While we’re writing, we tend to live in our fiction. We know the setting—we can hear, taste, and smell our worlds. We know who might come sauntering down a lane. We see the sunsets, feel the biting wind, walk unbalanced on shifting sands.

But sometimes a writer’s got to step away from the fictional world and analyze it, study it objectively.

When it’s time to check your story—to make sure you’ve covered all the craft issues, make sure you’ve got a solid product—you’ve got to disconnect from the emotional ties that bind you to your story.

You may have lived with your characters for years, may know the layout of their villages and planets better than you know your own city, but at some point you need to go outside and look through the eyes of a stranger. An analytical stranger, one without connections to your fictional world. One without understanding of that world.

And then you’ve got to coldly study the world, examine it. See what it lacks.

As every municipality has weaknesses and sub-standard services, maybe even absent services, so too will your story world have weaknesses and be missing vital elements.

You may never have noticed these missing parts because you’ve spent all your time with a few select characters and their area of town is built up, complete, without lack.

But look across the tracks. What have you forgotten to build into your story world? What have you skimped on? What did you ignore, thinking you’d eventually get to later? What missing elements did you hope no one would notice were missing?

What is overly portrayed, so much so that it masks the lack in other areas?

Take the time—no sooner than after your first draft and maybe only after the second—and dispassionately look at your story world. Make an honest assessment. What’s missing? What did you skimp on? What’s noticeably thin? Barren? Never mentioned?

What should be there, maybe in a support role, that’s not there at all?

What do you spend too much time with? What’s mentioned so often that readers would be comfortable skipping over the next time it’s mentioned? What is overly explained, left without mystery?

Make a list or a spreadsheet and investigate your story world as a student of literature might. Point out setting details and characters and plot threads. Assign weights to the elements of your stories.

Weigh the page time of characters. Weigh the amount and heft of their dialogue. Does your protagonist get more page time than anyone else? What of your major antagonist? Have you neglected your antagonist, given his minions, especially that outlandishly ghoulish one, more attention than the character who’s supposed to be the main challenger to your lead character?

Do incidentals overwhelm? Are necessities given too little emphasis?

What of secondary characters? Has your lead’s best friend been relegated to not second place but to fifth or sixth in terms of plot duties?

Does anything worthwhile happen, or have you forced your characters to think for page upon page rather than act or feel or speak?

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Don’t allow yourself to make excuses—well, this happens like that now, but the pace picks up (or something exciting happens or a new character makes a major revelation) twenty-five pages after this.

If you wouldn’t put up with it, with a lack or an overabundance of some element in a book you read, don’t put up with it in a book you write.

No dozens of pages of recounting an event from the past. No dialogue that runs forever without action. No dialogue that runs forever without interruption. No story-halting recitations of explanations for behavior or events.

No author intrusion, not even those oh-so-cool details about quarks that fascinate you even now, two years after you read about them.

Look at your story as an outsider would, one with no attachment to your words, phrases, details, characters, or scenes.

Examine—not necessarily read—your manuscript with an eye toward missing elements, under-reported elements, and heavy-handed elements.

Rather than reading one more time and getting lost in plot or story world, lost in detail, narrow your eyes and look at the big picture. Are there puzzle pieces missing? You’re not putting the puzzle together at this point, so you don’t need to connect individual pieces. You do want to step back and see where the gaps are. Is there a big empty space at the center of your puzzle, with connected pieces both before and after but no connections between? Are some pieces richly detailed and others murky? Are some pieces nearly colorless or maybe nearly blank because you didn’t know what to put there?

How about the edges? Usually puzzle edges are easy to put together, but maybe your edges are what’s murky because you don’t know where you’re sending your characters, don’t know their ending scenes. So instead of a full puzzle, you’ve got a jumble, unfinished, with missing pieces, extra pieces, and non-matching pieces that you’ve shoved together. And you’re hoping no one notices the places where pieces are missing or incorrectly joined.

The truth is, they’ll notice.

So fix the problem areas.

Fix your puzzle. Make the pieces themselves clear and then make them clearly fit with what comes before and what comes after. Any place a plot thread or character or setting detail touches another element, ensure that the fit is tight. Leave no gaps, because readers will find them. And once readers are distracted from the fiction, it’s hard to get them to buy into a story a second time.

Think tight fit. Think interlocking. Think tabs fitting into grooves (or innies fitting into outties).

Pieces must not only fit tightly, they must actually form a picture that makes sense. So while several tabs might fit into one groove, you have to make sure the resulting picture is a true picture.

Yes, I’ve taken the analogies around and around a couple of times here. But the point is to look at your stories from outside rather than only from the inside. For first-time writers, being able to step back, to step outside the story, is often tough.

Sometimes it’s nearly impossible.

It helps if you can put your manuscript aside for a while. Don’t look at it. Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine what you could’ve, should’ve, written in that one scene.

