— a podcast episode —

How do you keep readers engaged in a novel without constant action or plot twists?
One of the most effective ways to keep readers engaged is by incorporating “little mysteries,” unanswered questions or withheld information that prompt curiosity. These can be as simple as a character avoiding a topic, a strange behavior with no explanation, or a subtle line of foreshadowing. When done well, they create narrative tension and encourage readers to keep turning the pages to uncover the truth.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Why do some stories feel impossible to put down? It’s not always explosions, plot twists, or dramatic scenes. Sometimes, it’s something quieter and more powerful: little mysteries. In this episode of the Inside Creative Writing Podcast, we dive deep into how subtle, unanswered questions can create narrative tension that keeps readers engaged through every chapter. Whether you’re writing a thriller, romance, memoir, or sci-fi epic, understanding how to plant and resolve these small mysteries can transform your pacing and reader connection.

You’ll learn:

Want more insight on crafting page-turning stories? Check out the How to Write a Novel guide or listen to Episode 42: Plot Your Novel with Index Cards for practical structuring tools.

Episode 45. What is it that keeps you turning pages in a book, makes you stay up all night until you finish it? Today we’re talking about little mysteries.

Let’s dive in.

Welcome back fellow writers. I hope your writing is going well this week. Today’s episode is about something that quietly powers almost every great story, regardless of genre. It’s not dialogue, it’s not description. It’s what we’re going to call little mysteries. Now we’ve hinted at this before in other episodes, but I really wanted to take a full episode and dive into it deeply because it’s so important and powerful.

So, little mysteries. I’m not talking about detective stories and dead bodies and who done it, although those are certainly fun too. I mean the kind of mystery that makes readers lean forward, flip the page, and kind of whisper, wait, what just happened, or oh, what’s going to happen?

So let’s get into that.

When we hear the word mystery, we tend to think of crime novels, right? Agatha Christie. Sherlock Holmes. That kind of stuff. Those stories are built around a central question. Who did it, right? One big mystery. And it’s great for your book to have one big mystery, one big question that drives people to the end of the book.

Like my book Crossing Cascadia. The big question is, did her family survive this earthquake? Right? So that’s the question. That’s the through line that drives the entire book to the end. Did her family survive? Is she going to make it back to them? And will she survive?

Great storytelling almost always relies on that kind of mystery, even when there’s no detective in sight. So think of it more broadly. Mystery is simply what the reader or the viewer—if you’re writing a screenplay or something like that—what they don’t know yet and what they’re desperate to figure out, or even just interested to figure out.

Let’s take an example from what is possibly the greatest TV series ever made. Breaking Bad. You can argue with me in the comments if you want to recommend some other shows that might compete. But holy cow. Breaking Bad did a masterful job of writing.

So let’s look at that opening scene and the way it works with mystery. If you’ve seen it, you probably remember it vividly. It comes straight back into your mind, right? That pair of khaki pants fluttering through the air, an RV crashing through the desert, a man in tighty whities and a gas mask just driving frantically, panicked.

And there’s chaos. There’s sirens. There’s those bodies sliding around inside of the RV. And then he pulls out a camcorder and starts recording a message to his family.

At this point, we know almost nothing. We’ve just seen something crazy that doesn’t make any sense, but we are hooked by that point because we have so many questions. There’s so many mysteries happening there. Why is this dude half naked in the desert? Who are the dead people in the back of the RV sliding around? Why is he wearing a gas mask? What went wrong? Is he going to die? What happened?

So that’s mystery. And it’s not about murder or solving a crime. It’s about questions we have to get answers to. And the beauty is, those answers don’t have to come right away. In that example, they don’t, because the show then jumps backwards to this ordinary life of a high school chemistry teacher.

But because we’ve seen where he ends up, every detail now carries tension. Every step he takes toward that moment has weight. We have these questions in the back of our mind. How does he get from this to that? And we’re watching. We are engaged, looking for those clues, for how he got there.

So that’s the kind of mystery that keeps readers and viewers locked in across every genre.

Now, those are examples of crazy big mysteries, right? Even though they’re little to the entire plot, they still feel pretty big because they really call attention to themselves. But we can do the same work with little mysteries. So let’s break this down. How do you build a mystery even if you’re writing a memoir? Romance? A quiet literary novel?

Here are a few techniques that show up across genre.

You don’t need to tell the reader everything up front. In fact, it’s often better if you don’t. Let them wonder why a character avoids a certain topic. Let them hear the lie but not know why it was told. Don’t feel like you have to explain everything. This is such a temptation, especially for newer writers, and especially when we’re just beginning a book and there’s so much explaining to do to set up the world and the characters. Hold off on that. Let some of that be those little mysteries that unfold as the story moves forward.

Drop a line in early that makes a promise. He never should have opened the door. OK, but don’t tell us why. The reader knows something’s coming, and that tension is gold. This is often done with a gun or a weapon. We just notice it in the scene or it’s mentioned, but there’s something about a weapon, especially a gun, that resonates. It becomes a mystery. When is this weapon going to come back again?

Let the reader make an assumption, then later reveal the truth. Now this happens a lot in thrillers, but it’s not just for thrillers. Even in a love story. Maybe the person they thought was the safe choice turns out they’re not. That twist hits harder because of what you let them believe. So that’s not necessarily a mystery you’re setting up beforehand, but it’s a mystery you reveal has been going on the entire time.

When one character knows something the other doesn’t, you’ve got that dramatic tension. How long until the other character figures it out? How long until they unravel that mystery? It becomes your mystery to watch them unravel their own mystery.

And what about if the reader knows something neither character does? Even better. That can be really hard to do in some perspectives. If you’re writing in a first-person perspective, it’s hard to reveal a secret that the reader knows but the character doesn’t. But when you do have the opportunity to do that, it can be really powerful. Now suddenly the reader is the one holding the mystery. They’re the ones with the secret. What’s being driven forward is how and when the character will realize it.

Sometimes you don’t explain everything. Just let the reader fill in the blanks or sit with the discomfort of not knowing. This can be really hard to do for writers. It’s really hard for me because I feel like maybe I’m not giving my readers something they need to know. But here’s the beauty of this mystery. A reader is going to fill that in. You can get them helping you to write the book, helping you create the book for their own world, their own experience, their own perspective, when you let them fill in some of those blanks and take ownership of some of your story.

