There’s the way that fits a character, a plot thread, a genre. There’s a way that fits the sentence that came before and the one that follows.

There’s a fit for rhythm and sound and impact. For emotion.

There’s a way to write a sentence that fits the tenor of the reader, of the moment, of the era.

But no way is always right all the time.

And there’s no one best way to write a novel.

A novel is not a paint-by-number canvas where you follow explicit instructions to turn out a product that looks a bit like what you’d been promised.

Writing a novel takes skill and finesse, knowledge of the rules and experience with artistry.

There is no one way to do it right. To do it well. To create something worth reading.

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You already know this, I’m sure. So why am I reminding writers and editors of what we already know? For simply that reason: to remind us.

Just recently I shared with a couple of writers that when I make editing suggestions, I’m not including every possible option. There may be quite a number of options that would work.

There are multiple ways to convey a point, advance a scene, reveal a character, or turn up the conflict. Even given the fairly narrow parameters of a scene, there are dozens of words that could replace any other single word in a way that would send the scene into a new direction, if that is the intent, or that would deepen the already established feel, the emotion or tone, of the scene, if that is the intent.

When you write and rewrite and edit, keep in mind that you’re not restricted to one or two choices. Yes, you’ll want to write in a way that brings cohesion. But you don’t want to write in a way that limits your characters or your story, that restricts your expression.

Think you can only end your scene with your main character facing a bottle all alone on the day he buried his best friend? What would happen if Jake, your protagonist, heard a knock on his door and the visitor, instead of going away as Jake bellowed for him to do, walked into Jake’s home carrying his own bottle?

What if that visitor was Jake’s ex-wife? His best friend’s widow? The best friend’s twin brother? The man who killed his best friend? His best friend’s ghost?

His best friend himself?

There’s always a different way to do anything, to do everything, when we write. And I’m referring to both big-picture elements such as plot events and characterization as well as the fine details such as word choice and punctuation.

A story can take a turn in the writing or the editing that in the finished story seems inevitable. Without hesitation. Perfect. As if that passage had written itself, it was so right for the story and the scene and the chapter where it was placed.

The technical elements—word choice and grammar and syntax—can also work this same magic. And it’s not just one perfect word that will create a strong story moment.

In a character description, the choice of one word could drive a scene in one direction while another word led in a different direction. Or, the choice from among half a dozen words might prove equally effective.

That is, sometimes you might want to sweat over a word or phrase and other times discover that many phrases could accomplish the same result and that instead of sweating the choice, you need only pick one.

I am not saying that just any word or phrase or sentence construction will work.

I am saying there is no one right way that works in every situation and that there are multiple options that may be equally valid.

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Once you start trying options, gain experience with finishing novel-length manuscripts, you’ll be able to gauge where a scene will be headed if you use certain types of words or phrasings or constructions. As a painter knows the results of combining colors on certain bases using different media and brushes, so the writer knows the results of word combinations and syntax and knows how to manipulate the writing elements for best effect.

With practice, you’ll know what you can do, what happens when you make one choice rather than another, and that there are even more options that you could explore.

There’s no one way, no always right way, to write an entertaining novel. If there were, novel writing would be write-by-numbers. Every story would have the same feel. Not the same plot, of course, but the same rhythms and tone. The same balance of elements. The same . . . problems. Ultimately, the same flat expression. Because that’s what the reader would feel. A sameness that makes even perfection flat.

For editors, this is a reminder to offer options to the writer. Give them an idea of the results when different options are tried. Let them know they aren’t restricted to either this or that, A or B. That instead they may have a choice among A and B and Y and Z. Maybe even A plus C plus Y or Z.

For writers, this is a reminder that the first choice of words, word combinations, sentence construction, or plot threads may not be the best for the story you intend to write.

Phrasings and plot events written in an early draft may not be the best for the story that you ultimately do write.

That is, you don’t need to keep what you wrote in an early draft just because it’s already written. You have options. You can change your mind and your story.

Not having only one correct way to write any part of a story—from single word to sentence to event to dialogue to chapter—means you can change anything.

Free yourself from the fear of making changes. Know there are options.

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Don’t rely only on rules; rely on heart as well. Put both skill and artistry to work. Know what the tried and true can do, but be bold and try something fresh.

Use what you know works and look for other options that work just as well and better.

Don’t limit yourself or your stories and characters. Explore your options.

Try a new way to phrase the common.

Paint your characters with fresh colors.

Write bold stories.

***

The writer must decide what is the when of story.

I’ve seen plenty of comments and recommendations about narrative tense and a lot of the debate is contentious. Although some readers and writers might have no true preference, most are firmly in one camp or the other.

Either they insist using the simple past is the only way to tell a story or they say present tense has much to offer and is as equally valid as past tense.

I don’t intend to start a debate, but I do want to let you know that you have options. And limitations. And that you face the expectations of readers, readers who include agents and acquisitions editors.

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What we’re talking about is the manner in which you present the actions of your story world. Do narrator and viewpoint characters see actions and events as happening in the past or do they act as if the events are happening right now?

Do they say—

Marlboro raced through the forest. [Past]

Or

Marlboro races through the forest. [Present]

What about these—

Tilly, aching for one sight of her lover, waited at the abandoned cottage and watched for riders on the old north road.

Tilly, aching for one sight of her lover, waits at the abandoned cottage and watches for riders on the old north road.

_________

I feared the man who was my father; his voice alone demanded respect.

I fear the man who is my father; his voice alone demands respect.

The setup for both is simple; the effects are vastly different.

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Most stories are told using the simple past—was, walked, drank, hoped. Stories using the past tense are written the same way stories have been told for years—once upon a time, sometime before the present time, these marvelous characters existed and lived out a fantastic adventure. They did these things, these events are over, and someone can’t resist telling you all about these happenings and adventures.

When I say most stories, I mean the great majority of stories. Oral stories as well as written fiction are told using the past tense. It’s common to readers, it’s common to writers, and it’s been the prevalent format for storytelling for years and years and years.

It’s so common that readers don’t notice it; they simply jump into the story’s adventure.

The present tense—is, walks, drinks, hopes—on the other hand, is rare. Yes, we all know wonderful stories told using present tense. Yet in comparison to the number of novels that use the simple past, present-tense novels are few in number. Present-tense narration is also much more recent a practice.

From what I can tell from a quick survey of Internet articles, readers notice when stories are told using the present tense. I’m not saying, nor are those readers, that there’s anything wrong with the use of present tense. We are saying that its use is noticeable.

And noticeable mechanics may well not be what you’re trying for.

Let me stress that neither choice is right or wrong on principle. You can use either present or past tense for telling your stories.

