Then, whenever I was watching a show that wasn’t quite to my liking, I’d start thinking of that same word.

Then, whenever I sat down to work on something of my own—yup, here came that word again.

The word was “SHARP,” but it doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Lemme back up.

It might be helpful to know that, back in those playwriting days, I was specifically a horror playwright. I point this out because the mechanics of a horror play are a little different than your garden variety stage drama or comedy. Sure, the principles are the same—you’re trying to tell a good, satisfying story just like any other playwright—but there are a few additional expectations that make writing a horror play just a little bit harder. After all, you’re also looking to conjure up suspense, dread, and fear in your audience, and those are really challenging emotions to evoke without the benefit of a forced camera perspective or a narrow frame or post-production special effects or one of those soundtracks where everything gets really quiet AND THEN GETS REALLY LOUD.

When writing suspenseful, speculative stories for the stage, where you mostly only have the benefit of some props, a set, and whatever the human body and/or voice can do, you have to learn a few additional tricks. You have to learn how to fashion suspense and instill dread and fear using only your two dramatic fundamentals: characters and circumstances.

That’s where “SHARP” came in. Not only was it a short and pithy descriptor for that feeling a good, dynamic story gives you, it was also a handy acronym for a few key ingredients to keep in mind. Things that were present in the plays I was enjoying. Things that were absent in the ones I was not. Things I wanted to make sure my own work contained.

Lemme back up again, though.

What About the Nonsense Word?

I can hear you asking, “Wait, but the title of this article says it’s a ‘nonsense’ word! WE WERE PROMISED A NONSENSE WORD!”

The thing is, I’ve always been bad at leaving well enough alone; it wasn’t long before I started thinking of other letters to add to my pithy catchall. “SHARP” quickly expanded into the far more unwieldy “SHARPAWIDUS,” which I’ll admit, isn’t quite as snappy and sounds more like either an obscure dinosaur or a dubstep DJ (but perhaps I repeat myself).

Still. It gets the job done for me. “SHARP”—later “SHARPAWIDUS”—became a sort of checklist. Not a prescriptive formula or anything so crass; more like, an Aristotelian collation of elements I’ve observed are particularly satisfying, and which I can consult whenever I feel like I’m stuck in the writing or revising trenches.

I’m not a playwright anymore (at least in any dedicated way; you can’t ever truly leave the theater behind). Now I spend my energy and time writing books, my first and truest love. And despite the fact that every novelist has an unlimited budget when it comes to elaborate set pieces and special effects, as well as an ability to direct the audience’s eye to specific things no matter how small, I find I still constantly refer back to the lessons I learned as a playwright to help craft a style of suspense that’s necessarily rooted in character and circumstance.

In fact, my newest book, When the Wolf Comes Home (wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025), was written in an explicit attempt to marry both approaches. I wanted to embrace the novel’s ability to create elaborate set pieces of action and chaos and external threat, but also ensure that as much of the breathless, seat-gripping, palm-besweattening suspense came as much from the characters and their circumstances as any no-budget play I’ve ever written. (So far, early response seems to indicate that I did my job—Stephen King even called it “a classic”—for which I’m exceedingly grateful and gratified.)

When Writer’s Digest asked me to write a little about creating suspense, then, I figured I could trot out the old classic tricks like “short sentences,” “onomatopoeia,” “escalating action,” “show the bomb under the table” (all of which are classics for a reason; they are definitely effective tricks you should use) . . . or I could introduce you to my friend, SHARPAWIDUS, in the hopes that, at the very least, it’s ridiculous enough to help you unlock your own nonsense word to describe the things you think should be in a good, suspenseful story.

I should probably tell you what the hell this all means, though, so lemme back up a bit more.

SHARPAWIDUS

Stands for:

Stakes
Humor
Anticipation
Resistance
Plots
Animosity
Withholding
Interruptions
Decisions
Unsustainability
Stichomythia

Some of these might need some elaboration, so, you know the drill by now. Lemme back up one more time.

Stakes

This one’s obvious, I know, but it’s amazing how often remembering stakes is the key to everything. Think they’re high enough? Raise ’em. Is it the next chapter? Raise ’em again. But what does it mean to raise the stakes?

It means you’ve gotta give your character(s) something they clearly don’t want to lose, and then make it more and more likely they’ll lose it. Better yet, make them lose it and see what else they stand to lose now. Whether it’s their safety or their innocence or their understanding of the world—or whether it’s an arm or a head or a loved one.

As soon as we really feel what matters to your character(s), the more we’ll begin dreading the idea that we might have to get it taken away. That’s where the suspense comes in . . . and then rises as we watch the character(s) try to deal with / prevent their losses in hopefully unpredictable ways.

Humor

This one might be the hardest to calibrate. Too much humor and your suspense deflates. Not enough humor and the experience becomes a slog. The trick, I find, is to make sure the humor is grounded—or, to put it another way, that it’s coming from the inside, not the outside.

One way I like to think of it is to remember that no character wants to be in tension . . . but you as the author don’t have to give your characters what they want. If the tension is still there after the joke fails to dispel it? Oooh, that can make for some exquisite suspense.

Anticipation

Another obvious one, almost to the point of redundancy, but it can be helpful to remember that when we talk about “suspense,” we really mean a feeling of anticipation. When we know something is going to happen next and we want to know how it plays out.

You can help facilitate this feeling by putting approaching landmarks on the story timeline. Give the characters things to anticipate, whether they’re big events (the prom is next week!) or tiny reactions (she’s going to be so mad at me!). Mix this ingredient with a little bit of Interruptions (see below) and you’ve got some combustible suspense fuel.