Not all mystery works. Sometimes things backfire, sometimes it falls flat. It can even frustrate the reader if we don’t put these little mysteries in there correctly or do it effectively.

If you tease a mystery but make the reader wait too long for answers, they can stop caring. Or they get frustrated with you. Curiosity turns into fatigue. You can almost think of it like a rubber band. You can stretch it and stretch it, but only so far before it snaps and hits you in the fingers.

If you’ve hinted at something big for 200 pages and it still hasn’t paid off, you’re really risking losing the reader’s trust.

Probably the worst one—when the mystery does get resolved, but the answer feels kind of pointless or mean. You’ve probably seen this happen in poorly written TV shows. The showrunners clearly had no idea what the answer was when they wrote the question, so the payoff feels hollow or disconnected.

Let me give you an example. Probably the most famous one: Game of Thrones. This show was one of the most talked-about shows, one of the most watched. And so much of that was created by these mysteries. Remember when Jon Snow is brought back from the dead? An amazing, huge moment. It created this huge mystery. Why him? What was the deeper purpose? What role is he going to play in defeating this darkness?

And then… that kind of just fizzled out. He didn’t fulfill any grand prophecy. He wasn’t key to saving Westeros. He was just kind of there again. His resurrection barely seemed to matter at all.

That kind of unresolved or irrelevant mystery makes viewers and readers feel cheated. They’ve now lost trust in you. They are investing a lot of time into reading your book, and we need to take that really seriously. Honor those readers by paying off the mysteries that you give them.

Don’t just ask questions. Don’t just create mysteries for the sake of mysteries. Make sure the answers are worth it. Make them meaningful. Even if they’re subtle, they should land with emotional or narrative weight. Otherwise, it’s just kind of noise.

But answering small mysteries fairly quickly builds trust. The reader sees that you don’t forget your own questions, and they feel confident that the bigger mysteries will pay off too. Those early answers create momentum. They say to your reader, you’re in good hands here. Keep going.

Let’s look at how mystery works outside of the crime section.

In Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, the main character wakes up alone in space with no memory. It’s a science story, sure, but it’s really a mystery story. What is he doing there? What happened to the other people?

Mystery often comes in the form of emotional secrets. What are love interests hiding? What pain are they not ready to share?

Memoir thrives on delayed revelation. The narrator knows the outcome. The reader doesn’t. The mystery is how things happened, not just what happened.

Like Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. The book tells you early that Christopher McCandless dies. The mystery becomes how. And that carries the entire story.

Toni Morrison. Celeste Ng. Kazuo Ishiguro. These authors don’t technically write mysteries, but every page contains a question that drives the story forward.

One of the most challenging parts of using mystery well is figuring out the line between giving too much information and giving too little. It’s something I deal with all the time when I’m writing. And I know that many of you do too, because you’ve written me about it over the years.

How much should the reader figure out for themselves? How much do you need to explain?

If you overdo it, you risk spoon-feeding every detail and robbing the story of its energy. But if you hold back too much, readers might feel lost or disconnected.

My go-to mantra here is: when in doubt, leave it out.

It sounds simple, sounds helpful, but it’s a struggle. Because we don’t want our readers lost, but we still want them engaged. Try to remember—and I’m mostly talking to myself here—readers love to chew on a mystery. They love to make guesses. They love to be proven right, and they love to be proven wrong.

I’ve seen this firsthand with my high school students. One of the things I love to do when we’re reading a story together or even when they’re reading their own books is pause and have them make predictions. Predict what’s going to happen in the book you’re reading. And when I get them doing that, they get locked into the book. Because now they’re invested.

They’re waiting to see if they’re right or wrong. And that jolt of excitement they get from seeing their predictions come true—or shattered—is one of the most powerful tools we have to keep readers engaged.

So as writers, let’s make it really easy for our readers to play along. Give them questions to chase. Little ones. Big ones. Ones that get answered quickly. Ones that take the whole book. Moments to wonder about. Little gaps that beg to be filled in. Let your readers do that work.

This is especially true at the beginning of a story, where we’re tempted to dump all the exposition, all the worldbuilding, all the character history. We want our readers to know everything about this amazing world and these amazing characters. But we’ve got to back off.

It’s OK to drop a reader into a world they don’t fully understand yet. Maybe they don’t understand it at all. It’s still better to drop them in than to explain everything right at the start.

That confusion—when it’s intentional and carefully managed—fuels engagement like nothing else. It gives your readers the joy of discovering your world rather than being handed all the answers.

Beta readers are so important in this aspect. It’s one of the main things I ask beta readers when they’re reading my work—about those little mysteries.

Where in the book did you get frustrated?
Where did you feel left out or lost?

And also the flip side:
Where were you dying to read the next chapter?
Where did a little mystery keep you up later than you meant to be reading?

Where did not knowing something make you more invested?

We as writers know all the answers, so we can’t read our work and know when the mysteries are working. Beta readers are gold for this. If we’re not talking to them about those little mysteries, we’re missing a huge opportunity to improve our work.

So the sweet spot we’re looking for is not perfect clarity, and not total confusion. Just enough mystery to spark curiosity, and just enough clarity to keep them grounded and trusting you.

Let’s look at some areas of your story that are especially great for creating mystery.

One of the richest sources of mystery is a character’s past. What are they not saying? Why do they react so strongly to a certain place, a certain word, a certain person?

Maybe they change the subject when asked about their childhood. Maybe they contradict something they said earlier. These little discrepancies invite the reader to lean in and start making guesses. Predicting. Getting invested.

Some of the most memorable stories build character arcs around mysteries. What happened to them? What are they hiding? What don’t they know about themselves?

This connects directly to the “Somebody Needed But So” technique we’ve talked about in previous episodes. If you missed that, check the show notes for a link.

Another opportunity for mystery is through the setting. Dropping a reader into a world with unfamiliar rules or customs or maybe a magic system—without explaining everything—creates tension and curiosity.

Think about The Hunger Games. We don’t really understand the political structure or the purpose of the games right away. But we figure it out as we go. That becomes a mystery that pulls us forward.