Immerse yourself in another story world. Or in your real world. Shake off the emotions and thoughts about this one story. When you can think of it coolly, go back and examine it.

Again, we’re not talking about reading and enjoying each step of the unfolding plot. We’re talking about the big picture and the connections and the elements that make up stories.

Where is there too much of any one thing—too much detail or too many characters or too much emphasis?

Where is there too little?

Where is there overlap?  What of missing connections?

Where is connection forced, so that pieces sort of fit but don’t do so smoothly? Where have you manipulated a puzzle piece, some story element, so that other pieces are squished, pushed out of shape, so they no longer smoothly fit the pieces they were once connected to?

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I admit this is one of the most difficult tasks for some writers. It’s hard, hard, hard for some to look at their work dispassionately. Characters or story world have become so much a part of their lives that they don’t know how to separate themselves from that world. They may not want to. When you’ve invested years in a project, it bears your blood, your life, everything you gave up in order to spend time creating. Who wants to admit that after all that time, a story is still not perfect?

The writer who wants a better story admits it. So does the writer who knows that both identification with a story and separation from it will strengthen it. The writer who can lose himself in the depths of story as well as ruthlessly cut out fabulous scenes and remarkable characters because they ultimately don’t fit knows it as well.

I hope this is the kind of writer you are, one who can both get lost in your fiction—write from your heart—and set yourself apart from it—analyze and rewrite from the head. Both skills will serve your writing and your stories.

If this isn’t your natural approach, not one of your strengths, have faith; both skills can be learned and sharpened.

Both skills will give your readers more engrossing adventures.

Both skills should be eagerly pursued.

***

You’ve been toiling along, writing according to your outline, or you’ve been pantsing without an outline and the words have just come tripping off your fingertips. You’re following the plan and it’s been good. Solid. Dependable.

No, not boring. Not predictable. Just . . .

Hmm. So maybe the plot is predictable. Maybe this passage . . . this scene . . . yeah, maybe this chapter and the last three have been rather steady. And flat. And steady. Did I already say that? It’s not that the action all sounds the same or the dialogue is a rehash of something from five chapters back. It’s just that . . .

Yeah, it’s boring.

So what are you doing wrong?

Maybe not a lot. And maybe you’re just too close to the work to see it clearly. But just maybe it is boring, boring because you’ve forgotten to include something—a revelation, the introduction of a new character, an unforeseen event—that was so unpredictable that you haven’t even surprised yourself for the last hundred pages.

Maybe your characters take only right turns and always peek around corners before they venture around them and so they’re never surprised by what they encounter.

Maybe the predictability of the characters and plot would lull even the most devoted reader.

Have you forgotten to surprise characters and readers? Have you been so slavishly committed to what you think the story should do (not to mention paying attention to all the rules and the mechanics of writing) that you’ve put a stranglehold on your characters so that even if they want to step out boldly, you won’t let them?

Let me suggest that you allow room for story surprises, both for characters and readers. Don’t let either group remain unsurprised as they travel your story world.

Introduce the unexpected and do so more than once. And make each surprise different from the others—

use different characters to spring the surprise

make use of different story elements

use twists but make them fresh twists

change the emotional level of the surprise

stir up a different emotion with each surprise

Use surprises to send the story in a new direction, maybe a darker direction. Use something new to shake up your protagonist or to stir up your antagonist.

Imagine a figurative hornets nest falling on your protagonist and his buddies. What happens? Might they scatter, chased away by the stings or simply the fear of stings? Might this leave your protagonist isolated? Maybe lonely? Maybe wondering why he’s been deserted?

Maybe your lead character is chased so far by the crazed hornets that he no longer recognizes where he is and has no idea how to return to where he’d been. Who can he rely on now? Where can he seek wisdom? Who can he trust for comfort?

This is your chance to add new characters or a new setting, maybe something dark, something totally foreign to your lead character.

Or, maybe it’s the antagonist who’s surprised by the hornets, and he’s made so miserable that he lashes out and steps up his attacks on the protagonist.

We’re not talking true buzzing hornets here. We are talking something surprising that shocks or challenges your characters. Something that wakes up your readers.

And this surprise, whatever form it takes, needs to be written in by you. Planned for by you.

So as you’re writing or rewriting, check for surprises. If your plot is predictable, you could use a surprise. Your characters and readers could certainly use one.

Note: Don’t confuse well plotted or tight-fitting with boring. I’m not talking about messing up the rhythms and balance of a strong story that fits snugly together with inevitable reactions following inevitable actions. I’m talking about changing the predictable, not the inevitable.

Inevitable is satisfying. Predictable is boring. Inevitable is strong story with balanced elements. Predictable is the same old story maybe set in a new city to give it the veneer of freshness.