Resistance

Not in the Star Wars Rebel Alliance sense, but rather something more internal. In fact, this idea actually comes from acting training. Some of the best notes I’ve ever received as an actor were reminders to resist the story you’re trying to perform.

A few examples: The most compelling way to play drunk is to try to act as sober as possible; the most realistic-looking way to perform a fall is to try to remain standing while your body goes down; the most effective way to elicit sobs from the audience is have your character desperately try not to sob.

Taking the premise of this idea into the writing realm, then: If there’s an emotional state you hope to create, or a payoff you hope to reach, the more your characters can actively resist it—until the absolute breaking point—the more engaged and invested your reader will become. Note that this doesn’t mean avoiding or ignoring the situation; I like the word Resistance because it very much implies an active fight against what may or may not be inevitable.

Plots

Note that it’s “plots,” not “plot” (nor “plotz,” bubbeleh). I don’t mean this in a “Good books have a story” way. You already have a story; why else would you be writing? Rather, to activate that story, make sure your characters are plotting things. It doesn’t have to be George R. R. Martin-level schemery, but it’s often not enough to say every character needs a “want”—try giving them each a private plan they’re actively following, too.

The suspense comes from wondering which plots, if any, will succeed, and watching them ricochet in unexpected ways. To quote William Shakespeare (another playwright of some note): “O, ’tis most sweet, when in one line two crafts directly meet.”

Animosity

It’s great when someone central to your story dislikes something—or someone—so much that it propels them. The thing I like about this word is it implies an activating, animating force. It feels more dynamic than just plain old hate.

Also, hate is hard to hide; animosity can be tucked away for later. It can create false pretenses, betrayals, uncomfortable alliances, etc. All the stuff of good, suspenseful drama—particularly if the reader knows about this animosity but other characters don’t. (I find this is a particularly useful element to keep in mind when juggling an ensemble.)

Withholding

Here’s a technical one. Whether it’s depicting a character’s reaction before revealing what they’re reacting to, or ending a chapter on a cliffhanger, or having someone remember something important but not revealing the memory until a choicer moment, withholding bits of information from the reader is a great way to keep them on the hook for more.

The tricky part is to not overdo it, because then it can start to feel like a cheat. Or worse, we can forget what we were supposed to be waiting for in the first place.

Click to continue.

Interruptions

This is a big one, and it’s kind of like the external version of Resistance. If you want to keep people on their toes, don’t let your scenes end the way they’re supposed to. There’s probably an ending or a button that feels *correct* to you, which means chances are the reader feels that way, too.

That’s a great opportunity to knock people off balance a little. Interrupt that *correct* ending with something that forces the characters to make another, messier decision, big or small (We love Decisions!). I like to use Interruptions as a rule for dialogue, too.

In life, the opportunities to monologue are few and far between. One of the best acting observations I ever got (from director Anne Bogart) is something I’ve carried over into my writing: Almost always, the person you’re talking to knows what you’re saying before you finish your sentence. Choose the moments where a character can speak uninterrupted very, very wisely. (See also “Stichomythia” below.)

Decisions

If I can be grossly reductive for a moment, I think the main reason we love stories is because we’re creatures who learn by example. We’re fundamentally compelled to see how hypothetical situations and/or conundrums might play out. (That’s why stories where the reactions seem arbitrary or ungrounded can feel almost like a betrayal.)

As such, the more Decisions you can force your character(s) to make, the better. As long as those Decisions feel believable, or at least intriguing, we’ll keep leaning in to see what happens next. There’s such delicious suspense to be found in waiting to see what a character will do . . . and also then whether or not they did the right thing.

Unsustainability

The worst things in life are the best things for stories, aren’t they? If there’s a situational element or a relationship or a character trait in your story that we just know is going to fall apart, we’re gonna be watching with glee and/or horror for the moment we’re proven right.

Stichomythia

One more technical one. This is a dramaturgical term describing when two characters trade alternating lines of dialogue in what would otherwise be a single verse speech. What it really means, though, is that great, tennis-match-feeling of characters trading short, snappy reports until the exchange builds to a climax. This is a wonderful technique for dialogue writing (see Interruptions) above, but the concept of stichomythia can carry into the structure of a good suspense scene, as well.

Rather than play a rising event through one character’s POV, try breaking it up into alternating character perspectives, so we get a more panoramic sense of a situation that’s bigger than one person can take in. This helps things move faster and also allows you for all sorts of mini-cliffhangers that ratchet up the tension even further.

(I think, as far as text layout goes, Stichomythia might also be another word for “skimmability,” too. This might be controversial, or even heretical, to say but in a good action scene, skimmability can be an asset. You want your reader to feel a certain rush trying to find out what happens next, and short lines that alternate information make for a great way to build a breathless momentum.)

***

And there you have it! “SHARPAWIDUS.” What do you think? Too unwieldy? Too general? Too obvious? Hopefully I backed up enough to give you enough runway to—

Oh wait! I totally forgot one more letter! One more essential ingredient to suspense. Maybe even the most important one. Namely:

WEREWOLVES

I mean, what is a werewolf but a ticking time bomb? A character who knows a bad thing is going to happen at a predictable, but unstoppable, time—and also a character who can’t always be themselves. A shapeshifter. Every good suspense story needs a shapeshifter, right? 