Or in Station Eleven, where we’re given pieces of the past and present in a way that encourages us to start connecting them ourselves.

Readers don’t need to be told every rule up front. That active discovery can be just as satisfying as the story itself.

To Kill a Mockingbird. Boo Radley is mysterious. Mentioned throughout the book, but we don’t really know who he is. That mystery creates this sense of myth and fear that drives us forward.

Big Little Lies. The story starts with a crime, but they don’t tell us who did it. Or even exactly what happened until the very end. That mystery is the spine of the whole narrative.

The Night Circus. The rules of the magic system are never really fully explained. It creates this ethereal atmosphere where the unknown is part of the appeal.

These stories trust the reader to engage without giving them every answer. It’s tough to do, but so powerful when it works.

Writers have been talking about this for a long time. Here’s one from Billy Wilder:

“Don’t give the audience 4. Give them 2 + 2.”

That’s the heart of little mysteries. Don’t explain it all. Give the hints, the clues, and let the reader put it together. Then it becomes their story.

And from Rachel Cusk:

“The job of the novelist is not to supply answers, but to ask the right questions.”

That’s it. Ask the right questions. Let readers assemble meaning on their own.

Take a scene you’ve already written. You can draft a new one if you want, but I think it’s more powerful to go back to something you’ve already written and look at it in a new way.

Add one layer of mystery. Maybe a secret. Maybe a strange behavior that isn’t explained. A line of dialogue that hints at something deeper. Or maybe you take something out. Maybe something you told the reader that you could hold back and let it become a mystery.

See what it does to your pacing. See what it does to the energy of that scene. And see how it might spark the reader’s curiosity to drive them forward.

That’s going to wrap it up for this episode of Inside Creative Writing.

If you want to go deeper on this topic, check out the past episodes. Like I said, this is not a new topic for the show, but I wanted to go a bit deeper in this one.

And I’d love to hear from you. You can leave comments about this episode at the bottom of this page. I check those all the time and respond to them.

Let me know what you liked, what you didn’t, what you agreed with or didn’t agree with. Maybe share a book that hooked you with little mysteries. What’s that example I need to read?

Until next time, keep writing. Because we know the best way to improve as a writer is by writing.

I’ll see you next week. Thank you so much for being here.

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

What if I’m not the kind of writer I thought I’d be?
Many writers start with a fixed idea of the kind of stories they’re supposed to write, but creative growth often reveals a different voice or genre that feels more authentic. Embracing this shift isn’t failure; it’s part of discovering your true identity as a writer.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

What if the writer you thought you’d be isn’t the writer you actually are? This episode dives into one of the most important (but rarely discussed) challenges writers face: discovering that their creative voice may not match the genre, tone, or style they originally envisioned. Whether you’re feeling creatively stuck or wondering if a pivot is necessary, this conversation will help you listen to what your writing is trying to tell you.

Key takeaways from this episode:

You don’t have to be the writer you set out to be. In fact, discovering who you really are on the page might be the most exciting part of the journey. Ready to go deeper? Explore the How to Write a Novel page or try the Story Rescue Checklist to see if your current project needs a fresh look.

When you started writing, you probably had a clear idea of the kind of writer you were going to be. But what if you were wrong? And what if that’s actually a good thing? Let’s dive in.

Welcome back to the Inside Creative Writing podcast. This is Brad Reed. I’m thrilled to be here with you again today.

I want to talk about something that almost every writer struggles with at some point, but we don’t often say it out loud. We don’t often talk about it. And that thing is the question, what if I’m not the kind of writer I thought I was going to be?

When most of us start writing, we have this clear idea in our heads, right? We picture ourselves maybe writing sweeping fantasy sagas or gritty detective novels or maybe some deeply emotional literary fiction. We might even imagine ourselves sticking to a particular genre or a specific audience or a specific style. We tend to think we should be writing the type of work that we love to read, and sometimes that is the case, but not always.

Sometimes that love of a specific type of story is only the thing we need to start writing in order to find what we’re truly meant to write.

Now the same thing happens to musicians and singers all the time. Some start out aiming for pop stardom but find their voice in folk or blues. Others might dream of being country stars, but they realize once they get started that their passion actually lies in indie rock or jazz or something like that.

Even huge names like Taylor Swift pivoted dramatically during her career, which is still ongoing and still pivoting, right? Moving from country to pop to indie folk, all sorts of stuff. Over time, artists often need that first step into a familiar genre just to get started, only to realize that their true sound lives somewhere entirely different.

Alanis Morissette is another great example of this. She started out as kind of a teen pop singer. She had some level of success with that, not nearly the success that she had when she shocked the world with Jagged Little Pill, an album that is so far away from teen pop that I don’t think you could get much farther away.

So writers experience this same thing. We step into writing thinking we’re one thing and we’re writing one kind of story, but the deeper we go, the more something else starts to emerge. And then somewhere along the way, what actually comes out when we sit down to write doesn’t really match that picture we had going in. The stories we’re drawn to feel different. The voice feels different. Sometimes the whole process feels different, especially different than what we thought it would be.

When this happens, it can be really confusing and off-putting. It can feel like a failure.

I mean, imagine somebody like Franz Kafka. He wrote the classic The Metamorphosis. He started out actually trying to write plays and never got far with them. They weren’t very good. But he tried, right? That’s where he started. You can go back and read through some of his journals and some of the writing that he did around that time, and he just saw himself as an absolute failure because he couldn’t write these plays. He wasn’t having the success he envisioned having.

But he switched it up. He went on to start writing short stories and novels, and the world of writing would be dramatically different without his unique blend of surrealism and existential dread that has inspired countless writers.

I try to picture him in this tough spot where he’s not sure what he should be writing, and he’s down on himself. He had a terrible inner critic that just told him he was no good, that he would never succeed. And then he comes up with the story idea: I’m going to write a novel about a man who wakes up as essentially a giant cockroach. Probably didn’t feel like the most obvious next step for him as a writer. But fortunately for all of us, he followed that inclination and discovered his voice in that kind of writing.

Those early attempts at writing are actually just the beginning of becoming who we really are as writers. It’s the beginning of a journey that can take years and even decades sometimes.