The present tense is often associated with literary fiction, short stories, students in writing programs and workshops, and first novels. The past tense is used in most genre novels.

Pros and Cons

Familiarity
Since the past tense is familiar to readers, readers don’t have to adjust when they begin a story written using past tense. There might well be an adjustment period for readers of present-tense stories.

Novelty
Stories told using present-tense narration can be enticing because they’re different. Readers may also end up paying closer attention since the format is one unfamiliar to them. They may develop a deeper involvement in the story.

Immediacy
Some writers and readers believe that use of the present tense makes story action and events more immediate. On the other hand, proponents of the past tense may find that verbs used in the past tense make story events seem more immediate. Because there’s no adjustment needed, readers can imagine themselves in the story from page one.

Believability
Readers have to believe that story events written in present tense are happening at the very moment they’re reading. That’s admittedly a stretch for some readers since they know the story events are not happening in the now. After all, a book’s events have to have been completed before the book was written. Yes, readers can get over this incongruity, but reader perception is something to consider when you choose your narrative tense.

While the present tense is not common in fiction, some writing uses present tense as a matter of course—

Scripts and plays

A synopsis

Essays that use the literary present tense (When writing about the events of a story: Alex then demands a declaration from Stella, but she refuses to humor him. When writing about what a writer says: Tinsdale uses this phrase to show his contempt for his critics’ opinions.)

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No matter your choice for the narrative tense—

Be consistent—don’t switch between past and present

Use compelling and descriptive verbs

Don’t overuse progressive forms—was walking, is talking

You won’t go wrong using the simple past for most of your fiction. Readers expect it and it won’t get in the way of the story.

Try present tense if you want readers to notice the narrative tense or you want to see if you can make story events even more immediate. Keep in mind that readers might have to make adjustments. Weigh the benefits against the costs—are the benefits, whatever they are for your story, enough to compensate for that adjustment period during which readers will not be fully involved in either characters or plot events?

Be prepared to change from present tense to past in order to see your manuscript accepted by a publisher. You might have to do it; would you be willing to make the change if it meant being published? Could you do it?

 *******

Choose the present tense if you’re trying for a unique feel to your fiction, but know the limitations. Know that readers might not accept your choice. Know that publishers might ask you to change your narrative tense.

Choose past tense when you don’t want to distract the reader, when you want to use the common storytelling method.

Don’t let fear hold you back. Use the narrative tense that works for the story, the genre, and your readers. Know what narrative tense can achieve.

Write strong stories.

Write powerful fiction.

***

Yet reader perception is truly important. It means the difference between a book that’s enjoyed to the end and one that’s put down—maybe thrown down—before the reader has finished it.

Reader perception is what readers bring to your story. They may have an idea what the book is about through the recommendation of a friend or critic. Or maybe they read the back cover blurb, and that was enough to have them buying or borrowing the book, anticipating the adventure you’ve prepared for them.

If the perception of your book is one that appeals, the reader will read. And he’ll develop more perceptions right from page one.

He’ll feel the tone—is the opening scene light, maybe humorous? Readers should pick up on that. And if they do, they’ll expect the rest of the story to adhere to the tone of the first pages. Not that they expect only humor or humor on every page, but they will expect some. Those first pages have primed the reader’s expectations and they’ll want you to deliver what they think you’ve promised.

Now, you can say you never promised humor, but perception is reality, until the reader learns otherwise. If a reader feels you’ve made a promise, he’ll be looking for fulfillment of that promise.

Readers can read a lot into the first pages—that’s one reason they’re so important to get right.

If the language on those early pages is poetic, readers will expect the poetic throughout the story, at least when dealing with a particular character.

If the words are crude, rough with cussing and locker-room language, that’s what they’ll expect later. So, if you start with the four-letter words, know that the reader will expect them to continue. Maybe not to the same degree. But they certainly won’t expect rainbows and kittens to replace them.

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These perceptions can cover any subject matter and any writing element.

I’ve spoken to two writers recently about the presence of a child in the opening pages. Neither of the stories was about children and in one, the child was simply used in the opening scene, he was not a featured character and would never be seen again.

The presence of children early in a book can signal readers that the book is for or about kids. Or, that may not be true at all and a child may just be a device for introducing the lead character or the plot. But if a reader doesn’t want to read about kids or a story he thinks is written for kids, he may put the book down.

Or the reader may read on because a book with children appeals and then discover children aren’t featured at all. And that’s when that reader throws the book across the room.

It seems such a little thing, doesn’t it? But perception is strong, and it can take readers a place you’d never intended.

On the other hand, when you’ve set up the perceptions, you can lead the reader exactly where you want him to go.

If you want the reader agitated, feeling suspense in the early pages, set him on edge. Write a scene that knocks the reader off balance and keep him off balance for a while. Use what readers already know about story and about a genre and use the expectations he brings to your story to pull him deep right from the start.

Look at book covers. No, most writers don’t have much say about their covers, but covers do a lot for reader perception. A pink cover with fluffy white clouds sets up one perception. The same cover with one addition—a dagger dripping crimson blood—creates a different perception.

The same thing this visual does for the reader, you can do with words. Get the reader on your side by creating a perception that matches what your story will deliver.

So, what does this mean in terms of writing the book?

It means that you might have to change your story opening to match the climax and resolution you actually end up with.

If means that the first pages need to match the tone, the style, the word choices, the character personalities, the dialogue patterns, and the action you want the rest of the story to offer.

It means you need to be aware of your audience as you write, and more importantly, as you edit. You need to remember that readers open that first page knowing nothing about your main character, your antagonist, and the challenges ahead for both of them. So, you need to read as a reader would.

What is there in the early pages for a reader to discover, to latch on to, to use to orient himself in your make-believe world? What expectations have you established? What perceptions will a reader bring to the first page and then, once he’s read those first pages, carry to the rest of the story?

I don’t mean to imply that readers only have perceptions at the opening of a book. But when perceptions are not met there, you can lose the reader before he’s gotten involved. If he’s already involved in your plot and with your characters and then you seemingly mislead him—because that’s what a perception that’s messed with will feel like—you might be able to keep him reading. If he’s just got to know what happens next, the miscue can be forgiven.

I’m also not saying that characters can’t grow and change. But that change will be an outgrowth of the story, not a decision by you to make the character more (or less) appealing halfway through the story. If the reader’s perception is that the protagonist is a decent man, even though he’s made some mistakes, he may not take well to the revelation that the protagonist actually killed his neighbor’s dog, on purpose, by running over him with his car.