Take, for instance, When the Wolf Comes Home. It’s a story of a young woman named Jess, who’s a frustrated actress living out in LA, working the graveyard shift at a depressing 24-hour diner. One night, after a particularly dreadful shift, she stumbles home, only to find a scared little boy hiding in the bushes. Before she can figure out what to do with him, a horrifying wolf-like monster attacks her apartment complex, and Jess winds up running for her life with the little boy in tow. She quickly realizes this monster is the boy’s father and, unfortunately for her, he’ll stop at nothing to get his son back. Jess is about to learn that when the wolf comes home . . . no one will be spared . . .

Did I mention it’s available wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025?

Thanks for reading.

Check out Nat Cassidy’s When the Wolf Comes Home here:

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(CL Montblanc: Community Is a Crucial Part of Being a Writer.)

I start with the characters.

To be honest, characters are a scary thing for me. I am so incapable of inhabiting a different persona that I even got kicked out of the high school play (before you feel bad, they did let me be Dancer #4 for the musical). I know how my brain works, but not anyone else’s, really. And yet, the majority of nice comments I get about my books relate to the characters. That, Alanis Morissette, is true irony. This leaves me thinking that my personal writing methods must be contributing to this phenomenon, at least a little bit, so now it’s time for me to share them.

Technically, I’ve lied to you (great start). When writing my books, I actually begin with the sketchiest, roughest idea of a premise possible. For Pride or Die, it was “LGBTQ+ mystery set at a high school.” And then it’s all about the characters.

I began by asking myself: What would the characters’ established relationships be like? How do they relate to one another? For this, I used the framework of a school club to craft characters that were based on these roles. For example, a club president, to me, sounded like a protagonist. Someone who cares—perhaps too much—and holds a lot of responsibility over others. A character like this may have a “do whatever must be done” attitude, while also being prone to cracking under all of the pressure that they’re facing. Hey, we’re already starting to see potential character arcs and storylines shaping up!

The next question for me was how this character got to be this way. What kind of backstory might turn someone into a stubborn leader burdened with a sense of duty? The answer was a tragic one, of course, where they’re haunted by powerlessness and have become a control freak as a result. These character flaws are bound to lead to conflict, right? Well, knowing that this is a mystery novel, this character might take charge too much, even going against the wishes of their peers, throwing a wrench into the mystery investigation. And now, even though we have no idea of what this mystery is even about, we’re already able to envision pretty specific character dynamics and scenes. With the character themself as our jumping-off point, we could go on and on like this.

Click to continue.

A pattern I notice surrounding books that are criticized for having “forgettable” or “same-y” characters is that these characters are not quite entwined into the story the way they should be. I get the sense that the author had a hooky premise but saw the characters as vehicles to move the story rather than as an intrinsic part of the narrative. For me, I feel like I know that I’m doing a good job writing characters once they start fighting me. There have been times where I’m sitting at my computer and thinking, “I need these guys to do xyz for the plot,” but am faced with resistance because in actuality, the characters would never behave in this way. Instead of forcing them like dolls, I believe the better solution is to mold the story around them. Goody two-shoes character wouldn’t break into a building? Then don’t have them break into a building. It can be as simple as that.

Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I am only myself. So, when I must write a hot charismatic jock character, then what am I to do? One thing that helps me is to infuse small parts of myself into each character, no matter how different we are otherwise. For example, I gave this particular jock IBS and a nerdy hobby. Even if these details are so small as to not have a tangible impact on the story, it still helps me better understand and connect to the character. It also guarantees that every character comes off at least partially authentic, since I’m always drawing from myself.

When I think about some of the most beloved books among my peers, there’s usually one thing in common: They’re all character-driven series, following a lovable cast over multiple installments with hundreds of pages of room for development. I won’t name names, but I’m familiar with dozens of random characters against my will thanks to fandom. How often do you recognize characters from fan art despite having no idea what the source material is even about? I’m certain the answer is “very often.” Because at the end of the day, characters are what stick with people.

Characters provide that sense of emotional attachment that a hook or title or synopsis is unlikely to ever match. All of this is just further proof to me that we need to be letting our characters drive our books, prioritizing them above all else. Because even if my readers don’t remember the random expository scenes I so carefully crafted for my mystery plot, they probably will remember that there was a hot jock with IBS. And I think that’s fantastic.

Check out CL Montblanc’s Pride or Die here:

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(25 Plot Twist Ideas and Prompts for Writers.)

And, while I’m tempted to answer with, “I don’t know… desperation?” I actually do have a method for continually generating story ideas that I can be excited about and that aren’t identical to what I’ve written in the past.

Twisting Tropes

Too often when writers think of tropes, we dismiss them as cliches or lazy writing, not realizing that tropes are, in actuality, the most foundational building blocks of story. Tropes are easily summarized pieces of a story’s puzzle: anything from “fish out of water” to “ticking time bomb,” “naive rookie partnered with a cynical mentor” to “fairytale retelling.” Tropes are quickly recognizable character types, aspects of plots, identifiable components of a setting. An internet search will yield list after list of tropes.

The association we too often make between tropes and cliches arises in large part from tropes not being utilized in creative ways. Simply writing to a trope isn’t going to result in a unique story. Transforming and twisting tropes freshens them up and gives us, as writers, a chance to create something different using these well-known building blocks.

When brainstorming a new story idea or looking to add something intriguing and unique to an idea that feels too similar to something I’ve written or read before, one of my absolute go-tos is twisting tropes. I start either by choosing a trope or by identifying the most obvious trope in a story idea I already have, and I change it up. I have several approaches for doing this, and they haven’t failed me yet.