We, as writers of novels, have really bitten off a lot to chew. And one reason this is so hard to see while it’s happening is because novel writing as an art form is very different from almost every other type of creative work.

Take painting, for example. You could create dozens of paintings in a year, probably even more. You sketch, you paint, you get it out there, you get some feedback, you take that into account, and you iterate. You change your approach, you experiment with other things and see what the reaction is to that.

If you’re a songwriter, you might write and record a song, play it for friends, perform it live, adjust it, grow from it. In fact, I read something the other day that said the Dire Straits song “I Want My MTV,” a classic rock song, was written in just a few minutes while he was looking at a store display in the window of a bunch of televisions that had MTV on it. And the song poured out.

We don’t get to do that as writers. Especially if we’re writing novels, the work is long-term. We don’t get that quick turnover where we can freely experiment with a bunch of different kinds of novels until we find what works for us. Even short films could be made relatively quickly and shared widely. Especially with today’s technology, you can make a home movie with your cell phone and a program on your computer and it’s up on YouTube. That can be in a matter of days.

But a novel? A novel is slow. Painfully slow, even when it’s going fast. It’s a slow process, and it often takes months, if not years, just to get the first draft down. Then more months, if not years, to revise it, polish the language, get it to shine. Then trying to get it out into the world, to get it published or find readers can take even more time.

Even if you do find a publisher, once you’ve signed that contract, it can be years before the book ever comes out. It is a long, painfully slow process. There’s no instant feedback like there is in almost any other art form.

Major motion pictures are maybe the one exception. But there’s not a lot of others where the timeframe to create our art is so very long.

And without that fast feedback and that ability to kind of pivot from one thing to another and try a bunch of things, it’s harder to realize when you’re forcing yourself down a path that doesn’t actually fit you. It’s easy to stay committed to an idea of who you thought you were supposed to be, even when your writing itself is trying to pull you in a different direction.

So it’s also important to remember that writers change over time because people change. I’m not the same person I was at 25, and I’m certainly not the person I was at 35. I’m not the person I was at 45, and I’m not going to tell you how old I am now, but it’s somewhere above 45. Your interests evolve. Your emotional range deepens. Your experience that you can draw from multiplies. Of course you’re a different person, a different writer as you go through your life. It would be really strange if your writing stayed exactly the same forever, so letting yourself grow and letting your stories grow with you is part of this process, part of this artistic journey that we’re on.

So the stories that you needed to tell five years ago aren’t necessarily the ones you need to tell today. I have a terrible habit of beginning stories and never finishing them because I lose that passion and that drive. And I always think when I set them aside, I’m going to get back to them someday. And when I go back to them, I think that’s not a story I want to tell. I’m a different person with different skill sets, different points of view than I was back then, and I don’t want it now. I may borrow pieces of it, but I take that as a sign that I am alive as a writer, paying attention and evolving as a writer. So instead of looking at those things as failures that I never went back and completed, I look at them as stepping stones on that path to the writer that I’m becoming. And the same is true of you.

Some of the most iconic writers in the world have gone through massive shifts in their careers. Let’s start with a writer who’s going through some rough times right now, Neil Gaiman, but we’re going to talk about him anyway because he’s a great example of this. He started out writing comics, right? The Sandman series. Very successful with that. But he didn’t just keep cranking out comics. He moved into novels, writing books like American Gods, children’s books like Coraline. He writes screenplays, poetry, nonfiction, essays. He refused to stay in one lane. He figured out what his writing was and then he didn’t just get stuck in that. He moved with that journey.

Margaret Atwood is another one. Often we think of The Handmaid’s Tale, that dystopian fiction, but she’s also written speculative fiction, historical novels, poetry, short stories.

Kazuo Ishiguro wrote The Remains of the Day, which is kind of a delicate, restrained historical novel, and then he turned around and wrote Never Let Me Go, which is a dystopian sci-fi story about cloning and existential despair. I’m not sure you could get two more different directions from a single writer, yet he had the boldness and the curiosity to go there.

Even outside of writing, look at someone like Picasso. He didn’t stay trapped in his blue period. He moved into cubism, into surrealism, into whole new ways of seeing and expressing himself.

And we’ve already talked about music, but we see it all the time in music. David Bowie, reinventing himself again and again. He didn’t just stay Ziggy Stardust for his entire career.

These artists understood something vital that we can learn from. You don’t discover who you are creatively by deciding what that is ahead of time. You discover it by doing the work and letting that work change you.

Now there’s a huge amount of pressure on writers, on any kind of artist really, but especially on writers. And I’m going to get to that in a moment. I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

Before we get into that, let’s talk about what I’m going to call early success. That doesn’t have to mean I wrote a bestseller or sold millions of copies. That could be whatever you determine success to be. That could be a couple hundred people bought my book and gave me great reviews on Amazon. Maybe it was way more than that, maybe it was less. Maybe you wrote a book that your family loved and they raved about it, and not many other people were interested in it. But you still took that as a success.

So whatever you define as early success, that can become a trap. When a first novel finds some success, even in a small way, there’s enormous pressure on us to keep delivering that same thing: the same genre, the same tone, the same expectations. We want to take that success, big or small, and build on it, because we put so much work into even getting that small piece of success. We don’t want to feel like we’re throwing that away by switching directions and doing something completely apart from it.

That pressure can freeze us creatively. It can start to make us afraid to take risks, afraid of changing, afraid of examining ourselves for what kind of writer we’re becoming, and not just looking backwards to what kind of writer we’ve been.

Sometimes that slow growth is actually a gift. It gives you the freedom to explore different directions before an audience locks you into an identity that might not fit anymore.

So let’s talk about what I was just getting lured into talking about a moment ago, which is what I’m going to call the problem of the platform.

Today, this kind of patience with growing into who you are as a writer is harder than ever before. We, as writers, are told almost from the beginning that we need to “build a platform.” We need to define our brand. We need to pick a genre, we need to pick a tone, we need to pick a specific audience, and we need to market ourselves almost before pen even hits the page or before fingers hit the keyboard.

We’re told we need to be thinking about marketability. We need to think about the hole in the market that we’re going to fill. We need to think about our voice and what it’s going to say in the world through whatever genre we choose.