If you’re bored or if your beta readers are bored or if your characters cross their arms and raise an eyebrow at you in your dreams, demanding something fresh, then add something surprising. Even if you’re not bored, check to see if you’ve included surprises for both characters and readers. If you haven’t, consider an addition.

Introduce a new character

Reveal a secret

Kill a character

Close up an escape route

Force a showdown

Embarrass a key character

Make your protagonist fail

Give a moral character a major moral lapse

Turn an enemy into an ally

Turn an ally into an enemy

Have a character tell a lie; have another character corroborate it

Raise someone or something (a long-abandoned dream) from the dead 

Ratchet up the emotion factor tenfold for a scene

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Remember to set up surprises before they’re needed—they need to make sense in terms of the plot and characters you’ve already got working.

Surprise not only readers and characters, but surprise yourself. Write something you didn’t think you had in you. Expose yourself and your emotions and your fears. Step out—leap out—of your comfort zone. Add power to scenes and action and dialogue by moving beyond what you thought you could say or write or declare.

Purposely surprise characters and readers so your stories will be those remembered and talked about. Give readers a reason to anticipate your next book. If they couldn’t guess what would happen in the last one, they’ll never guess what you’ve got in store for them in the next one.

At least that’s what you want them thinking and anticipating.

Take the time now—or make a note to do it later—to search for surprises in action or word choice or plot events or story threads. If you find no surprises, add a few. If you do have a couple, make sure they’re powerful and effective. Make sure you’ve given each a sufficient setup. Make sure they’re not simply one more story element—make them a successful story element.

Eliminate boring and non-engaging passages.

Add surprises to keep both characters and readers involved.

Write the unexpected, the good stuff. Write unpredictable fiction.

***

So, let’s look a bit at story length.

The short answer to the question about the length of a story is to say every story should be as long as it needs to be. It should satisfy the story setup and problem without overwhelming the reader with more words than are necessary.

Right. But what does that mean?

That means that you don’t drag out your resolution. You give each story an ending that balances the length and depth of the narrative that has come before. You don’t drag it out.

But you also don’t drag out chapters. Or scenes. Or dialogue. Or even sentences. Get the point across in the fewest words possible. Tell the reader what he needs to know and then move on.

Don’t belabor any point. Cut off scenes while they’re still strong rather than leaching out all their power with too much detail and unnecessary explanation. Make readers want more, in a good way, rather than have them wishing you’d shut up already.

If you’ve made your point, get on to the next one.

Cut out repetition. Cut out fluff. Cut out the zillions of unimportant actions between one scene and the next.

Cut clichés.

Cut out any word, phrase, character, or scene that doesn’t contribute to the current story you’re writing. That is, write one story without trying to force a half-dozen into the same manuscript.

On the other hand, put in words that flavor your passages. Give readers enough detail that your characters seem real. Their plights believable. Their goals meaningful.

Write scenes, not only summaries. Write dialogue that serves to increase conflict and move the story forward.

Write fresh phrases. Write events. Create an interesting story.

Give readers no more and no less than is necessary to complete the story.

And write with story standards in mind.

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There are common word counts for not only different genres, but for different categories of fiction. If you’re looking to go the traditional publication route, writing to industry standards is a wise choice. No, not every piece of fiction fits neatly into a typical word count, but most do. And if you’re a new author, you’ll want to use every advantage to get your fiction accepted.

You wouldn’t want a story to be rejected solely based on word count, would you?

I can lay out guidelines for story length, but keep in mind that these are guidelines, not absolutes. Check publishers for their needs and limitations before you submit to them.

Guidelines for story length

Adult

Short Story         up to 7,500 words

Novelette           7,500 to 20,000 words

Novella              20,000 to 50,000 [some say 40,000] words

Novel                 over 50,000 [some say 40,000]

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Children

Picture books     up to 500 words [absolute maximum of 1,000]

Easy readers       anything from 200 to 2,500

Chapter books    6,000 to 10,000 words [even up to 25,000]

Middle grade      30,000 to 45,000 words

Young adult        45,000 to 70,000 words

Keep in mind that there are exceptions and allowances at both ends of these ranges. There are also sub-categories that could further refine these counts.

While these are general word counts, some genres allow for longer stories. Sci-fi, fantasy, paranormals, and epics allow for higher word counts in both adult and children’s fiction.

Also keep in mind audience and publisher needs. Novels that are too short might not appeal or might not fit a publisher’s needs, and novels that are too long may be rejected simply for length.

Publishers typically won’t consider a writer’s first novel if it’s too long. The maximum standard word count for an adult novel is about 110,000 words (some would say 130,000 words). Anything from 80,000 to 110,000 is common, with many novels falling in the 90,000 to 100,000 count range.

The romance genre has word count standards of its own.

Category romance      55,000 words

Single title                 90,000 to 110,000 words

There’s also a lot of variety in the mystery/thriller genre. Cozy mysteries are typically shorter, maybe as few as 65,000 words, though even that word count could be higher.