Combining Tropes

Combining tropes is an easy way of adding new elements to a story idea. Rather than having a single significant trope, add in a second or even a third, not as a stand alone but as a twist on a trope you’re already using. If we start with “Unrequited Love,” a very common trope, then combine it with “Office Romance” we get Jim & Pam from The Office. If we start with “Shakespeare Retelling” then combine it with “1950s Teen Romance” we get West Side Story.

Try combining tropes, even ones that don’t seem to go together. Maybe especially tropes that aren’t an obvious fit. You’ll be surprised at the unique concepts that come out of this brainstorming technique.

Genre Flip

Another approach to Twisting Tropes is borrowing tropes from a genre other than the one you’re writing in. “Zombies” are a staple trope in horror, but pull that trope into historical romance, and you get Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. “Falling for Your Best Friend’s Sister” is extremely common in romance. Pull that trope into Science Fiction, and you have Han and Leia from the Star Wars saga.

Do a quick search for a list of tropes for genres other than the one you write in. Are there any on there that could be used in an interesting way in your genre? How would incorporating one or two of those tropes change up the story you’re working on?

Click to continue.

Swaps

I love utilizing swaps when incorporating tropes in my story ideas. Gender swaps. Outcome swaps. Setting swaps. Character-type swaps. Changing up the most common applications of a trope can alter how it plays out, which automatically adds interest and uniqueness to the story you’re telling. 

Start with the “Jane Austen retelling” trope but swap the ages of the characters to be teenagers in high school, and we get Clueless. Start with the “James Bond type spy” trope but swap out the lead from a highly trained and sophisticated spy and make him, instead, a bumbling mess who doesn’t know what’s happening and you have The Man Who Knew Too Little.

Take a trope you’re familiar with and change the type of character involved in it or the way the trope usually plays out. Place it in an unusual or unique setting. Swaps are a great way to infuse a very basic story idea with something new and exciting.

Endless Story Ideas

This simple approach to building a story has been a lifeline for me as a career writer, keeping my stories fresh and helping me to stay excited about what comes next. Try this technique for yourself. 

See if you can identify in your favorite stories–whether books, television programs, movies–the tropes being used and how they’ve been twisted. Then try twisting the tropes in your own story ideas. You’ll be amazed at the endless ideas your mind can come up with.

Have fun, and happy writing!

Check out Sarah M. Eden’s The Tides of Time here:

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(The Art of Writing Deceptive and Unreliable Narrators in Thrillers.)

Plot must happen for stories to entertain, but plot is simply a test of identity. No matter how exciting the plot point, readers need a human element—a character’s response—to care. A tree falling in a forest certainly makes a sound, but it needs a character to turn that sound into story. A plot falling onto a page needs a character with identity issues, a character who ideally faces those issues and changes. Because of this, I believe every story at its heart is an identity story.

Identity is often a signaling term in fiction, referring to the realm of other. As an Indo-Caribbean immigrant woman in America, I will always be “othered,” which forces me to micro-analyze myself within our societal framework and keeps me attuned to overt markers of identity, such as race and ethnicity. My debut novel, A Girl Within a Girl Within a Girl, deals with identity on this explicit level as my main character inhabits multiple selves to survive her difficult childhood. But I believe everyone everywhere grapples with the question, “Who am I, really?” And by extension, every writer grapples with the question, “Who is this character, really?”

In exploring identity in fiction, it’s important to understand how your character sees herself, what she hides, and how the world sees her. To start, map out your character’s visible, invisible, and buried defining traits. You could also do this exercise with yourself or famous fictional characters, as demonstrated below.

Visible Defining Traits: How the world sees the character or how your character presents.

Brainstorm words and phrases to reflect first glance and outward characterizations. How would the character answer small-talk questions such as: “What do you do?” and “Where are you from?” Does she code-switch at times, changing speech and behavior according to audience? Does she lie?

Examples:

• Maya, the main character in my novel: dental hygienist, wife and mother, of Indian descent, “Americanized,” has a deaf son, honest. These words represent how she is seen and how she wants to be seen. But she harbors a secret that contradicts this public front.
• Popular fictional characters: Harry Potter—visibly scarred, often bullied, orphan, unaware of abilities, vendetta against Voldemort. Katniss Everdeen—hunter, family caretaker, eschews feminine traits, sacrifices herself to save her sister. But these characters are more than they seem.

Invisible Defining Traits: How the character’s inner circle sees her.

Consider the character’s close friends and family—what do they know that not everyone knows? Start just below the layer of visible and delve deeper by considering events that shaped the character’s life. They’re usually true, but at this level, the character can still be lying.

Click to continue.

Examples:

• Maya: fluent in sign language; has tattoos that quote favorite books; former foster child; former alcoholic; former smoker; once stripped for money; avoids discussing the past.
• Harry and Katniss: Harry—suffers from self-doubt, was abused by his aunt and uncle, scar sometimes hurts. Katniss—resents her mother’s crippling grief, hates being used, is a rule breaker, would rather starve than beg.

Buried Defining Traits: Things only the character knows about herself that she might deny or even fail to recall.

Here, dig into the character’s “original damage,” those experiences that shaped them, creating their realm of secrets, fantasies, and regrets. Consider parenting, bullying, breakups, abuses and traumas, and past mistakes. What might be so shameful your character doesn’t tell anyone? Is anything buried so deep she can’t recall them, even as those events shape her behavior?