The truth is, early on we are still just becoming writers. We’re still discovering our voices, our stories, our emotional range. And if you lock yourself into a brand too soon, it’s going to feel suffocating. It can make you afraid to experiment. Honestly, it can make you afraid to change.

Now I’ve fallen for this myself, which is why I’m so passionate about talking about it. And honestly, I’m still influenced by this as well. So really, this podcast is as much me talking to myself as it is me talking to you.

I love road stories. Books, films, TV shows, anything with a road story where people have to kind of chuck their old life behind and get out in the world and travel in some way, discover new things. Those stories just resonate with me, and I actually really do love writing them. I’ve kind of started to define the writing that I do as road story novelist. But sometimes an idea pops into my head, a new idea, and it feels exciting. It feels interesting. It’s the kind of idea that has me walking around a little bit in a daze throughout my day, thinking about characters and settings and plot points, and it just consumes me.

There’s a part of me that says, whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on. That’s not a road story. That’s not what you do. You’re this other thing. And what I’ll do is I’ll start thinking, OK, you’re right. It’s not a road story, but maybe I can force it into being a road story. So I’ll play around with it, and I’ll move the plot around and the characters, and I’ll try to force it into this preconceived notion I have of me as a road story writer. And I either just destroy that story, or I just chuck it. I say, oh no, this isn’t the right story for me. It doesn’t fit what I’ve written before.

Right now, I have the tiniest little bit of a platform. Microscopic. And the vast majority of writers out there, maybe you as well, have what we would call a microscopic platform. But we’ve worked hard for that, right? We’ve written for hours and hours and hours, and revised for hours and hours. We’ve sweat and bled for our art to get it out there in the world. Maybe we’ve found some fans, some people that appreciate our writing. We don’t want to walk away from that. We don’t want to chuck that. And we can easily talk ourselves into feeling like that’s what we’re doing, right? We’re taking everything we’ve worked for, whatever reputation we have, and we’re throwing it out.

But I’m here to tell you, a tiny platform is just that. It’s tiny. It’s fluid. And the people who love you and love your writing will follow you wherever you lead them with the kind of writing that you want to evolve into. So we can afford to pivot if we need to. We can afford to follow those creative instincts. We can afford to let our early work be messy and experimental and wonderfully weird.

Think back to Franz Kafka: “I think I’ll write a story about a man who wakes up transformed into a giant cockroach.” We can be weird. Our little inner critics, those voices that are always telling us those negative things, they love to tell us things like, you’re too old to change. Even at 20 years old, 30 years old, we can feel that pressure to have everything figured out and be making a name for ourselves, as though we’ve been writing for 40 years.

The truth is, life is long. I tell this to my students all the time, especially the seniors who are panicked about what they’re going to be. That’s the question we always ask seniors in high school. What are you going to do? Are you going to go to college? What are you going to study? What are you going to be? And there’s so much pressure around that. And I tell them, life is long. You’re going to be a lot of different things, and whatever you pick first is almost guaranteed to be the thing you’re not going to do the rest of your life. Especially in today’s world.

And I think that’s true with writing too. Life is long, even if we’re getting older. A dude like me still has a lot of words to write. And so do you, whatever age you are. So you don’t have to define yourself forever based on your first or your second or your third project. Your best work often lies in the directions that you didn’t expect to go. And those stories that jump out of the blue, grab you by the throat, and say, you will write me. Especially, and I say that on purpose in kind of that aggressive way, because the best stories, the ones that really get a hold of us, are the ones that scare us a little bit. They make us a little nervous. They make us feel, oh, I don’t know if I can take that on. I don’t know if I should take that on. But they get a hold of us. They get in our skin and demand to be told.

So I want to talk a little bit here because I may have you questioning. Thanks, Brad. I’m right in the middle of a story and now I’m not even sure that I should be going that direction because I’m having some doubts and the story’s not working out. Well, I want to help you with some tools here to kind of look into your natural instincts and see if you’re following that true writer in you or if you’re being misled by some of the pressures and resistance that are out there.

So if you’re not sure whether this applies to you, a few signs that you might be fighting your natural writing instinct.

First of all, you dread working on the “official” project that you’re committed to, but your mind keeps wandering off to other ideas. Is that a sign that you’re writing the wrong thing? Maybe. Maybe. We’re going to come back to this in a little bit because we don’t want to confuse that with resistance. And we’ve talked before about resistance in this podcast, so I don’t want to go deeply into it other than to say that art, if we’re attempting art of any kind, then resistance shows up to try to keep us from doing that. Whether it’s distractions or self-doubt or anything, resistance rises up.

So we can’t just say, boy, I’m having a hard time writing this book. We don’t want to take it just on that. It could be one of the pieces of evidence. What we really want to look at is something that we call flow state. When you’re writing your, I guess we’ll keep calling it the official project, the project that you’ve deemed the serious one that you’re working toward finishing, when you’re writing that, do you hit that flow state where all of a sudden time ceases to exist, everything else in the world ceases to exist, and you get in that zone where the words are just going onto the page, the ideas are popping off like fireworks, and you’re just having a great time writing the story?

I’m not saying it has to be like that all the time, because writing is never like that all the time. But if we are finding that flow state at times when writing that story, it’s probably a good sign that we’re headed in a good direction with that story. But if we’re getting distracted and stuff because we’re struggling with the story and we can’t quite get into it, that may be a sign that it’s a story that we don’t need to be writing at that point.

So let’s look at number two here. Another sign that might tell us we’re fighting our natural writing self, and again, these are all abstract. None of these are going to be black and white, clear answers. But when we look at them all together, they can tell us something important.

If you feel kind of a strange sense of envy, or maybe longing is the better word, when you read certain types of stories that you think you’re not supposed to write. So you’re reading something outside of your zone that you’ve kind of defined yourself as a writer of, and you’re thinking, wow, I wish I could. I wish I could write something like this. Maybe it’s not even the quality of the writing so much as the type of story that it is. So let’s say that you are a fantasy writer and you’re reading sci-fi, and you’re going, wow, I’m really jealous that this writer gets to write about spaceships. And I don’t write that genre, so I’m not going to be a good one to come up with examples, but you get what I’m saying, right? We have that little kind of envy, that oh, if I could write that, that would be awesome.