Yes, of course you could write such a revelation. But you’ve got to know the strength of reader perception and the consequences when you manipulate it too far. Surprise the reader, yes. But don’t write a setup for one story and deliver a different one. If you’ve revealed a character’s personality through dialogue and action and thought, and then admit it was all a lie, you can expect readers to react. And more than likely, react unfavorably.

Be aware of reader perceptions. Put them to work for you rather than allowing them to work against you. If you know what the reader will think when you write Before heading out to the cliff, Amy taped a note to the bathroom mirror that said she’d always loved the theme song from M*A*S*H, but you don’t actually mean to imply the depressed woman’s going to kill herself, then change what you’ve written. If she liked the song because it reminded her of nights around the TV with her parents and siblings, help the reader discover that.

Give serious thought to the effects of your words on your readers. Acknowledge perceptions.

But please, don’t write wearing a straitjacket. Be aware, but not bound. Know what expectations and perceptions you’re creating and then use them. If you find one that’s not appropriate for the rest of the story or for tone or character or genre, change it. Anticipate reader reaction but don’t overanalyze.

Put any and everything to work for your stories.

Write with awareness.

Put perceptions to work.

***

We’ve all read stories where coincidence or fate (perhaps one of the literal Fates) saves the day or provides the missing clue or wraps up the loose ends for characters and readers.

And don’t you absolutely hate when that happens?

When coincidence rather than the inevitable (and no, they aren’t the same thing) shows up in fiction, the reader notices.

Coincidence is often employed when the writer fails to properly plan a way to pull his lead character’s butt out of the fire. Coincidence steps in boldly when the mystery writer can’t logically and creatively explain how the murderer got out of the locked room.

Coincidence is a glowing, flashing, sign that says look at me, I’m here to make this plot twist work or to explain what shouldn’t need explanation.

Coincidence is a sure sign of poor plotting.

Need a character who had to have known the protagonist as a teen but forgot to write him into the story? Add him in on page 245 of a 265-page book when he accidentally bumps into the protagonist outside a bank, thus reminding New Character that the protagonist stole money from New Character’s sister’s piggy bank when they were teens.

Aha! Piggy bank as a teen, standing outside a bank now. This, then, must be the answer to who done it. New Character has done his job. The fact that he’s in the scene is written off to coincidence.

But who believes in that kind of coincidence? Not modern readers. And is New Character ever seen again? Nope. He played his part and is quickly pushed out of the story, pushed out of a story he had no logical reason to be in.

Rather than making readers howl with anger or outrage about adding a character—and his vital plot connections—at the last minute, write the character into the story earlier.

Plan for the introduction of New Character before he’s even introduced.

The protagonist is dreading/anticipating a class reunion, looking through the yearbooks his wife dragged out. She may even point out New Character—didn’t he have that cute little sister who followed you guys around everywhere?

The protagonist can tell his wife about the piggy bank incident, how he accidentally knocked over New Character’s sister’s piggy bank the afternoon he and little sister were getting to know one another better in her bedroom when her parents—and for a while, her older brother—were out of the house.

Well, he may not tell his wife all the details, but he can think some of them, thus revealing them to the reader. New Character never knew what happened with his little sister, of course, but he did know about the piggy bank being broken, with his sister having explained that the protagonist had broken it to get some gas money.

In this way, the reader gets an intro to New Character without anyone yet spilling the beans. The protagonist could have another remembrance of something from high school, a bit later in the story, something that makes him think about his buddies, of how he’s ashamed of the way a few of them treated one of the other guys. He doesn’t even have to think of New Character by name in this remembrance. The idea of buddies at school combined with a negative behavior on top of the other mention of New Character is a sufficient setup. Thus the reader is brought up to speed on the school chums and their not always genteel behavior.

By the time the protagonist runs into New Character—New Character is in town for the reunion—outside their old burger hangout—now a Starbucks—next door to the oldest bank in town, the stage is set and coincidence is absent. Instead, the story lines have crossed and tightened enough to pull what were once disparate elements into a cohesive narration.

Of course, you’ll do this weaving and layering with dozens of story threads and often with stronger ties than I’ve laid out here, but this example is one to show you how to avoid coincidence.

What Coincidence Does

Coincidence messes with the suspension of disbelief because it so quickly and thoroughly reminds readers that they are reading fiction.

While coincidence can and does happen in real life, it’s not believed in fiction. And when the reader catches it, everything you’ve done before to create the illusion of a world where events happen just as you’ve laid them out is washed away as if it had never been.

Your clever plot twists, your stellar phrases, your characters who seem more real than the woman next to you in line, the tears you’ve made the reader shed and the laughter you’ve made her release—all these are nothing as soon as the suspension of belief is fractured.

Do you understand why readers would be so disappointed for the suspension of disbelief to be broken? They’ve accepted what you told them, so much so that they were moved emotionally, and then you show that you were only fooling them. What you’d gotten them to believe was just a lie.

Readers take this as a betrayal. You, the writer, didn’t hold up your end of the reader/writer contract. You tricked them. You reminded them that you got them believing your lies.

No one likes being tricked so thoroughly. No one likes being betrayed, especially when their emotions are invested.

The suspension of disbelief is both strong and fragile. It’s strong enough to withstand the passage of time between moments when the reader puts down a book and picks it back up again. It’s strong enough to hold the reader’s attention when children and jobs and household chores and illness and bad weather and good weather can’t entice the reader away from the make-believe of your story. (You know readers are truly into a story when the beach and all its beauty loses its allure in favor of words on a page.)

But it’s fragile, oh so fragile. So delicate that a single word can cause it to crack, a phrase of two or three words can rattle its foundations, a sentence can shatter it beyond repair.

What happens when coincidence shows itself?

It’s noticed.

It turns on the reader’s analytic side, makes him wonder what’s going on.

Tension is immediately reduced—look, the savior is here bringing the necessary knowledge or answer and it costs the characters nothing. Guess we can all go home happy now.

Coincidence, especially at the end of a story or as a means of solving the mystery or resolving plot issues, robs the story of inevitability. The reader won’t have, can’t have, seen that coming.  The reader will feel cheated. Hoodwinked. Taken advantage of.

Places Coincidence Might Sneak In

Seeming coincidences can happen when you don’t fully prepare for an outcome, when you don’t give the reader enough information to have guessed what would happen or which character would make something happen.

Coincidence in fiction can be a character in a place he has no reason to be simply in order for him to hear or see something that will prove key to the story.

Coincidence can come from a character’s prior knowledge released at just the right time. The coincidence is not necessarily that a character had the knowledge, but that he had no logical reason to possess that knowledge or that he just happened to be at the right place and the right time to offer it.

When a reader says he doesn’t buy your story, coincidence may be what has made him doubt.

