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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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Hello, fellow fiction writers.
If you’ve ever been told your story has “plenty happening” but still feels slow… or that it’s “emotionally rich” but lacks momentum… you’re probably wrestling with the balance between internal action and external action. Both matter. Both are powerful. But when one outweighs the other for too long, readers start to drift. Let’s break this down in plain English. 🎯 What Is External Action? External action is what we can see happening in the story world.
Example: He ran across the platform and leapt onto the train just as the doors closed. That’s external action. We can picture it. 🧠 What Is Internal Action? Internal action happens inside the character.
Example: As the train pulled away, he realised he wasn’t escaping. He was running. Nothing explodes. But something changes inside him. That’s internal action. ⚖️ Why You Need Both External action without internal action feels hollow. Internal action without external action feels stagnant. Readers don’t just want to know what happened. They want to know what it meant. ✏️ A Quick Comparison External-Only Version: She confronted her sister. They argued. She left. Functional. But emotionally thin. Balanced Version: She confronted her sister. The argument started the way it always did — with blame. But this time, instead of defending herself, she stopped. She let the silence stretch. Then she walked away, not defeated. Now we see:
👣 A Personal Lesson: The Overthinking Draft I once wrote a novel where my protagonist thought beautifully. Deep reflections. Emotional insight. Pages of it. But very little actually happened. A reader said, kindly: “I feel like he’s processing life, but not living it.” They were right. I’d drowned the story in internal action. Once I forced him to act on those thoughts, the book came alive. 🔥 When External Action Takes Over The opposite problem is just as common. Fight scenes. Chase scenes. Escapes. Arguments. But no emotional processing. Readers might think: “That was exciting… but I don’t feel anything.” Action is spectacle. Internal action gives it weight. 🛠 How to Balance Internal and External Action Here’s a simple editing test: After every major external event, ask:
Action must lead to thought. That loop creates momentum. 🎭 Genre Differences (But the Rule Still Applies) -Thriller Lots of external action — but internal stakes make it gripping. -Romance External obstacles matter — but internal vulnerability drives the arc. -Fantasy Battles and quests are external — but identity, responsibility, and sacrifice are internal. -Literary Fiction Often heavier on internal action — but still needs external movement to avoid drifting. 🚫 Common Imbalances
🎬 Wrapping It Up External action moves the story forward. Internal action moves the character forward. When both are working together, scenes feel alive. When one dominates, readers feel it. So next time you revise, don’t just ask, “What happens here?” Ask, “What changes here?” That’s where real narrative power lives. Your turn: Do you lean more toward internal action or external action in your drafts? And which one gives you more trouble? Let’s compare notes.
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Hello, fellow fiction writers.
A lot of writers hear this advice early on: “Your story needs conflict.” So they add arguments. Fights. Obstacles. Villains. Explosions, even. And still… the story feels flat. That’s because conflict on its own isn’t the engine. It’s just friction. What makes readers lean forward isn’t the argument, the danger, or the clash — it’s what happens if things go wrong. That’s stakes. 🎯 Conflict vs Stakes (They’re Not the Same Thing) Let’s clear this up simply:
Example:Two characters argue about whether to open a door. Conflict? Yes. Stakes? Not yet. Now add this: If they open the door, they’ll expose a secret that will destroy their family. Same argument. Completely different energy. 🧠 Why Readers Care About Stakes Readers don’t just want to see things happen. They want to know:
✏️ A Quick Example Low-stakes conflict: She’s late for work and arguing with her partner. Raised stakes: She’s late for work, arguing with her partner — and this is the third warning. One more, and she’s fired. Same scene. Suddenly meaningful. 👣 A Personal Anecdote: The “Busy but Boring” Draft I once wrote a novel where a lot happened. People argued. Plans failed. Bad things occurred. A reader summed it up perfectly: “Stuff keeps going wrong… but I don’t know why I should worry.” They were right. I’d built conflict but never clarified what failure actually meant. Once I made the consequences unavoidable, the same scenes suddenly worked. 🔥 Types of Stakes That Actually Work You don’t need world-ending disaster. In fact, smaller stakes often hit harder. 1. Personal Stakes What the character loses internally:
2. Relational Stakes What happens between people:
3. Practical Stakes Real-world consequences:
4. Moral Stakes The cost of doing the “right” thing:
🚫 Common Stake Mistakes 1. Vague Stakes“ If she fails, everything will change.” Okay… how? Be specific. 2. Stakes That Reset If characters fail but nothing changes, readers stop worrying. 3. Stakes That Don’t Escalate If the cost stays the same throughout the story, tension plateaus. 4. Stakes That Are Too Big Too Soon If the world might end in Chapter Two, where do you go from there? 🛠 How to Raise Stakes Without Adding Chaos Ask yourself:
🎭 Quiet Scenes Need Stakes Too Not every scene needs shouting or danger. A quiet dinner scene can carry huge stakes if:
🎬 Wrapping It Up Conflict starts the fire. Stakes keep it burning. If your story feels busy but not gripping, don’t add more conflict. Add clarity about what failure costs. Once readers understand what’s at risk — emotionally, personally, or irrevocably — they’ll turn pages fast. Your turn: Look at your current chapter. What happens if your protagonist fails right there? If the answer is “not much,” you’ve just found where to raise the stakes. 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:
🧠 What Does “The Story Needs” Mean? The story needs change. Specifically:
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:
✏️ 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:
👣 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:
🎭 Genre Examples Thriller
🎬 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:
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:
👣 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)
🛠 How to Fix a Weak Scene Instead of deleting immediately, try this:
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:
🎬 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:
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. Words That Define in Absolute Terms—and Those That Don’t (a door vs. the door, that vs. which)25/1/2026 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”?
🚪 “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:
🧍 “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:
🧠 “That” vs. “Which” These two are small but mighty.
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
⚖️ When Vagueness Is Good (and When It Isn’t) Vagueness works when:
🎬 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)
🛠 How to Fix Modifier Problems in Your Manuscript Here’s a simple editing trick:
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:
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. |
James Field
Talvik, Norway You can also Find me on 
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