If your first novel is 145,000, 190,000, or 250,000 words, start cutting. If you intend to be published by a traditional publisher.

Or take your 280,000 word epic and make it three books instead of one.

The reality is that new writers have to prove themselves before publishers can take a chance on a long novel from them. So prove you can write a killer novel—or two or three—that comes in at 95,000 words. Then when you make millions for the publisher, offer them that 180,000 word masterpiece.

And yes, before you say it, there are exceptions. But one exception out of thousands and thousands of manuscripts isn’t great odds. Don’t handicap your chances at being published for the sake of word count.

Pick up any novel, especially those written in a different era, and you may well find a wildly different word count. Yet you are writing today, so your options depend on today’s gatekeepers and marketplace.

Note: There are different rules for self-publishing. If someone else isn’t laying out the money and their reputation for your work, you can write longer stories. Keep in mind, however, that you still have to please readers. No matter what the length, make it a great story.

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Both stories that are too short and too long are hard to sell. Try to keep yours within the standard ranges. Give yourself an edge by fitting in. Yes, you do want your writing to stand out, but there are some areas where standards rule. Let your characters and plot be wild and adventurous. Let your writing be bold. But let industry rules give boundaries to your creativity. Think of industry standards as the frame for your writing.

Write creatively. But do so in a way that will give others the opportunity to read your work.

Know when following rules and standards is to your benefit.

Write—and publish—your good fiction.

We can’t wait to read it.

***

You know you’re supposed to. Characters shouldn’t sound like their creator but they also shouldn’t sound like each other. Not in speech and not in thought.

Do you ever wonder how God does it, makes each of us so completely different? Well, writers get to tackle the same job. And sometimes it’s tough. But there are tips for creating unique character voices.

Use different words
Characters can have their own slang, business lingo, favorite expressions, and favorite curse words.

One character may not curse at all and another may curse like a long-time prisoner and still another may tip-toe around curses with a country mother’s sensibilities—infrequent cussing that’s nonetheless powerfully effective when it is released.

An engineer will use words a painter wouldn’t. A barber won’t sound like a corporate CEO. Neither the barber nor the CEO will sound like a drill sergeant. None of the three will sound like a kindergarten teacher.

One character may use short words, another the 50-cent version. All will have pet expressions and phrases that they love to show off.

Some characters may avoid certain words or phrases altogether, not wanting to give power or voice to what those phrases mean.

Use different sentence patterns
Let one character use short sentences, another long or convoluted ones. Let some characters use repetition in words or phrases.  Vary sentence construction and word order—nouns don’t always have to come first.

Let one character use participial or absolute phrases while another goes for noun followed by verb followed by object.

Add humor to one character
If you can write humor, let one character be the jokester. Maybe create puns for a character. Maybe give him really bad puns.

Cut off speech or thought
Allow one character to use clipped speech or incomplete thoughts. Since this kind of speech can be strong and noticeable, make sure you don’t write the same style for all characters. It’s very easy to slip into a pattern or rhythm; think rappers or Damon Runyon characters. One with a highly unusual speech pattern is usually enough.

Let a character ramble
Some people can’t get to the point. Create characters who ramble or beat around the bush or just take forever to say what they need to say. Rambling speech or thought can bore the reader, so be judicious with this technique. But do use it if it fits a character. Or if a character wants to drive others crazy.

Try a few of these techniques—

Have characters pay attention to different things—some will note their surroundings, some will not. Some will note furnishings or temperature or changes to a room. Some will notice other characters, especially the changes in them, but some characters are oblivious. Use what they notice to differentiate characters.

Give each a personal response style to questions. Some will answer others directly; others will hesitate or answer with a question or not answer at all.

Have one character dominate the conversations.

Have one character always interrupt and one character never interrupt. And then, when one of them acts out of character, others, including readers, will notice.

Consider character education and experience and purpose—is the character trying to schmooze someone? Is he striving to come across as honest when he isn’t? Let one character (almost) always tell the truth and let another almost always lie.

Consider the pressure the character is under—sentences will get short and choppy if a character is worried or is thinking of something else or has too many concerns to think about.

Consider the age of the character, the sex of the character, the culture or national background of a character.

Consider the snob factor—just who does your character think he is? Who does he want to be? Pretend to be? Fear to be?

Consider regional differences. Does your character say highway, expressway, thru-way, or something different?

Do you have a character who uses nicknames, one who speaks in lovey-dovey coos, another who preaches at his friends? Maintain their speech styles and patterns without overburdening readers with too much of a good thing.

Make sure that not all characters say oh or well or oh, please, or dagnabbit. Make them sound different because they are different. Let what’s inside the character reveal him. Let the events happening around him—and their effect on him—influence his word choices. Create different reactions for every character.