Avoid coincidence and keep the reader believing in your fiction by prepping for revelations ahead of time. Put the characters and their knowledge into the story before that knowledge is needed. Write earlier scenes so it’s inevitable for a character to be present at a later scene.

Don’t merely let things happen; make them happen. Make your story unfold with purpose rather than allowing it to go just anywhere.

Give the reader no reason to doubt your story events. Do your part to maintain the suspension of disbelief.

Keep the reader involved in the story events and willing to ignore their fictional nature.

Write inevitable moments.

Write convincing fiction.

***

Well . . . My first response is that adverbs are a legitimate part of speech and thus they can and should be used. If anyone advocates their ban, that person is encouraging writers to close off or ignore a valid means of expression.

That said, adverbs are not to be used in place of weak verbs or to make up for inexact phrasing.

Use an adverb when it’s needed to convey a particular meaning or when the passage (or even the story or genre itself) demands its use. If the tone of a passage, the personality of a character, or the style of the story calls for adverbs, do not hesitate to use them.

But use them sparingly.

Adverbs can be noticeable, especially those ending in -ly. Because they can be placed in different locations in a sentence, writers don’t always notice they’ve used them in a way that weakens their phrases and annoys the reader. That is, because they might not show up in the same place every time—such as at the beginning of a sentence—writers might not be bothered by them the way readers will. They may not even see them since they’re focused on plot and character and dialogue and emotion and conflict . . .

If you have a character who speaks adverbs, include them in that character’s dialogue. But omit them from the dialogue of other characters—unless they are mocking or copying his style.

Definitely restrict their use in dialogue tags. Yes, adverbs were once quite popular as modifiers for the verbs in dialogue tags. But they aren’t popular for that purpose today. Adverbs paired with creative dialogue tags can come across as melodramatic or as amateurish storytelling. As the work of an inexperienced author.

If you read a lot of the classics, balance that reading with the reading of modern novels so you can see what readers of today enjoy. And what they expect. Don’t base your style on writers from a century or more ago. Yes, you can enjoy them and learn from them, but readers don’t expect you to write like them any more than they expect you to write like Shakespeare.

It’s odd that the popular writers of the past used adverbs much more than we do today and were praised for it while modern writers are criticized when they do the same thing. But readers’ needs and expectations change and writers need to keep up. Or even lead those changes.

You have a style, so write according to your style. But never forget the readers. Do you want them finishing your book and coming back for more? Then give them what appeals to them.

Note: When someone advocates a ban on adverb usage, he’s quite likely talking about adverbs ending in -ly rather than all adverbs. Keep this in mind when you see such advice.

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Refresher

What are adverbs? They are modifiers. They modify verbs, adjectives, other adverbs, and even whole sentences.

She dressed provocatively.

She dressed highly provocatively.

He was very passionate.

He sang passionately about his life.

They strode elegantly into the ballroom from somewhere in the back of the building.

The parents stood close to the dog, but their son stayed far away.

Coincidentally, he’d gone to the doctor just before he got the flu.

Her boss was suspiciously friendly. [friendly is an adjective]

Talia was rather peeved her boorish yet rarely absent boss was absent on her birthday.

“I’m rather peeved you missed my birthday party, Kevin,” Talia bitterly complained.

Luckily the rains finally arrived in Tombstone.

Many adverbs end in -ly, but not all of them do. And not all words that end in -ly are adverbs.

Adverbs easily abused by writers include

always

almost

down

fast

hopefully

just

now

often

only

over

really

suddenly

up

very

well

Because these adverbs are so common, they can dilute the impact of the words around them, lulling the reader or causing him to pass by a grouping of words.

If you want words to pop from a sentence, try eliminating the modifiers—both adverbs and adjectives—surrounding them. Instead of muddying up your writing with extra words, make it lean and powerful with precise nouns and explicit verbs.

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My advice, then, is to use adverbs when necessary. But know that you are using them and know why. And be prepared to remove them in order to strengthen your stories.

Be selective when using adverbs with dialogue tags. If I were to ever counsel against adverb use, dialogue tags is where I’d do it. Yet, five or six adverbs used in dialogue tags and sprinkled into a 90,000 word manuscript means those adverbs are going to pop out.

And that might be just what you want them to do.

So . . .

Don’t accept—or offer—a blanket prohibition on one of the parts of speech or a punctuation mark or any other writing tool. But do use each correctly and selectively.

Write well.

Edit with style and with an eye toward impact.

Edit wisely.

***

While a legitimate punctuation mark, the semicolon has been shunned for use in fiction, especially for dialogue.

Is there a legitimate reason semicolons, or any punctuation, can’t be used in fiction?

You won’t find me telling writers not to use a semicolon.

Punctuation is used for clarity, for emphasis, for rhythm. To deny yourself the use of any punctuation mark is to cut yourself off from an option that might serve your sentence, your scene, or your story.

I’d never tell anyone to always cut out the use of a particular word—for example, don’t eliminate all uses of the word that; some are necessary. In the same way I’d never suggest that a punctuation mark doesn’t have its uses.

With minor adjustments to most sentences, commas and colons and periods can all be made to work in place of the semicolon. But the semicolon brings a rhythm to sentences that other punctuation can’t offer.

Sometimes you want three short sentences in a row, each ending with a full stop. Other times you’ll want to connect those sentences into a single one and use commas and a coordinating conjunction to do so. Other times you’ll want the break—or the connection, depending on how you look at it—that a semicolon provides.

When connecting (or separating) independent clauses, sometimes you want the feel that only a semicolon produces. An example—

Elyse was ecstatic about her son’s release from jail; Joe was ambivalent.

The use of the semicolon here shows that the parts of the sentence are related. The semicolon also reveals the author’s style and the viewpoint character’s feelings.

We could also punctuate the same independent clauses other ways—

Elyse was ecstatic about her son’s release from jail. Joe was ambivalent.

Elyse was ecstatic about her son’s release from jail, but Joe was ambivalent.

Each sentence is valid. But the feel is different.

The sentence with the comma and the but has a softer feel, a smoother flow. You’ll often use this construction for your stories to keep the flow moving. But if you want to stop that flow, want to draw attention to a thought or word or event, you can use a period or a semicolon to halt the momentum of a passage or scene.

Too much of any one rhythm, including unimpeded flow and long sentence after long sentence, lulls (or annoys)  the reader. Can I say it bores the reader? It can.

Forcing the reader to pause or stop shakes him out of the stupor he might have eased into, and a forced stop calls attention to the words at the stop point. You are in fact saying, here is something noteworthy, something different from expectations.