Third, you’re excited when you’re brainstorming, but you’re drained when you’re actually drafting the story. Now this happens to me a lot, and I hate to even share this as a sign that we might be in the wrong place because it happens to me so much. I love the initial creation of a new story. I love coming up with characters and names and plots and settings and thinking about the big picture. And then it’s time to put it on the page. I can lose that passion. I can lose that interest in it, and I start to feel like I’m obligated to write that story then, because I started it, not because it’s a story I’m truly invested in. So one of the things I’m working on in this area is recognizing that and not feeling like it’s a waste to throw all that brainstorming out and not write that story, but look at it as yet another step toward the story that I do want to write. That does pull that passion and interest and that will sustain that long, long, long drafting process.

And then finally, if you’re feeling trapped by expectations. If you’re writing a story and you feel like there are expectations you’re trying to meet, either your own or expectations you’ve picked up from others. Maybe you’re comparing yourself to younger authors who’ve made it big already. Maybe you’re comparing yourself to writers who have an entire library of books they’ve written in a specific genre, who seem to know exactly who they are as writers. And we think we have to be that. I have to keep writing this genre. I have to keep writing this type of story because that’s what I need to be as one of these amazing writers with libraries of their own books that they’ve written.

So if we’re feeling that sense of being trapped by expectations, that can be another one of those signs that we’re not writing a story that is authentic to who we are at that time.

So if any of those sound familiar, you might not be writing the kind of work that’s most alive in you. But like I said, it can be really difficult to tell. So I want to dive deeper into one way that we can figure it out. It’s at least helped me, and maybe it will help you.

So we’re going to talk about shiny object syndrome. If you’ve heard of this before, then you know exactly what it is. If you haven’t heard of it before, I’ll bet you have it anyway.

Shiny object syndrome is the tendency to chase new ideas just because they seem easier or more exciting than the tough work of finishing what we’ve started. So we’re in that slog of actually writing the story, and it is a slog, even if we’re passionate about it and interested in it, it’s still hard work. And all of a sudden, these ideas start popping up. Or we see something on television, like, oh, that would make a good story, or something on the news. Or you read a book that inspires this new thought, this new direction that you might have taken that book, and you think, oh, there’s this other story idea that maybe I’m meant to write that.

That’s shiny object syndrome, and it’s really just a form of resistance. It’s trying to pull us away from the work that we’re doing. But sometimes, that shiny object can be the thing that you’re supposed to be writing.

So how do we tell the difference? It’s all about not just fear, but the type of fear. So go with me on this and see if this resonates with you.

Resistance—and when I talk about resistance, I’m talking about you’re writing the book you were meant to write, and this is just the natural difficulty that comes up in getting it down on paper—resistance often feels shallow and frantic. It’s about the fear of doing the hard work, the fear of failure, the fear of not being good enough.

So you’re in a story that you’re passionate about and you’re writing it, but you have this resistance that’s making it difficult because I have a fear that I’m not doing the story justice, or I have a fear that if I finish it, I’m going to get it out in the world and people aren’t going to like it. I’m going to fail. I’m not going to be good enough. That resistance feels shallow and kind of frantic.

But the voice that leads you toward your true writing self feels different. It still, at least initially, feels like a kind of fear, but it’s more of a little nagging fear, more of a persistent kind of quiet fear. It’s not about escaping hard work. It’s not about making things easier. It’s not this shiny object like, oh, if I go write this, then that’s going to be fun and I don’t have to write this other thing anymore. It’s about feeling drawn in, pulled, or invited into something deeper, even when it scares you. And maybe especially if it scares you, if it feels more challenging.

So if you’re writing a story now and you’re having difficulty with it, look at that shiny object and say, is that going to be easier or harder than what I’m writing now? If you’re saying that’s going to be easier and I can relax and just write that thing and it’s going to be more fun, that’s probably shiny object syndrome. But if you look at that and you go, oh wow, that would be a real challenge. That would be something new and different for me that I’d really have to work at. It’s hard to do because you’re already exhausted from what you’re trying to do. But if it’s that kind of fear, then that’s a really strong sign that that’s the story you should actually be writing.

So the key here is honesty. Are you trying to run away from difficulty? If so, then that’s resistance. And let’s face it, writing books is hard. Even if you are writing the perfect story for you, if there is such a thing. Or are you feeling an honest pull toward something that’s more alive inside you? That’s the real writer in you trying to tell you where to go next.

OK, one other trick here. When you think about the new idea, like the shiny object one, do you feel what I’m going to call guilty relief? Like you’re relieved that you don’t have to keep challenging yourself on your current project? Or that feeling of yeah, I know how to write that, it’s going to be so much easier. Or do you feel kind of a deep, thrilling terror? Right? Fear. Oh, can I do that? Can I actually pull that off?

If it’s guilt-driven relief, it’s probably resistance. If it’s scary and exciting, it might be your real creative self trying to speak to you.

So a key to this is don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t chuck the story you’re working on right now and jump off to that shiny thing because it got your attention. Give yourself time. Give yourself space to listen carefully before making a decision. But some things that you can do; we can experiment a bit. We can take little trials into pivoting. Not everything has to be a full-blown book. It could just be an opening of a book. It could be a chapter of a book. We could play with some of these ideas and see if it feels like that authentic place that we want to go.

You can do things like write short pieces in different genres or voices just to see what excites you. Write an opening. Write a chapter. Write a short story in this genre or this style that’s kind of pulling at you, just to see what happens. What does it feel like? Does it feel like it’s challenging you? Is it getting those pistons to fire, getting that passion to bubble up?

Here’s one that’s actually worked well for me, and I kind of just stumbled into it because I was playing with a graphic design piece of software, and I thought, well, I’m going to make a book cover. So one of the things you can do is actually design a cover for a book outside of your expected genre and slap your name on it and just look at it. Ponder it for a while. Have it up on your computer or wherever it is and just glance at it every once in a while and see if it’s pulling at you. Is it inviting you to actually want to invest in writing a book like that?