Do not use odd spellings and dialect as your main method of pointing out different speech patterns. Words may sound different in dialect, but the words are the same. So they’re actually spelled the same. Use other methods for indicating accents and dialect.

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This is a short one today, but I hope there’s enough here to get you started on differentiating your characters’ speech and thoughts.

Don’t worry too much about character voice on your first draft, especially if you’re not quite sure who the characters are yet. If you do know, try to use words and speech patterns they’d use. If you don’t know who they are when you begin, wait until they reveal themselves and then begin writing specifically for them.

Or, if you want to try on a character voice, as you might a costume, write a scene or two with different styles of speech and thought, and see if that doesn’t help you figure out just who these characters are.

Give variety to your characters. Let them speak from their hearts and their guts with all the honesty that’s in them. Let them reveal themselves through word and thought.

Write different character voices.

Create a variety of characters.

Write engaging fiction.

***

Inner dialogue is simply the speech of a character to himself. He hears it and the reader hears it, but other characters have no idea what’s going on in his head.

It’s the same for us and our thoughts. Unless we reveal them, no one knows what we’re thinking. In our worlds, however, even if we do reveal our thoughts, it’s likely that no one hears those thoughts uncensored. Lovers may share most of what they’re thinking, or an abusive parent might dump every thought on a child, but for the most part, men and women don’t share every thought. If they did, they’d be talking nonstop.

And they’d be opening up the very most intimate part of themselves. Most people simply don’t tell what they’re thinking, in full, to others. To do so would make them vulnerable, naked, without protection.

That’s a bit too much for any of us 3-dimensional people.

With characters, however, we get to listen in. And we hear not only passive thoughts—the stream of consciousness patter that flows through the mind—but deliberate dialogue—a character giving himself a pep-talk or talking himself into or out of particular actions.

Thought and inner dialogue give the reader insight he can’t get from watching a character’s actions from the outside.

Inner dialogue and thought reveal truth. They reveal darkness. They reveal hope or dreams or resignation.

They reveal emotions or beliefs too painful to be shared with other characters.

They reveal the heart. They reveal despair of the soul. They reveal strength of the spirit.

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Thought and inner dialogue can be used to raise the emotional level of a scene. When we see a mother comforting her child, telling him all is well, and then we see into her thoughts, knowing that in truth she has no hope that all will be well, we feel her love for her child. We see her own feelings and the need she feels to protect her child from a painful truth.

Character thought can also lighten a scene. A man who’s holding back sarcasm or inappropriate humor may present a blank face to other characters but may reveal his irreverence to the reader.

What else can thought and inner dialogue do?

Thoughts and lectures to self allow readers insight into a character

They allow characters to be differentiated

They give characters an honest voice

They can reveal character motivation

They can slow the pace of a scene

They can reveal a character’s conflict between his inner man and the needs of others

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So, how does the writer convey the thoughts and inner dialogue of a character?

First, the character must be the viewpoint character for a scene. Unless you’re writing from a completely omniscient viewpoint, which is quite unusual these days, you won’t be dipping into and out of every character’s head. And you certainly won’t be doing so within the same scene. So be sure we don’t get a thought from the dog when a couple is having a fight, not unless the dog is the viewpoint character for the scene.

Also, you’ll only want to reveal thoughts and inner dialogue that advance the plot. We don’t need to hear everything, just the good stuff. You could show random thoughts a time or two to establish the way a character thinks, but skip those kinds of thoughts for the most part. Give the reader thoughts that reveal the character and have bearing on the plot. Thoughts that up the emotional temperature for the reader.

In practical terms, try the following. The option without italics makes for the least intrusive read. 

1.  Use italics and dialogue tags

For traditional third-person narration, use italics to indicate a character’s thoughts or inner dialogue. Clearly signal to the reader that what she’s reading is thought or inner dialogue and not spoken dialogue.

Montrose angled his head, taking in both Giselle and her sister behind her.

They look nothing alike, he thought. He should have known Giselle was not Ariana.

Also . . .

Montrose angled his head, taking in both Giselle and her sister behind her.

They look nothing alike, he thought. I should’ve known Giselle was not Ariana.

No need to write he thought to himself. The reader knows he’s not thinking to someone else. Unless, of course, we’re talking paranormal or sci-fi. In such cases, you might indeed need to tell us who Montrose is thinking to.

Note that the verb look is in the present tense. Because this is inner dialogue—words directed to the character from himself—verb tense can be past or present, even if the rest of the narrative is past tense.

2.  Use italics without dialogue tags

When you’ve made it clear who the viewpoint character is, use italics without the dialogue tags. Readers will understand that the viewpoint character is the one revealing his thoughts.

Montrose tilted his head to get a clearer view of the hoyden behind Giselle. They look nothing alike. He dismissed the two of them with the flick of a wrist. And neither looks like my Margaret.