Now, if you want to hide information at the same time you reveal it—clues in a mystery, for example—you wouldn’t point them out in this manner. You’d hide those clues in plain sight by placing them in the flow of the narrative, into the flow of thoughts or description. The clues are there and can be easily identified later; they just don’t draw attention to themselves through sentence construction.

But if you want to draw attention to words or phrases, to a character’s thoughts or feelings or to something the character thinks is important, you can use punctuation to do so.

Use the semicolon or the period to interrupt the flow.

Of course you’ll also want to do the opposite. When sentences are choppy, with too many of them interrupted by semicolons, or when you’ve simply used too many short sentences in a row, substitute commas and a coordinating conjunction for the semicolons and periods to smooth the flow. 

You can also use semicolons rather than commas and a coordinating conjunction to combine a series of those short sentences. This is a useful way to break up an annoyingly repetitive rhythm. Only one way, of course. There are others.

The boy wanted a dog. He hoped to get one soon. He’d always wanted his own puppy. He’d never been allowed to keep the strays he’d brought home.

The boy wanted a dog and hoped to get one soon. He’d always wanted his own puppy; he’d never been allowed to keep the strays he’d brought home.

A natural connection must exist, of course, between the two parts of combined sentences in order for the semicolon to be used correctly. But if that connection exists, use the semicolon.

Varying your punctuation marks gives you variety in sentence construction,  breaks from a monotonous rhythm, and a means of drawing attention to particular words.

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A quick Google search will reveal advice from writers and editors and other writing professionals that says to never include semicolons in fiction. I can’t see being so dogmatic. If a punctuation mark serves the story—or if it’s a style trait of the writer—use it.

Writers reveal themselves through the words they use and the way they put those words together—through diction and syntax. If a writer uses semicolons, that’s part of her style. Unless a writer’s choices interfere with the foundations and strengths of a story, I see no reason to mess with that writer’s style. A writer’s use of words and punctuation is integral to her style and her voice.

I’m all for pointing out options. But tell a writer she can’t use semicolons? I think that would be short-sighted and clearly a mistake.

I’m curious to know what others think. Have you been told not to use semicolons or other punctuation? Have you directed your clients away from semicolons? Do you think doing so has served writer and story well?

What about other punctuation marks?

*******

While I won’t tell a writer he can never use a certain punctuation mark, I will offer the advice to not overuse the semicolon or any punctuation. Anything that distracts from the story should go, and too much of any one element is a distraction. 

But don’t deny yourself legitimate ways to get your meaning across just because some curmudgeon has a fit about a particular punctuation mark or word or grammar rule. Yes, failure to adhere to some rules could keep you from being published. Use of a semicolon in novels is not one of those sacrosanct rules.

Use the full range of options, but learn to use grammar and punctuation correctly and effectively. Remember your readers and choose options that enhance their reading experiences. Write compelling fiction that carries your voice and style.

Write well today.

***

And adults who are denied either plot ways to get what they want by another method or they’re plotting revenge against the individual responsible for the denial.

You can manipulate your characters—even the sweetest, most agreeable ones—into heinous behavior by denying them what they most want.

And not just denying them, but promising or hinting that they’ll get it if they first do something, say something, be something. And when they give all to do or say or be that something and you still deny them what they want, well then you can certainly see what kind of person those characters are by their reactions.

Use denial to increase conflict between characters and between one character and his world.

Use denial to goad characters into rash acts, into acting without thought to consequence or to the considerations of others.

Pour on the denials so that when the character thinks he can achieve a second desire in place of the first, he is thwarted there too. And deny him again when he thinks trying harder should bring success.

Denial makes us dig in and push to get what we want, what’s been promised, what is our due.

Denial also makes us angry. Makes us irrational. Makes us rash.

Denial is marvelous for stories. Use it to stir up characters, to make a character unlike his everyday self, the person he is when his desires aren’t threatened. Use denial to show what a character is made of, what he values, the lengths he’ll go to satisfy himself at the expense of the desires of others. At the expense of his reputation. Perhaps at the expense of his very self.

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 Can you see how denial can work against a character but work for the story?

Characters who are denied either retrench and try harder or they look for ways around whatever blocks them from the object of their desire. They could also seemingly give up in the hopes of tricking other characters, but if they truly give up, there’s not much more you can do with that denial. If characters are thwarted and do give up, the conflict is eased and the tension diffused. Instead of increasing conflict, you’ll have erased it.

But characters who either keep pushing—as if strength or character alone might propel them past the denial point—or who look for ways around the denial keep readers interested. They keep the conflict high and they add trouble to problem to predicament.

Repeated denials allow characters to develop character—and perseverance and drive and boldness.

Denial matures characters. It can also lead them down paths, both for good and evil, that they’d never imagine traveling had they not been denied.

Variety of Denials
To introduce variety, vary the type of denial or change the method of denial. If Johnny Orlando at first can’t travel to Europe because his family can’t afford it, make the second denial of the trip come when he’s got money and opportunity but a pregnant wife on bed-rest and two toddlers running around his home.

Or maybe Marsden only wants to be left alone to paint in his cottage by the sea. Deny him that solitude by giving him a neighbor—in the only other house for 10 miles—who can’t stand being alone, who suffers from insomnia, and who thinks the artist needs pampering with food and wine those longs nights he’s up painting. Deny Marsden any peace by having him knock the neighbor down the stairs—accidentally of course—breaking her leg on one side and spraining her wrist on the other. Since she has no one to care for her, Marsden, feeling guilty, must of course offer his own home for rehab.

Vary the intensity of the denial, the character that the denial comes through, the reason for the denial, and the effect of the denial on the character. That is, don’t repeat yourself.

Make the denials logical for the story; think them through ahead of time.

Make characters face denials of different types and for different situations or different desires at the same time.

Build up the effect of denials so that by the time the character is ready to blow, all it takes is the simplest of denials to get him steaming.

Reveal a character’s personality by the way he handles denial. Not every character is upset by every denial, especially at the story’s beginning. Yet, if he’s quick to be agitated by someone telling him he can’t have what he wants, let him be consistent. And give him an antagonist, or even a friend, who is quick to tick him off just to watch him get angry or get creative with his responses.

It’s true that some people agitate others just to see their reactions. You can write this kind of character into your story to stir up your protagonist.

Since even the most accomplished man or woman doesn’t always get what he or she wants, build denial into your stories. Give characters a reason to push back or to go outside the law or outside the accepted manner of obtaining something they want or feel is their due.

Tell them no and then watch them pitch a fit or get even. Watch them achieve their goals by pushing against barriers all the way to breakthrough and success.

Or watch them push through those barriers to find spectacular failure.