Examples:

• Maya: Was born Sunny; lived in Guyana; arrived to Miami without papers; was called Neena when she moved, then chose to be called Cindy; finally reinvented herself after an incident she has kept secret and tries to suppress.
• Harry and Katniss: Harry—visits Voldemort in nightmares and visions, feels a connection when he’s angered. Katniss—resists intimate relationships, afraid of courting love and having a family under the dystopian government.

The Interaction of Identity With Plot

When characters interact with plot, these visible, invisible, and hidden characteristics affect their behaviors. Harry Potter’s secret connection to Voldemort causes him to sic a snake onto his cousin, Dudley, and nearly kill his rival, Draco; he resists and fights these manifestations because he does not want to identify with Voldemort who exerts more power over him as the story progresses. In the Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen must face her fear of intimacy when she is pitted against Peeta, who loves her; to win the games and stoke revolution, she confronts her identity as an unemotional stoic and opens herself to Peeta. In my novel, my character, Maya, must own up to her hidden past to save her marriage and reunite with her long-lost sister. These characters are forced to deal with their buried truths as the plot unfolds; in this way, plot can be seen as a vehicle for character change.

As you sketch a story’s plot, it’s important to understand that your characters’ layered identities will interact with it in interesting ways. This is what makes writing so much fun.

We writers are armed with endless possibilities because identity is complicated. To paraphrase George Saunders: readers are drawn to stories as a way to glimpse into the “black boxes” of each other’s minds. Being equipped with complicated “black boxes” of our own, writers hold enough raw material to craft a world of fascinating identities. 

Mining the truths, fictions, interpretations, and baggage we often cannot untangle within ourselves is a great starting point. Simply add a little imagination and test the created identity with a plot, and a messy and honest story will certainly emerge. With a little work, it can become one that connects to the messy, honest identities of readers everywhere.

Check out Nanda Reddy’s A Girl Within a Girl Within a Girl here:

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(Writing a Novel in Three Months.)

Moments away from abandoning the entire idea—not to mention the artistic pursuit because it’s impossible and ridiculous and nobody reads anymore and you could literally be doing anything else and probably be enjoying yourself more—you come across this article. You’re nodding along. You’re thinking, Yeah, I do have an idea percolating with multiple characters essential to plot, and no, the answer does not appear to be a point of view concern. And when I tell you I have an answer, a solution, a tumbler to polish that rock into agate form, you’re probably saying bullshit. Yet you’re still reading. And I will reward you with the answer: perspective.

Perspective: a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view. It is through firstly deeply understanding each character’s perspective, and secondly, determining the best way to represent said perspective, that we can honor the unique essence of our characters while weaving together a cohesive narrative. The solution is in the definition. All you have to do is focus on the “attitude,” our characters “regarding something,” and “point of view.” Here are the few simple steps that I employed in my four-perspective novel, We, Adults.

1) Attitude

You need to know your characters. Like really know them. Like favorite memories and most embarrassing moments and first kisses (doesn’t take a Freudian expert to see my cards with the association I made there) and how they play Uno and their fears, not to mention desires, those on the surface they will share with coworkers and on Instagram, and those that will never be uttered to the closest of friends. 

However, it’s not enough to simply catalog these things in some Dungeons and Dragons character generating template. You need to take it one step further by imagining the sum total of these emotions and traits and experiences, i.e., the attitude your character has created to navigate through the world. It is precisely this attitude that will be your characters’ emotional starting points. It will color everything on the page (dialogue, thoughts, actions, reactions, etc.), and, in turn, it will be the reader’s entrance point into your characters’ existence.

2) Regarding Something

I use this portion of the definition as a prompt, not specifically designed to be part of the actual narrative. The results of this exercise provide a litmus test to see if my characters are embodying their intended attitudes, which is essential to successfully write in multiple perspectives. Here’s the prompt:

• Event: Come up with any event, big or small (being fired, witnessing a dog save a cat from a swimming pool, being undercharged at a restaurant, it really doesn’t matter).
• For each of your characters, imagine they are “regarding something,” where the “regarding” is concerning/witnessing/experiencing, and the “something” is whatever event you came up with. Write out the scene. Don’t worry about point of view or tense or any other craft element; focus on how your characters navigate this experience. Actions, thoughts, emotions, memories, observations, internalizations, blames…we want it all. Do this for each character.
• Reread your exercises. Are their reactions consistent with their attitudes (and if not, is there a good reason that can be used to develop character)? Are the ways in which they regard something different enough from each other to warrant their own perspective to be included in your novel? If not, what tweaks can you make?

3) Point of View/Modality

Now that you intimately know your characters and the attitudes in which they regard the world, it’s time to answer the question how the heck do I best present this on the page? However, let’s move beyond the “point of view” portion of perspective’s definition to also include modality. With modality, we’re concerned with the specific way in which something exists, is experienced, or is expressed. In other words, how would your characters want their stories told? What is authentic to each character’s attitude regarding the events that will unfold in your narrative?

In We, Adults, I employed several different points of view and modalities. From a straightforward, third person limited to first-person excerpts from a memoir to an omniscient, full-length screenplay to college application essays, I tried to match POV/modality to each character’s experience of a particular event (“regarding something”), which demonstrated their unique attitudes. This process is what allowed me to not only embody these characters as I wrote, but to convey their existences to the reader, which, at least I hope, created the experience of a reader’s full emersion into a multiple perspective narrative. 

So, no more saying it’s too hard or it can’t come together. Follow these three steps: Uncover your characters’ attitudes, take them for a test run, and determine how they would tell their stories told through point of view and modality. 

