. Show us a person. Let them want something. Let them make a choice. Give us a glimpse of the flaw, fear or contradiction hiding underneath. Then get out of the way and let us become curious. Because curiosity is often the first step towards caring. 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: Character Introduction Through Action, Not Description This post is part thirteen of a short series on story structure for fiction writers—practical, straightforward, and designed to help you build stories that actually work.
Ask ten books about writing where a story should begin, and most will tell you: "Start with the plot." It's sensible advice. It's also advice I don't entirely agree with. Not because plot isn't important—it certainly is—but because some stories don't grow naturally from plot at all. They grow from the world they inhabit. Stories don't all begin in the same place Writers often imagine stories arriving fully formed. In reality, they can begin almost anywhere. Sometimes it starts with:
...it begins with a world. Not necessarily a fantasy world. Just a place where life works differently. What do I mean by "world"? World-building isn't simply drawing maps or inventing strange creatures. It's deciding:
A village. A family. A courtroom. A submarine. A retirement home. A spaceship. The world creates the conditions in which the story becomes possible. The world creates the problems Here's something worth thinking about. Good plots rarely arrive from nowhere. They're usually a consequence of the world itself. Imagine a village where nobody has used money for generations. Immediately questions appear. How does trade work? What happens when an outsider arrives? Who holds power? The world has already begun generating conflict. Some stories couldn't happen anywhere else Think about your favourite novels. Would they still work if you moved them somewhere completely different? Sometimes yes. Often no. The setting isn't simply scenery. It's part of the machinery of the story. The pressures, opportunities and dangers all emerge from the world itself. A romance has a world too This is where writers sometimes become confused. World-building isn't just for fantasy and science fiction. A romance enters an extraordinary world just as surely as an epic fantasy does. The difference is that the world is emotional rather than geographical. A shy schoolteacher who falls in love with a successful musician suddenly enters a completely different world. New people. New expectations. New rules. New fears. The world has changed, even though the map hasn't. The world shapes the characters People don't exist independently of their surroundings. A child raised:
The world quietly shapes personality long before the plot begins. That's why characters often feel more believable when the writer understands the world first. The world also shapes the plot Once you know how the world works, plot becomes much easier to develop. You already know:
Of course, not every writer works this way Some writers genuinely do begin with plot. They know exactly what happens first, last and everything in between. That's perfectly valid. Others start with one character. Others with a single scene. Writing isn't a factory production line. Different minds work differently. So when should world-building come first? Personally, I think it helps when:
Don't mistake world-building for endless preparation This is the trap. Some writers spend years inventing:
That's not world-building. That's procrastination wearing an impressive hat. You only need enough world to support the story you're telling. The rest can grow naturally as you write. Start where your imagination is strongest This is probably the best advice I can offer. If your imagination begins with:
If it begins with:
If it begins with:
There's no prize for following somebody else's process. The important thing is recognising what your story needs before you start building it. Final thought Plot may be what readers remember. Characters may be who they remember. But the world is often what makes both feel believable. Build a world that feels real—whether it's a medieval kingdom, a Yorkshire village, or someone's complicated family—and you'll find that the story has something solid to grow from. 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 Turn a Good Story Idea into a Complete Novel 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) 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” |
James Field
Talvik, Norway You can also Find me on 
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