Make them determined. Make them selfish, in at least one area of their lives. Make them stubborn. Make them do what they swore they’d never do.

Make them hurt others to get what they want. Make them regret that they hurt those they love. Make them fear they’ll do the same thing again.

Make them proud of their stubbornness. Make them ashamed. Make them sorrowful.

Let them accept the blame for their actions and the catastrophic results of those actions.

Let them cast blame on others.

Give them insight and character growth based on what happened when they pushed past denial.

Allow them to pretend that repeated denials and their response to denial never affected them.

Let them learn something.

Let them pretend to learn nothing.

*******

Use repeated denials to drive your character where he needs to go, to levels of higher emotion and deeper personal needs.

Use denials to set the character on his story course and set the reader on edge.

Deny your character what he wants and what he needs. And then watch him go after those wants and needs with determination and ingenuity and passion.

Deny your characters what they want, but give your readers everything.

Write good story today.

Write reaction-provoking denials.

***

So, we spend much of our early years learning how to stifle emotion, honesty—because you can’t tell Mrs. Arlington that her dress is hideous—and our confusion.

There are individuals, of course, who ignore their parents’ training or whose parents don’t encourage polite manners. These children are the ones who pitch fits in the grocery store or who bully other kids on the playground. We’re not going to talk about these people, children whose emotions run wild and who grow into adults whose emotions run wild. Or into adults who use their volatile emotions or the mere threat of them to control those around them.

No, I want to talk about people—in our case, characters—who hold back their responses.

Women who’ve been trained to be polite rather than assertive.

Men who are told tears—and even the grief that prompts them—are unmanly.

Men and women who don’t speak their minds over matters either insignificant or noteworthy because to do so would be impolite or rude.

People who’ve been repressing their emotions or their thoughts, their preferences or dislikes or their opinions,  for years. For decades. For so long that they have no room for one more repressed thought or unvoiced emotion.

Characters so close to letting loose and breaking down that one nudge more will send them over the edge.

Ah . . . Can’t you see it? Feel the tension? Sense the volatility of the middle manager who’s been forced to stand behind others for his entire career, waiting to make his move, waiting for recognition. Never causing a fuss, never venting even when he was wronged. Can you see him, pushing down and pushing deep his emotions? And can you see him at his moment of triumph, when he should be finally making his mark, can you see what happens when his grand idea is shot down or he’s asked to once again support the plan of a lesser man? For the good of the company, of course. Maybe for the good of the industry or for the sake of the planet.

What happens when this man can’t take any more, won’t take any more? Does he go quietly into the night?

Not if he’s a character in a novel.

No, our middle manager explodes at his wife, pre-empting the news of her promotion, her pregnancy, her cancer diagnosis.

He hits the tipping point, but it’s the worst conceivable time for him to lose it. He gets a big scene—spewing his disappointment, spilling his rage—and the story tension soars. Then when his wife is sympathetic but also shares her news, and his needs must once again take the back seat to someone else’s, they go at each other and conflict jumps.

Such conflict—and the resulting tension between characters and within the reader—creates involving, absorbing, unforgettably powerful fiction.

Or is that involving, absorbing, powerfully unforgettable fiction?

When a character rages, when he falls apart and lets go and breaks down, then we’ve got a scene that engages readers. That rips at their own emotions. That touches and moves them. That breaks and shakes and shatters them.

When the reader has drawn close to that character, when he can empathize with him, the breakdown is even more disturbing or moving.

It can even be cathartic.

Catharsis is the purging of emotions, usually when those emotions have built to an explosion point. Catharsis is a cleansing, a washing clean and clear.

Characters who explode—in rage or grief or fear—give themselves a release as well as providing a release for the reader.

You’ve watched such scenes in movies, when the star gets a chance for a tour de force moment, when he explodes with passion and reveals the true character he’s been hiding for most of the story.

Such scenes can become unbearable to the point they’re difficult to watch. The power of the released emotion—the long-repressed emotion—pushes every button of the audience. And it pushes the character.

Pushes him to say what he’s never said, what he’d been afraid to say, what he probably, in polite society, would never reveal. But when he gets to throw out and throw up the seething repressed words and feelings and truths he’s been hiding, wow. The release changes him. Brings him peace or at least some relief.

Maybe brings him guilt. Maybe healing. Maybe more trouble if his release comes at the expense of his boss or a foe or even a child who doesn’t understand why Dad went wacko for a while.

You can include such moments in the lives of your characters, moments when the inner person comes to the surface and reveals himself without apology and without fear. Moments when the repressed is freed. Moments when characters let ‘er rip with no thought to consequence.

Consider giving your protagonist—maybe your antagonist—such a scene. Let your lead character cast off society’s rules and be honest with himself and those closest to him. Use a character’s catharsis to send the story in a new direction.

Necessities for a satisfying character rant . . .

Reader identification with the character—be sure the rant doesn’t occur too early in the story or before readers empathize with the character

A character who has something to rant about, a topic that will engage other characters and/or the reader

A character who hasn’t already been ranting or breaking down throughout the story—a passionate catharsis will be most striking if it comes from a character who’s been constantly repressing rather than venting

Consequences, negative and positive, to the character or those he loves as a result of the character’s blowup

The character and/or story moves into a new direction as a result of a character’s emotional release

The moment or scene of a rant is of a sufficient duration without going so far that you lose the reader’s attention or his ability to empathize

Word choices that convey the emotion the character is feeling and word choices that elicit the emotion you’re looking for from the reader

________________________________

Strongly consider giving your main character his own tour de force scene, one that readers will remember because it not only touched their emotions, it pulled and twanged and stomped on them. Consider such a scene especially if your character hasn’t done much changing or emoting through the story.

Consider such a scene if the story doesn’t need another action scene that arises from outside forces but could use one that’s prompted by character needs.

Consider an emotional cleansing if it’s past time for your character to speak his mind.

Shake up your readers by shaking loose your characters. Make readers witnesses to the most personal moment of a character’s life. Let them see. experience, know a character at his most vulnerable.

Make a strong character human by allowing him to break down in a spectacular fashion, in a way that changes him. In a way that opens the eyes of those who thought they knew him.

Show your tough guy’s emotions, your intellectual’s heart, your timid mouse’s backbone and passion.

Let truth emerge through unrestrained words and unfiltered emotions. Let the character make himself foolish and not care, at least in the moment of his release. (Afterwards you can give him remorse and embarrassment and all sorts of painful fallout.) Push beyond your own limits to make yourself uncomfortable at the raw emotion you let spill out of your pen and your head and your heart.

*******

Allow your characters to tell off the world and allow yourself to be impolite, to butt in where no one belongs, to tell secrets that shouldn’t be brought to light.