Check out Peter Stenson’s We, Adults here:

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(5 Tips for Writing YA Fantasy.)

Here are seven tips to help you craft authentic characters caught between worlds.

1. Embrace External Conflict

Conflict is the heart of compelling character development. Don’t shy away from the tension created by your character’s different worlds. In an early draft of Donut Prince, I had Eugene abandoning theater for football. A writer friend asked, “Why isn’t he going after both things at the same time?” Lightbulb moment. 

My job is never to make it easier on my protagonist, but to make it harder. When my hero had to navigate two worlds at the same time, the opportunity to reveal character through conflict multiplied.

2. Two Worlds, Two Competing Desires

What does your hero want, and how do they think each world will give it to them? For Eugene, theater offers creative fulfillment and a connection to his estranged father, while football provides unexpected popularity, first love, and a new experience of his body. 

These things matter a great deal to him, and committing to one path will likely mean sacrificing the other. This sets up an internal dilemma that can supercharge a narrative and make for more complex character development.

3. Highlight Transitional Moments

Pay attention to the in-between, the moments when your character shifts from one world to the other. These transitions can reveal a lot about their inner conflict. For Eugene, the cafeteria walk from the jocks’ table to the theater table is more than just 10 steps across a room; it’s a mental and emotional obstacle course. 

How does your character feel when crossing these invisible boundaries? By slowing down and focusing on the in-between moments, you can emphasize the push and pull within your character and deepen their internal struggle.

4. Explore the Overlap

Look for moments when your character’s worlds overlap. In my novel, there’s a moment during football practice when Eugene realizes the moves on the field are as carefully choreographed as stage blocking. 

When he’s taught to wait for the quarterback’s snap, he likens it to a stage manager calling an actor to places. The overlap occurs when Eugene uses his theatrical knowledge to translate football in ways that are unexpected but feel just right.

5. Code Shifting

How do character’s think, speak, or move differently in each world? And what are they willing to do to conform? 

Eugene, in his desperation to fit in, begins mimicking the loud communication style of his athletic teammates. But when he shouts in the locker room, it backfires. “Dude, why are you yelling?” Take advantage of dialogue, internal monologue, and body language as opportunities to develop character.

6. Address Stereotypes and Expectations

One way to deal with stereotypes is to lean in, not out. For example, it was easy for me to fall into shallow representations of jocks and theater kids, even having moved through those worlds myself in real life. But YA readers (and all readers) appreciate nuanced portrayals of different social groups. One trick is to highlight the problem rather than hide it. 

For example, let one character carry the cliche, and another push back on it. When his theater friends get dismissive, Eugene finds himself unexpectedly sticking up for the athletes, explaining how he’s learned persistence from a group he’d previously dismissed. “Nobody gets tackled during rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” 

Your readers will appreciate it when you let the tension live on the page rather than pretending it doesn’t exist.

7. The Gut Check

When in doubt, get real. Pause in the middle of a scene and ask yourself, “What would I really say or do in this situation?” Or better yet, “What have I done in a similar situation?” 

You and your characters may ultimately have different approaches, but drawing from your own experience will rarely steer you wrong. It may even ground your work in unexpected ways.

In the end, writing a YA character caught between worlds is about more than juggling multiple identities—it’s an opportunity to embrace the messy, beautiful complexity of being human. Just as your characters struggle to reconcile the different parts of themselves, you as a writer will also grapple with the tension between what you know and what you’re still learning. Don’t shy away from that complexity. 

In my own writing journey, I’ve found that the most memorable characters are the ones who live in that space of uncertainty, who are still figuring out who they are—just like I am. By exploring tension with authenticity and heart, you’re not just crafting a story, you’re creating a mirror that reflects your readers’ own journeys. And that’s where the real magic can happen.

Check out Allen Zadoff’s The Donut Prince of New York here:

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(5 Tips for Writing Series Characters.)

That was all fine and dandy until readers pointed out that a character in Joanna #8 was someone I had knocked off in Joanna #1. It took several books to paint my way out of that corner, but I did so by having the second character be the nephew and namesake of the first one.

And then there was a problem with Joanna’s height. In some books she was five-two and in others five-four. My editors didn’t catch that tiny detail and neither did I, but again some of my readers noticed and let me know.

And then there was a critical issue concerning days of the week. Early on I received an editorial letter saying as follows: “This book takes place over a two-week period in late April and early May, all days are consecutive, no days are skipped. Unfortunately between the second Wednesday, May 3, and Thursday, May 4, there is an extra unnamed day. Please fix.” Doing so meant taking everything that had happened on that day and duct-taping it into the story somewhere else. Unfortunately, one scene that I especially loved took place on that extra evening, and I ended up having to leave it out. I still miss that touching scene some 40 years later.

As I write a book in any of the four series—Beaumont, Brady, Reynolds, or Walker—I keep a name file chapter by chapter. If a character enters the story in chapter one, his name goes into the name file in Chapter 1, along with as many personal details as I know about him at the time. If more details show up later, I add them to that initial name file listing. I also use the name file to keep track of the date the action in that chapter, not only the day of the year but also the day of the week along with the time of day. In other words, a name file heading looks like this:

Chapter 1

Seattle, Washington

Thursday, November 28, 2024, 9:00 AM

By the way, if you happen to be telling a story in chronological order and have characters operating in different time zones, you have to remember that what happens in the UK, will be 8 hours earlier than what’s going on in Seattle. As the author, in order to keep from confusing your readers, you’ll need to account for that difference. Believe me when I say this—doing that will go a long way to keep the writer from becoming confused as well.