Use of italics allows the writer to treat thoughts as if the words are dialogue, as if the character is speaking to himself. So, we can use the present tense look rather than looked, even if the rest of the story uses narration in the past tense. The writer can also use I and me and we and our, even if the story is in the third person. Whatever you can do with spoken dialogue, you can do with a character’s inner dialogue. If you’re using italics to convey that inner dialogue.

3.  Don’t use italics at all

You can eliminate the use of and need for italics if you’re using first-person narration or deep POV in third-person narration. Since the reader knows and feels he’s in the character’s head, there’s no need to use italics to highlight thoughts of the character or dialogue directed to the character from himself.

Montrose tilted his head to get a clearer view of the hoyden behind Giselle. They looked nothing alike, these two women posing as his dead wife’s sisters. He dismissed both with a flick of his wrist. They also looked nothing like his sweet, sweet Margaret.

Stupid, ignorant fool. Should have known better than to believe. Than to hope . . .

There is no doubt that Montrose is the one thinking these thoughts.

In the first person—

I tipped my head to get a clearer view of the hoyden behind Giselle. They looked nothing alike, these two women posing as Margaret’s sisters. I waved them away. And they certainly didn’t favor my sweet Margaret.

Stupid, ignorant fool. I should have known better than to believe. Than to hope . . .

Note that without the italics, I kept the verbs in the past tense, to match the rest of the narration. This is a deliberate choice. It maintains consistency for the reader, keeps her from wondering why the writer changed from past to present tense.

With italics, the reader is given a signal to alert her to the inner thought. Without italics, there is no visual signal. Readers will understand that they’re reading thoughts, but a change to present tense in those thoughts—pushed up against past tense with the rest of the actions—may cause a hesitation for the reader. And you don’t want to do anything to pull the reader from the fiction.

This practice of switching verb tense only when using italics is a suggestion, not a hard rule. You’ve got options, and if you can make your story work by mixing present tense in your viewpoint character’s thoughts with past tense in that same character’s actions and do so without the visual aid of italics, try it. There’s nothing wrong with trying something.

Yet know that such a practice won’t be universally understood or accepted. Realize that you might lose your reader. And you definitely don’t want to make your reader hesitate, don’t want her wondering about the mechanics of story rather than the plot of story. Help the reader out.

While I wouldn’t want to say you can’t try something, my recommendation is to only switch tense in thought or inner dialogue if you use italics to show what you’ve done.

Do not, however, use I, me, we, or our without italics if you’re using third-person point of view. Without the signal of the italics, readers will think you’ve switched from third to first person mid-paragraph.

Keep in mind—

While it’s not required, consider beginning thoughts and inner dialogue with a new paragraph, as if it were spoken dialogue. Yet even as dialogue can share a paragraph with action, so can thoughts. Treat inner dialogue as you would spoken dialogue.

Never use quotation marks for thoughts, even if those thoughts are inner dialogue, a character talking to himself. Reserve quotation marks for speech that’s vocalized. Readers should be able to tell when a character is speaking inside his head and when he’s talking aloud, even if he’s the only person in the scene.

Plus, if you can cut back on distracting visuals, including unnecessary punctuation, do it.

Be consistent. Use the same method of conveying character thought and inner dialogue on the last page that you use on the first page. Consistency keeps the reader grounded in the fiction. Changes in method distract the reader.

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I hope these tips are helpful as you look for ways to convey thoughts and inner dialogue.

If you’ve explored other options, let us know what you’ve seen or tried for yourself. What works for you? What doesn’t?

Let your fellow writers and editors know how you write inner dialogue and character thoughts.

Share your own tips about punctuating thoughts.

Let us know how you write good fiction.

*******

On May 16, 2012, I made a couple of changes to the examples and their explanations. I hope the options are now clearer.

Are you just beginning a novel or short story and have no idea what you should do first? You’re not alone.

New writers may imagine that there’s some magic starting line, a place every writer begins. Because, after all, every writer must get those first words down somehow. So there must be one best starting place. Instructors or mentors probably share the secret of where real writers begin, pass it through the ranks from one generation to the next to ensure consistency, to ensure that a project is begun correctly.

A note about real writers: No matter where you begin and what you produce, if you write, you’re a writer. You might not be a published author, but to be a writer, all you must do is write.

Now, back to the start . . .

Will it surprise you if I say you can begin writing at any point in your story? That advice shouldn’t surprise you. I’ll always, always, (almost) always counsel a writer to do what works for him or her.

If you want to, need to, can only imagine beginning with the opening of your story and then writing straight through to the end, then do that. Start with your opening line. Opening paragraph. Opening dialogue or description or event.

Start from the beginning and then follow your path.

But what if that’s your problem? What if you don’t know what the opening scene should be?

Well, how about starting with what you do know?

If you’ve got an ending, start there. 