Some people have luck with writing a fake back cover blurb. So you’re not doing the cover now, we’re doing the back cover, and we’re writing out how would somebody describe this story that I want to write? What does that feel like? What does that look like to you? Is it pulling you into that story?

Another good place to look is back at your past writing. Really look, scene by scene. Are there scenes in some of the stories you’ve written before, maybe they’re scenes, maybe they’re just moments, maybe they’re characters or character dynamics, where you really felt alive doing that kind of writing? You felt challenged doing that kind of writing? That can be that little muse inside you pulling you toward a different kind of story to tell.

Let’s say you’ve written a long literary fiction piece, but it had a few little action-adventure kind of scenes in there. And you remember writing those, and how you felt alive and it felt challenging, trying to put it together, and you just really connected with those parts. That might be that little inner voice saying, hey, we want to write some action-adventure stuff. We want to go challenge ourselves in that direction.

If you do discover something new that you want to try, and I would bet that in our writing careers we all will at some point or another, you don’t have to announce a big rebrand. You don’t have to change your website around. You don’t have to send out a social media post talking about hey everybody, now I’m this kind of writer. You don’t have to justify that shift to anyone. You’re an artist. As writers, we are artists. And we follow our muse. I keep going back to that. We follow our muse, or that authentic voice that we have in us. We follow our excitement to where it leads.

So give yourself permission to be curious about what your writing is trying to teach you. In fact, I recently heard from a listener, and I love that he reached out with this story because it meant so much to me and helped inspire this episode, in fact, but he started drafting what he said was going to be a smut story. A smutty story. Which, right, more power to you. But he said once he started actually writing, the characters in it really deepened, and their relationships became more layered, more complex, and it quit being a smut story.

He’s still in the process of it, so he’s not sure where it’s going yet, it doesn’t sound like. But it’s changing. He’s following where that story, where his writer voice wants it to go. So it’s kind of pivoting into what sounds like a quiet, character-driven novel about self-discovery and emotional connection. So he hadn’t set out to write that kind of book, but the work led him there. That voice inside led him there by what he was excited about writing, and what he felt challenged to write. And he was bold enough to follow, which is huge. Huge.

That’s the kind of creative discovery that only happens when we stay open to what our writing wants to become.

All right, let’s look at some wise words here, because I don’t want you to just hear it from me. We’re going to tap into a couple of authors here and see their take on this.

So George Saunders, one of the most creative, self-challenging authors there is, he wrote Lincoln in the Bardo. Actually, not that recently, I guess, but a while ago. Lincoln in the Bardo is one of the most creative books I’ve ever read. If you haven’t read it, I really recommend the audiobook version of it because it is produced so well with some great voice actors. I’ve never read a book quite like it, and just a really bold creative take on writing that I’m sure probably scared him a bit to do. He probably went into that with a lot of fear, but a lot of excitement as well.

So anyway, what George Saunders says here is,

“The best work emerges when we stop trying to write what we think we should and start writing what we’re curious about.”

Oh, that’s huge. Start writing what we’re curious about. If we have all the answers and all the knowledge, why are we writing it, right? Start writing what we’re curious about. Love that.

And then Terry Tempest Williams says this:

“Writing is a process of discovery. You never know what you might find or where it might lead you.”

This is a great question that comes from that. Is your writing a process of discovery? Is my writing a process of discovery? Well, in some ways, yes. I’m discovering a story. But am I challenging myself to discover more of what I’m capable of writing? More of what I’m interested in writing about? And discovering what fears I have about writing that I can push through and find even better writing on the other side?

So let’s get into our writing challenge for this week.

This week, I want to challenge you to try something just for yourself. This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Write about 500 words. This isn’t homework, so shorter, longer, it’s your choice. But I would suggest about 500 words in a genre or style that you either kind of secretly love, or you’re at least curious about. You’ve had the little fleeting thought, it might be fun to write something like that someday.

Give yourself license to pursue that a little bit, even in a very short 500 words or so. Pursue it because it’s not you. It doesn’t have to be a serious attempt. It doesn’t have to be good. You don’t have to show it to anybody when you’re done. But just give yourself license to play and see if you discover something about who you are as a writer and what kind of stories maybe that writer inside you wants to tell.

Need some inspiration? Check out our Five Minute Writing Prompts!

If you have an experience with that that you want to share, I would love, love, love to hear from you about that. You can leave a comment below about how this writing challenge went for you. You can also comment about the podcast itself, this episode. Did you like it? Was it helpful? Do you disagree with it? Do you have another take on it? I would love to hear all of that good stuff and we can talk about it there in the comments.

Before we wrap up, I want to circle back to where we started. Those artists that we talked about earlier. So imagine if David Bowie had stayed Ziggy Stardust forever. Imagine what the world misses out on. Or imagine if Margaret Atwood thought dystopian fiction was the only thing she was allowed to write. Or imagine if Alanis Morissette wasn’t bold enough to give up her pop music for Jagged Little Pill, which I still listen to today, and it still freaking rocks. We would have missed out on so much.

So our job isn’t to guess ahead of time what we’re supposed to be. Our job is to stay curious. To stay open. To keep moving forward even when the path surprises us. Maybe especially when the path surprises us.

So you don’t become the writer that you thought you would be. We become the writers that we actually are, and we just don’t know it yet. We’re discovering those writers as we go. And that’s a much more interesting journey than trying to figure it out at the beginning and never varying from it.

So thanks for being here today. I’d love to hear from you if this resonated. You can shoot me an email at [email protected] if you don’t want to leave a comment on the page and share your thoughts. I’d love to hear that.

If you’re struggling with your current project right now and you’re curious if it’s trying to tell you that it’s not the right project to be working on, it might just be that your story has gotten off track a bit. So I’ve put together something that I’m really proud of. It’s called the Story Rescue Checklist, and what it does is it helps you see if there’s something structurally wrong with your story that’s causing it to not work well or causing you frustrations, to help you fix that before you give up on it and decide that you need to go chase after that shiny object that you just thought about.

So that story might be the right story to be writing, but it may just be missing some vital pieces. You can pick it up for free by going here and I’d love to send you that.