When it’s time to start a new book in an ongoing series, I go back to the name file for the book immediately preceding the one I’m now working on and import a copy of that name file into the new book’s file folder. Then, starting with the prologue or chapter one, as characters appear—new ones and continuing characters alike—they all go into that new name file. For recurring characters I can simply copy what was in the previous book’s name file listing and bring that into the new Chapter 1.

What details are included in that listing? Date of birth, color of hair and eyes, how tall are they, where were they born, where do they live, what vehicles do they drive, what weapons do they carry. That helps keep those details consistent from one book to another. And because the name file always includes the day the action takes place, as I start a new story, by consulting the old name file, I know exactly how old those recurring characters were in the previous book and how old they are now.

Reading back through this, I’m worried that what I’ve written may be dry as dust, but what I’m suggesting, especially for beginning writers, is that you don’t do what I did to begin with and count on your little grey cells to remember all those pesky details. Keeping track of them in black and white in a name file from Book 1, Chapter 1, Page 1, will serve you in good stead.

Whether you write one book or multiple books in multiple series, believe me, you’ll thank me for this later.

Check out J.A. Jance’s Den of Iniquity here:

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(Writing an Aging Protagonist in a Novel Series.)

My newest novel, Negative Girl (Datura 2024), may be the first novel featuring ex-punk private eye Martin Wade and his assistant, the tattooed hipster Valerie Jacks, but it’s far from the first story. No, that would be “All Shook Down,” published in the September/October 2020 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. I enjoyed writing for Martin and Valerie, and as of this publication, there are eight stories in various magazines and anthologies, with two more slated for publication (and plenty more in my notebook!).

Whether you’re writing a series in short stories or novels, here are some tips for creating—and maintaining!—memorable characters that readers are always happy to see on the page.

Start With Compelling Characters

All stories need compelling characters, but when you’re writing a series, this task becomes crucial. They need to be characters your reader will want to spend time with, but just as importantly, they have to be characters you want to spend time with. Readers can tell when an author gets bored with their characters, so that means finding what compels you to write about your characters with each new story, without snipping the threads that bind the stories together.

Don’t Neglect Your Supporting Cast

A dynamic cast of side characters will go a long way to helping link your series without having the main characters do all the work. Your readers may even pick their favorites and look forward to stories where they get to see a little more of the world your main characters inhabit. And who knows—you could even write a spin-off!

Leave Room for Your Characters to Grow Throughout the Series

As writers, we hear a lot about the Hero’s Journey, but not every story needs to have that same structure. One story may be about a character learning to forgive an absent parent, the next may be about finally getting around to starting a reasonable exercise routine. They don’t always have to be major revelations—after all, how many major journeys do you go about on a weekly basis?—but they do need to be strong enough to keep the characters feeling like they’re moving forward towards being stronger people.

Pay Close Attention to Time

Unless your story opens with a specific date, it’s the little details—like a character putting on a coat or noting that holiday decorations are going up—that will orient your reader as to when the story is taking place. But this means that in a series, you have to keep very close track of when the previous stories happened—you don’t want to look back and realize that the story you wrote before took place in April and the next one takes place in February of the same year.

I keep a vintage Rolodex of all my characters, and a hand-drawn timeline of when each story happens and how long it takes. You could even keep a pocket calendar for your characters, marking notable dates—birthdays, start/end of a particular story—to really keep yourself on track!

Make a Trail of Breadcrumbs

Not everything will be revealed in the first, second, or even third book. But when you begin writing a series, you need to drop a few hints about what’s to come—a friend missing since childhood, a mystical artifact, a family secret—and work towards there…a few stories down the line. 

Check out Libby Cudmore’s Negative Girl here:

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(How to Move Your Protagonist From One Setting to Another.)

Characters bring a book to life. They are the heartbeat of a story. They are the people we meet along the path on our reading journey and are critical to keeping us engaged in the book. If we can’t relate to them or don’t like them, it is hard to keep reading.

Main Characters in The Blue Trunk

The Blue Trunk is a novel about two women who lived a century apart but who were connected by blood. Rachel Jackson’s idyllic life takes a dramatic turn when she discovers a woman’s scarf in her politician husband’s computer bag. In an election year, seeking answers to questions of infidelity is not an option. When her mother gives her a family heirloom, a travel trunk owned by an “insane” ancestor, she finds a distraction. Determined to find out what happened to her great-great aunt Marit, Rachel sets out to unveil her unknown story.

While there are several interesting minor characters in the story, I’d like to focus on three main characters.

• Rachel (current day protagonist): Rachel’s life is emblematic of the struggles faced by many of today’s women. Despite living a life of privilege, she struggles with self-image. Her relationship with her mother has been difficult since the death of her sister when Rachel was six. She dreams of a career but is forced to be a “politician’s wife.” Her inner demons control her. However, as the story progresses, Rachel begins to confront these internal battles. Her growth lies in finding a healthier relationship with herself, understanding the roots of her insecurities, and learning to navigate the complexities of her various roles—daughter, partner, professional. Rachel’s arc is one of self-acceptance and empowerment.
• Marit (Great-great aunt of Rachel): Marit’s life in Norway hasn’t always been easy, but it takes a turn for the worse when she is forced to immigrate to America. Her journey is one of survival and self-discovery. Over time, Marit uncovers layers of strength and identity that she never knew existed. Her evolution is gradual but profound, as she learns to confront her past, redefine her sense of self, and ultimately embrace her true identity. Marit’s arc is a testament to the human spirit’s ability to endure and grow, even in the face of life’s harshest trials.
• Blake (Rachel’s husband): Blake’s transformation is perhaps the most unexpected. What begins as a seemingly straightforward character—one that might easily fit into a stereotypical role—unfolds into a layered and nuanced individual. Initially, Blake might appear to be the archetypal “bad guy,” but as the narrative progresses, we see him grappling with his own demons, moral dilemmas, and the consequences of his actions. His evolution involves shedding preconceived notions and stereotypes, revealing a more complex humanity underneath. Blake’s arc challenges the reader to look beyond surface-level judgments and consider the multifaceted nature of every individual.