Give your characters a catharsis.

Write good fiction.

Write powerful rants.

***

Holidays and celebrations mark years (birthdays and anniversaries) and milestones (graduations). They help us mark days and events important to us as individuals and families, as citizens of nations and as members of cultural groups.

Celebrations help us remember. They tell us we’re important. They keep us tied to those who’ve come before.

Celebration reminds us of joy, it reminds us we’re part of a bigger group, of something outside our own minds and problems and lives.

And what is true for us is no less true for our characters.

Characters, like other humans, have much to celebrate. The arrival of a baby, perhaps the long-awaited heir, is often anticipated with great joy and celebrated with unimagined fervor. The start to a marriage is honored. The day a boy becomes a man in his father’s eyes, in his tribe’s eyes, in his own eyes is a day for celebrating. For marking with ritual. For remembering.

The victories of a country or a people-group deserve remembrance. Religious events deserve acknowledgment as well.

So . . . As we celebrate, mark the passage of time, and join friends and family members to honor others, let’s remember to allow our characters to do the same.

While your story might not touch on holiday issues, you can still introduce celebrations—and all the emotion and conflict that accompany them.

A teenager’s sixteenth birthday? What can be done with it to advance your plot? What if the birthday is forgotten? Ignored? Overplayed by one parent at the expense of the other? What if this teen gets a party to rival parties of the last 50 years and her brother, sixteen just last year, wasn’t allowed to celebrate his birthday in any special way?

What trouble can be stirred up at a holiday meal? On the way to a religious service? On the way home from a graduation party?

What emotions or yearnings could be revealed by the woman putting on her make-up as she readies herself for the big bash celebrating her twentieth anniversary? What if she no longer loves her husband? What if she never did? What if she loves someone else and always has? What if her husband is an abuser? What if he’s Mr. Perfect, but she still loves another?

What can the celebration—the setup, the event itself, and the aftermath—do for your story and your characters?

Allow me to suggest that you consider adding celebrations to your novels. Don’t limit yourself to only personal events but think about national events—a Fourth of July picnic or parade, for example—or religious observances.

Use a boy’s bar mitzvah or confirmation, or a girl’s quinceañera, to mark not only the occasion for the teen, but for the mother or father.

A man with a son on the brink of manhood may be proud and at the same time disappointed, disappointed that at this stage of his own life he hasn’t accomplished anything of note, anything that matters to anyone of importance, anything that he himself considers worthwhile.

As his son, excited and eager, nears the day he’ll become a man, the father may become anxious. Depressed. Withdrawn. He may feel weak and feeble. Useless.

What marvelous tension you could stir up from adding a simple celebration to your story.

Of course, the father may be proud of his son and just as proud of his own accomplishments. He may be so proud that he brags of his life enough that he alienates his son, has him dreading his father’s speech on the day the boy finally reaches manhood.

The son may love but fear his father, hate him, or admire but not understand him. He may constantly strive to be like him. To be unlike him. To be himself in his father’s shadow.

So many options . . .

If you don’t want to give a holiday flavor to your story, one that would forever tie the story to a particular time of year, use a birthday or anniversary for your celebration. Or allow your characters to celebrate their holiday outside the typical holiday season for a reason unique to the story.

Perhaps a couple is separated by their jobs or war or other unbreakable commitments. Have them celebrate their anniversary on the one day they can both be in the same city for twelve hours. You don’t have to identify the day or even the month.

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Think about ways to use celebration in story, in a particular story. How will a character act at a celebratory event? Will he hide his pain, putting his own needs aside so others can celebrate an event or heroic moment or national holiday? Will he disrupt the event? Is the disruption accidental or for a purpose? What consequences will come with the disruption?

Will a character embrace the celebration or shun it, agree with it or try to diminish its importance for others?

There are dozens of ways to use celebration and holiday in fiction. A few options to get you thinking—

Give your characters rituals for their celebrations. Let them be nostalgic with traditions handed down from grandparents or excited over new practices that a child wants to try.

Give your rituals meaning. Tie them in to the rest of the story through shared emotion or repetition or memories.

Let one character uphold ritual to the exclusion of all else while another turns his back on that same ritual without compunction.

Have one character dream of getting lost in ritual or dream of forever escaping it.

Let parents remember celebrations they shared with a now deceased child.

Use ritual and celebration to explain a character’s tightly held opinion on a matter.

Give characters and stories foods and games and dishes peculiar to the holiday or celebration.

Use the high emotions of celebrations to reveal character personalities and stir up resentments and jealousy, maybe envy, between characters.

Think in terms of both joy and solemnity, celebration and remembrance. Think of both public and private ways for characters to enjoy their celebrations.

Use props—a candle, a shawl, a love letter—so characters can touch the celebration. So the celebration touches them. Use scents to overwhelm characters with the reality of a celebration, its deep meaning. Use mystery and uncertainty to link characters to the unknown in ceremonies and religious events.

Use color to signify the unique nature of an object tied to your story celebrations. Then repeat the use of that color throughout the story to link back to the emotions you stirred up at the celebration scene.

*******

Keep in mind that characters bring more to the story world than their reactions to current events. They bring to the present all they’ve done and dreamed of and wanted in the past, even if the story doesn’t once mention a character’s past. Characters are not absent a past life. Use what you know of that life to color the story events you do share with the reader.

Characters will know all about celebrations and what those celebrations mean to them and to others in their sphere. Tap into the rich possibilities of these holidays and celebrations for your fiction.

Take what you know of real celebrations and make your story celebrations just as real. Just as authentic. And just as troublesome for your characters as they can be for you.

Put holidays and other celebratory moments to work in your fiction.

Use celebration in story.

***

At their most basic, author intrusions are story anomalies, oddities, where the writer has projected herself into the fictional world. These intrusions show up as events or knowledge or words that don’t fit the story.

Or, to look at intrusions in a slightly different way, consider them places where the writer hasn’t sufficiently covered her tracks.

In fiction, any time the reader sees a trace of the writer imposed upon the story world or bleeding through the fiction, that writer has intruded—stepped into a place she doesn’t belong.

Intrusion is distracting. It’s interruptive. It’s annoying.

Author intrusion upsets the rhythms of a story. It upsets the readers. Author intrusion upsets characters who must adapt to the anomaly.

If one character starts spouting off in favor of the writer’s pet crusade, other characters must respond—even if the topic has nothing to do with these characters or their plot. Or, if the writer knows characters shouldn’t respond because the first character shouldn’t be espousing such a viewpoint, she may have other characters ignore what Character One is saying. And this, of course, creates additional problems. Characters should have a response to what others do and say. When they don’t, story ties are loosened. The pattern of action/reaction is broken. The story loses cohesion.