Know the characters who feature in the climactic scene and what that scene needs to accomplish? Write it.

Have some juicy bits of dialogue, dialogue that pits characters at one another, floating around in your mind? Get those juicy bits on the page.

Begin wherever you want with whatever story element you want to start with. Whatever gets you moving is what you need to begin with.

If you want to write the meet of hero and heroine, write it. If their first fight is itching to be explored, go there first. If you love dialogue and can already imagine scenes of conflict piled on more conflict, start with one of those scenes.

Write an action scene, even if you have no idea where it falls in the story.

Write your first line. Write the last one. Write a revelation that twists your protagonist into a madman trying to break free from family ties or responsibilities or memories. Write that one simple and profound sentence that turns both the story and your main character in a new direction.

Write the chapter-ending hook that will draw readers into your most emotionally challenging chapter and scene, even if you have no idea what goes into the beginning of the chapter for which you’re writing the hook.

Write what moves you, what interests you, what’s on your mind. When you’re staring at a blank screen and you’re imagining how you’ll fill 350 pages, write whatever comes to you.

Or, plan it all out beforehand. Work your outline and then begin with a scene that won’t stop playing in your mind, the one that keeps you up at night. Write it while it’s energized and emphatic. Write the dialogue of characters who won’t shut up.

Write snippets or paragraphs or scenes or full chapters.

Don’t assume that you need to know a scene in full to begin it. Get down what you can while it’s burning to be written.

Or, save the best for last.

I typically know the most emotional scene, the most crucial, before I begin writing. And I save the actual writing of it for when I get there in my fairly straightforward march through a story. I might note phrases from this special scene—images or description or hot dialogue, phrases that I don’t want to lose. But I save the full writing as a treat to myself. It’s a goal, one that sees me through the search for perfect word after perfect word and pages of detail I’m sure I’ll throw out or repetitive dialogue or action events that aren’t quite right or . . .

I save the best for last.

But I usually begin with the second best. The opening. The hook that will ensnare readers. The hook that gets my juices flowing.

As I write, I may jump around in terms of scene order, but I typically know the ending and typically start at the beginning. But that’s my way of doing it. You get to do it your way.

You don’t need someone else to tell you where to start. You don’t need to do it the way Stephen King does it, the way Nora Roberts does it, or the way Ian McEwan does it.

Find your way to begin. And please note that we’re not necessarily talking about the most efficient way to start writing a story. We’re talking about the way that will work for you. The way you’ll do it. The way that will ensure you’ll actually begin putting words in some kind of order that will see your fictional world and your characters come to life. Or at least help them find a place to live outside of your head.

Keep in mind—

There is no one right place to start.

There is no one right way to start.

You don’t have to begin writing where your favorite author does.

You don’t have to begin one story with the same element you used to begin the last one.

Begin writing any place that suits you.

Begin a second or a third time if you want or need to.

Don’t let anyone tell you there is one best way.

You don’t need me to say it, do you? But I will. Here it is . . .

Just begin.

Get something written.

Get the essence down. Get the mood or the feel or the emotion or the character or the dialogue or the color or the sound or the title.

Corral the it of your story, that thing that makes you want to begin a new project. If you can’t catch hold of the feeling, can’t quite get the snippet of plot or characterization that’s teasing you, at least capture something. And work with that. See if that which is elusive will draw closer as you work your magic. See if it doesn’t come so close that it can’t help but be drawn into every scene and every sentence, into the very heart of your story.

Start anywhere that works for you. But start somewhere.

Start with a story element that stirs your passion.

Start with an area that takes advantage of your skills.

Just start.

And then write until you’re well beyond the beginning. Write until idea has become plot and plot has become story and story has twisted and turned and become meaningful or entertaining or earth-shattering.

If you’re staring at that empty page, ready to begin something new, begin today.

Begin a new story.

And if you’re in the middle of a project, keep writing. Keep at it, knowing others are pulling for you, that readers are waiting to explore your story world.

They won’t care where you began. Only that you did.

So give them what they want.

Write good story today.

***

Have you ever wondered what a story was truly about or whose story it was?

Have you read stories that lacked focus?

Have you written stories that lacked focus?

A writer and I were recently talking about focus, and I thought we should explore the topic here as well.

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Focus is one element that keeps a story—any piece of writing—on track, that provides cohesion as well as direction.

Focus directs not only readers but characters and plot. Focus tells everyone what’s important. It also tells readers what isn’t important, what can be ignored.

If a story’s about a teenage girl, Monica, and her growing awareness of herself as a female, it’s not also going to be about her brother’s battle with leukemia and her best friend’s abuse at the hands of her uncle and her history teacher’s quest to win American Idol and her poodle’s incontinence.

Yes, some of those issues may come up in the story, perhaps as ways to pile on tension, but the story won’t revolve around those other issues. This is Monica’s story and her interests—her thoughts, emotions, actions, and reactions—need to drive this story. Those other issues need to bolster Monica and her story, not distract from it. Definitely not compete with it.