How Do Writers Create Relatable Characters?

While writers have different strategies for developing characters, the following are essential for developing a relatable character.

Decide on an Archetype

Writers often begin developing a character by choosing an archetype: a hero, a victim, a villain, etc., and then build on it with details. Some prefer to focus on physical characteristics (“she had piercing eyes”), while others leave certain aspects to the reader’s imagination. Nearly all characters have quirks or things that make them real. 

In The Blue Trunk, Rachel has body image issues that cause her to over exercise and under eat. Marit has a compulsion to count. These traits make them more human. Most readers want characters to be people they can admire, but they also need to feel real.

Develop the Backstory

Readers connect with a character more deeply when they know the backstory. They are more intriguing if they understand what the characters have endured in their life. Writers often reveal backstory details as the story unfolds. 

For instance, in The Blue Trunk, it was important to communicate how Rachel and Blake met and the nature of their childhoods. Readers might want to understand why Marit is as rebellious as she is—why she tends to reject conventional norms—and why Blake allows himself to be controlled by his father. These backstories help readers know the character in a multifaceted way.

Layer With an Arc

Lastly, characters need to have an arc; we want to see them grow and change. In storytelling, a character’s arc is the journey they undergo—their transformation. This evolution keeps readers invested. 

All three main characters in The Blue Trunk mature and change as the story progresses. Rachel becomes more outspoken. Marit pushes back on all that is constraining her and fights (sometimes literally) with those who would imprison her. Blake breaks the shackles of his father and societal norms to find a world that better fits with his authentic self.

A well-crafted character adds dimension to a story. They are affected by, and in turn, affect the events around them. The changes they undergo reveal universal themes in a story, like redemption, self-discovery, or the battle between good and evil.

In The Blue Trunk, Marit, Rachel, and Blake each embark on distinct journeys of transformation. Each character’s arc is essential not just to their own development, but to the richness of the story as a whole. In the end, it is their change that makes the narrative compelling and memorable.

So, who’s your favorite?

Check out Ann E. Lowry’s The Blue Trunk here:

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(Unforgettable Settings in 5 Simple Steps.)

A change of setting is a great way to create a source of tension and conflict for a character, especially if it’s markedly different to what they’re used to. As a first-person narrator, Hester gives the reader frequent access to her thoughts. She tells us about her new setting, but it was important to show her reaction too. Her clammy palms leave marks on her gloves, and she likens the house to a predatory animal. Right away, we see that the change of setting has disorientated her, and she feels vulnerable. The new location has brought out a different side to Hester, which helps the reader get to know her.

If you’re thinking about the benefits of using a variety of settings in your work, these are some things you might want to consider.

How different settings are coded

When Hester moves into Tall Trees, she notes immediately that Fitzrovia is a far cry from her home in Kings Cross, but for those not familiar with London, place names alone may not mean much. This is especially true when you take into account the historical aspect of the novel—Kings Cross was once famous for being seedy and disreputable, but in recent years it has been gentrified. 

My first job then was to demonstrate the contrast between the two settings. Hester tells the reader of the different types of people in each locality to help shape the reader’s expectations—street walkers in one versus factory owners in another. What do you want your setting to convey to the reader? Does your character fit in there and if so what does this tell us about them?

A reason for being there

In each setting, there needs to be a reason for your character to be there, and it has to be a reason that drives the plot forward. In Hester’s case, the new setting of Tall Trees brings her into contact with Gervaise Cherville, someone who she would otherwise never have cause to get close to. Hester is a doctoress ostensibly hired to help Cherville through his final illness, but once there he asks her to take on a further task—one that only she can do. 

What is the rationale for your character to move from one place to another? Is it an invitation to an event, a date, or a new job, as in Hester’s case? Their level of agency is also important here—where possible your character should be active in generating a move to a new setting.

Working through the logistics

When I began writing House of Shades, I wanted to have a range of settings that explored the juxtapositions of London where poverty and plenty often sit side by side, but there was the question of how Hester would move between them. As someone from an underprivileged background, carriages would have been beyond her means so mostly she has to walk. This provided lots of opportunities—for her to take diversions and make stops along the way—but also meant that I had to consider the time it might take and the physical impact. 

As part of my research, I walked the same route that Hester would have taken from King’s Cross to Fitzrovia. It prompted me to reflect on what I noticed and what Hester might have noticed when she took that journey. Can you travel between your settings in the way that your characters would? Is there constant traffic that might delay or irritate them? Or would they have to use a quiet route that makes them vulnerable? What might they think about along the way? Every journey between settings is an opportunity to build your character’s personality and inner world.

As writers we are often encouraged to make our settings a character in their own right, particularly in the historical, sci-fi, and fantasy genres. How and why characters move between these settings can be just as important. 

Check out Lianne Dillsworth’s House of Shades here:

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