A tip to remember about intruders is that they are not welcome. Would you rather your readers were moved by your story or ticked off because you plopped yourself into the middle of it?

Readers come to fiction for the characters’ stories, for the make-believe that they can imagine is real. They don’t come to novels for a writer’s opinions.

Of course, not all author intrusion is about a pet cause or the author’s stand on an issue—

When a character suddenly sounds unlike himself for reasons having nothing to do with the plot . . .

When a character reveals knowledge he couldn’t or shouldn’t have—not necessarily about story events but general knowledge of the world— . . .

When a setting is burdened with details no one but a specialist (or a writer who overdid the research) would know . . .

When characters speak as though they all have MFA degrees . . .

When the plot is about a novice writer trying to pen a bestseller . . .

. . . the writer has intruded into the story and left her mark.

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Identify Author Intrusion

Author intrusion can be difficult for writers to see because we’re used to our own opinions and knowledge; it’s part of us and we don’t usually see anything wrong with it. Seeing our opinions in others would not jar us.

To clearly see and evaluate a story as something independent of us, we must separate ourselves from our stories. Step back and study them dispassionately. The ability to do this takes practice and the willingness to distance oneself from one’s creation, a task especially difficult for beginning writers. Experienced writers should be doing this distancing as a matter of course as they create.

 So, how can we identify author intrusion? Give yourself the distance I just mentioned by putting the manuscript aside for a time. When you get away from a manuscript—think about other tasks and/or work on other stories—you create the distance necessary to come back to a story as a reader would, to see it with fresh eyes. When you’ve been away long enough—and if you’re not writing to deadline, I’m talking weeks and not days here—author intrusion will be obvious when you come back to the story.

You can also listen to your beta readers. If they tell you they see your hand or hear your voice in a scene, believe them and cut out the author intrusion.

Another option is to do an editing pass solely to find examples of your opinions and your pet words in the manuscript. You know your social views and your favorite buzzwords. Look for them in your stories. If they don’t fit the character and the story, yank those words out. Your books will be stronger for being whole unto themselves, fiction adventures free of your real-world presence.

What to look for

Words that you, the writer, would use in places where readers should find only words the character would use

Knowledge that the writer rather than the character would possess—names of plants or flowers or animals or birds; names of body parts; sports trivia, history, and the workings of mechanical objects or technology; knowledge beyond what a person of the story era would logically have; knowledge beyond a character’s education or station or age or experience 

Characters of the opposite sex—relative to the writer—who sound like characters of the writer’s same sex

Phrasing and rhythms that the writer rather than the character would use

Sensibilities, mindset, or a worldview common to the writer’s era but which should be foreign or unknown to characters in the story

Those items that a character notices (visually or in the words or actions of other characters) should be things that the character—because of his background or history or training—would notice. If he wouldn’t notice something, no matter how cool that something is, but he does notice and goes on and on about it, that’s author intrusion. That’s a writer including some fact he discovered, because he found it fascinating, even when the inclusion doesn’t fit the story.

Author intrusion can be subtle or grossly obvious.

Author Opinion
If every character has the same political, religious, or social stand and those stands match those of the writer, the author has intruded into the story.

An author who gives all characters the same stance doesn’t yet know her characters as individuals, doesn’t care to make her characters independent of her, or doesn’t understand that story conflict arises from the differences between characters.

When most characters hold the same opinion and a writer makes a dissenting character look especially ignorant or clown-like because of his stance, the writer is revealing her own opinion and most likely using her story to pursue a personal agenda.

While the writer may be pitting the independent character against all others to show how strong he is and that he can prevail, the writer who makes a dissenting character look like a fool often wants to put down rather than champion the opinion put forth by that character, especially regarding political, religious, and social issues.

Author Research
Author intrusion comes in when a writer has so researched a topic or issue that she can’t resist adding some of her knowledge to a story, whether or not the characters would pursue or know the same information.

Keep in mind that familiarity and general knowledge are not equal to specialized knowledge. A character can own a car and not know how it runs. And a time-traveler going to the past might be able to talk about the wonders of the future but not be able to explain how those wonders work or how they were invented.

Author Word Choices
Author intrusion can come into a story with word choices. Some writers like to pretty up their prose, add a dash of the poetic or use fancy words in place of cheap, everyday words. Now, if your character uses the fancy words—all the time—that’s one thing. When he or she only waxes poetic once or twice over the course of a novel—and it’s not done for a plot reason (such as making another character laugh)—then the author’s hand is obvious.

Writers often add a flourish to a character when they think they’ve been too earthy or common or just plain normal with their words. But if your characters are earthy or common or normal, let their words reflect their personalities. Don’t introduce purple prose or fancy words or intricate sentence constructions when the common serves the character, the scene, the story, and the genre.

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Any time a reader can see the writer—word choice, preaching or teaching, a character who doesn’t speak or act as he should, setting details that overwhelm (because the writer couldn’t hold back after researching for days)—then the author has stuck a toe, a finger, a fist, or even his mind into the fiction. This intrusion distracts, draws readers away from the fiction and toward the mechanics and/or the author.

Note:  Author intrusion is not an all-knowing narrator sharing his knowledge, knowledge that no one else in the story has. An omniscient narrator can know everything. But an omniscient narrator who sounds like the writer trying to teach a history lesson or preach a sermon is author intrusion.

Author intrusion is also not the skills, the special knowledge, and the personal style that a writer brings to story to give it richness and distinction. Author intrusion only becomes a problem when those skills, knowledge, and style point outside the story and toward the writer rather than drawing readers inward to the fiction.

Fixes for Author Intrusion

Remove traces of the author by replacing her words—your words—with words and phrases common to and appropriate for the characters, and by cutting out references to knowledge a character couldn’t possess.

Give characters their own personalities, personalities strong and independent enough to stand against the author’s will and interests.

Use setting details to color and enrich a scene, not drown it under facts—no matter how fascinating—that have no bearing on the story.

*******

Your personality, your skills—your heart and hands and mind—will be all over your writing projects. Just don’t let the reader see the evidence of your touch. No footsteps or fingerprints or stray hairs. Don’t let readers catch you running around the corner just ahead of them. Don’t let them feel you peering over their shoulders, nudging them into noticing your excellent phrasing or pithy remarks.

Do your work without leaving physical evidence of your passage through the adventure. Let a reader imagine he’s the first human outsider to walk through your settings and fiction, the first to love and fear and laugh with your characters.

Write fiction that reveals your characters and their world, not your personality and your world.

Write involving fiction.

Write good story.

***