Too much story time and page space spent on side issues and insignificant characters or events waters down the tension and conflict and emotion and significance you build around the major characters and their problems.

The less time and attention you give one character or issue, the less power and significance that character or issue has. So, if the number and intensity of the challenges of your main character are reduced to make room for other issues, the impact of those challenges is reduced. The reader’s interest in them will not be as deep as it could be.

The story becomes not the challenges of one character and her efforts to overcome them, but the problems of several characters. By necessity, the attention given the first character is reduced when attention is given to other characters or plot events having nothing to do with the first character.

A lack of focus confuses the reader, leaving her to wonder just whose story this is.

A lack of focus can also diffuse the impact of story events that should produce tension in the reader and conflict for a character.

Any time story issues don’t contribute to the true challenges and conflicts of the main character, you’re directing a story’s energy and passion away from that character and her story.

Of course you do want to layer story issues and problems. Yet for what purpose would you point toward unrelated issues and to characters who don’t influence the story events of your main characters?

Filler is simply fluff—if events, dialogue, setting, and characters don’t enhance the story issues, why are they even in the story? Story elements must serve the story they’re in. If they don’t belong, take them out.

I can hear some writers saying but the story can’t only be about my protagonist and her struggles, it can’t only be about what she’s up to and her needs.

Yes it can.

A story is exactly that. It’s about a character and some event or period or issue in her life. It’s about that character’s struggles and failures and successes and growth. It’s about specifics in that character’s life.

Use other story elements to bolster Monica’s story. Yes, do that. Use other characters and events for contrast when that works. But maintain focus. Readers shouldn’t be left guessing whose story they’re reading. Halfway through a book they shouldn’t still be wondering what the story’s about.

Give your stories focus, something and someone to look at, someone to identify with. Readers are new to your story world. Help them work their way through. Give them something to interest them, something to care about. Someone to root for. Someone to follow. Someone to be.

Use red herrings if you’re writing a mystery, but use them to direct the reader to a specific character or conclusion.

Reduce the millions of possibilities for story events and characters to the few that will make this one story full and rich and satisfying and focused. Cohesive. Complete.

Use words and phrases that identify the personality of your characters. Give characters quirks and mannerisms that further identify them. Make them consistent to themselves and distinct from one another.

Give characters reactions that fit them and that drive the story toward a specific goal.

This last one may be difficult for pantsers, those who write with little preparation and/or no firm story destination in mind, who might not know their characters well when they begin to write. The fix for this, for a character who seems all over the map in terms of traits and behaviors, is to rework that character’s personality on a rewrite. Once that character reveals who she is—or who she needs to be in order for the story to go where you want it to go—you can adjust her thoughts and emotions and behaviors to make them what they should be.

Use focus as a map to guide readers. Only reveal what you want them to see, what the story needs them to notice. A story can’t be all things. It must be one thing, one complete package. And it must be separate from all else. That is, a single story shouldn’t try to touch on every possible subject a character might have an interest in. You’re not writing someone’s life, the mundane moments as well as the  newsworthy ones. You’re writing the good stuff, the moments that entertain, the parts that get readers laughing or thinking or crying.

Decide what to include. Decide what to exclude. Make conscious decisions about what makes it into your story.

Ask why something should be included. Does it advance plot? Reveal character? Increase tension? Establish or change tone? Does it do these things better than any other option would do them?

Go with the best option for the story as you want it to be.

Determine if a story thread or scene diffuses or confuses. If it does either, cut it out or rework it.

Keep in mind that not everything you think should go in your story should actually go into that story.

Should I repeat that?

Not every idea that comes to your mind for a story should ultimately end up in that story.

Your first idea will not always be the best. Your second idea may not always be the best. One idea may be a marvelous notion for driving conflict, one that would also reveal your character in an instant, but still not be right for the story you’ve crafted.

A good idea is not always the right idea. Don’t be surprised when a lot of your great story or character ideas don’t make it into your final draft.

Focus your characters and plot, focus the reader’s attention, and focus yourself toward cutting out what doesn’t belong.

Be ruthless. Take out what distracts. Take out what doesn’t fit. Keep characters and readers on track.

Make your story go to a specific place rather than every place. Rather than just any place.

Work each story element to establish the tone you want, to create the mood for each scene, to set up revelations you want readers and characters to uncover.

Use focus to create a cohesive, satisfying story.

Know the answers to the most basic questions—

What’s this story about?

Whose story is it?

What happens?

What does it mean?

And then work and rework the words until the story itself answers these questions. So readers can follow and understand. So they’ll come back for more. So they’ll be able to take something away from your story.

Be deliberate in your storytelling.

Know who and what your stories are about.

Focus your 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.

***

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

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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.

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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.

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