So until next time, keep writing. Because that is, of course, the best way to get better as a writer, by writing. Keep exploring. Keep pushing yourself. Keep finding those things to write about that scare you just a little bit. And I will look forward to seeing you back here again soon. Thanks for listening.

Interested in more podcasts about How to Write a Novel?

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

Why do some characters take control of your story?
Some characters seem to “take over” your story because they may represent parts of your own mind. According to Internal Family Systems (IFS) theory, the human psyche is made up of different internal parts—each with its own voice, perspective, and motivation. When writing, these parts can emerge as characters, expressing thoughts or emotions you might not consciously recognize. Letting characters lead can reveal deeper truths and add emotional depth to your story.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Why do our characters sometimes refuse to do what we planned? In this episode of Inside Creative Writing, Brad dives deep into the phenomenon of characters “talking back,” saying things we didn’t expect, steering the story in new directions, or developing voices of their own. It turns out, there might be a psychological explanation.

Drawing from Internal Family Systems (IFS), a therapeutic model that sees the mind as a system of parts, Brad explores what might be happening when characters come alive on the page. Are they just echoes of other stories? Or could they be voices from within ourselves, trying to speak through our fiction?

Whether you’re a skeptic, a believer, or somewhere in between, this episode offers practical techniques and surprising insights to help you tap into character voice, deepen emotional authenticity, and maybe even understand yourself a little better.

Includes:

Episode 43. Today we get weird.

What exactly is happening when our characters seem to start taking control of the story we’re writing? Doing and saying things we didn’t expect?

Let’s dive in.

Almost every writer has had the experience of a character who keeps doing things you didn’t plan for. Or maybe they say something that makes you kind of blink and ask, wait, where did that come from?

It’s a strange moment, for sure, but what exactly is happening?

You’re not alone in this. Today we’re talking about what might be happening when those characters start surprising us, and what that might have to do with a therapeutic model of the mind called Internal Family Systems.

So we’re really living up to the name Inside Creative Writing today, because we’re going deep inside the creative writing mind. The episode might get a little weird, but in the best way.

So we’ve all heard the stories, right? If they haven’t happened to us ourselves. An author says their characters “took over” the story. Or they didn’t intend for a plot twist, but a character insisted that it happened. Maybe you’re writing along and suddenly a side character starts just dominating the story. Or your protagonist refuses to follow your outline.

What is going on here?

Now, I’ve been curious about this for years. And for years I chalked it up to cliché, like maybe the words come easy because we’ve just heard them before, not because they’re especially meaningful.

But lately I’ve been exploring something new. A different way of understanding how the human mind works, and it’s shed a whole new light on what I think might actually be going on in those moments, and how we can use them to our story’s benefit.

So today I want to suggest that the experience of characters developing their own voices might be less mystical than it seems, and also way more personal.

I’m going to introduce you to an idea from psychology called Internal Family Systems, often shortened just to IFS. And show you how this model might explain exactly why your characters seem so alive, and what to do with them once they come alive in that way.

So let’s start with a short definition here. Internal Family Systems is a therapy model developed by Dr. Richard Schwartz back in the 1980s, and it’s based on a simple but pretty radical idea, that the mind isn’t one unified voice. It’s a system of parts.

At first, this might sound a little bit out there. But before we jump to dismissing it, think about how we talk about our minds. When you faced a big decision, have you ever caught yourself saying things like, “Part of me wants to do X, but I really want to do Y”? In moments like that, we’re revealing that we do at least sometimes treat our own minds as if they are made up of separate parts.

When I started looking into this phenomenon of the human mind having separate parts, it reminded me of when I was studying meditation and Buddhist thinking. In those traditions, the mind isn’t seen as a single unified self either. It’s understood as having different modes or mental states that are constantly shifting. Modes that sometimes are in conflict, sometimes they cooperate, and they’re always vying for attention. They always want to have their thought become the one that you’re aware of, that you think about.

Now, you might have a part of yourself that wants to write a novel, and another part that just wants to binge Netflix. And I think we could probably all admit to having those kinds of parts, right?

We have this desire, we have this part of us that really wants to sit down and write, but we have the other part that wants to do anything but write, that wants to keep us from writing.

We have that part that criticizes everything we do. Sometimes we hear it almost like a voice in our head telling us what we’re writing is garbage and it’s never going to amount to anything.

But we also have that part that encourages us. That is thrilled about what we got on paper or gets excited about the story idea that we came up with,even at the same time that other part is trying to criticize it.

We have a part of us that panics, and we have a part of us that plays.

So that’s kind of what we’re talking about: this idea of Internal Family Systems, that we have these various parts of us that work independently and often underneath the surface of our consciousness.

According to IFS, none of these parts are bad. They all have jobs that they are doing to try to help us in some way, often to try to keep us safe, even if their methods for doing so are a little bit off.

Stranger still, not only do these parts exist and have their own thoughts, but they have their own personalities, their own fears, their own motivations. And get this: we can actually have conversations with them.

Now, I told you we were going to get weird, right? I know that sounds strange. Maybe even a little scary, like we’re going to split into split personalities or something if we explore this.

I’m currently exploring this myself, and I’ve got my own hesitations about it. But even what I’m seeing so far, I find it really, really insightful in the writing process. Whether the mind actually works this way, or if we just think about it working in this way, doesn’t really matter.

So when we start thinking about these, it kind of starts to sound familiar. Maybe like they’re characters in a novel, right? Characters in our own life story.

So my question for you today is, what if, and I know this is a big what if, what if your characters are separate parts of you that are trying to speak to you?

I mentioned that they’re almost always under our level of consciousness, but they have messages for us. They have things they want to tell us. Things they want to protect us from. What if we could actually have a conversation with them? Get to know how they feel. Get to know how they see the world. How they make different decisions than you might be making.

What if we could do that kind of conversation through the characters you’ve created?

In other words, what if some of your characters are actually parts of you, and that the process of writing gives them a voice to be able to speak to us?

OK. A little bit strange, I know.

So think about this. You’re working on a scene, and suddenly a character says something brilliant, or maybe dark or emotional, and you didn’t know it was coming. That moment might actually be a part of your internal system speaking. One that finally found a safe place to talk. Found a safe place to get their voice out into the world where you and other people would notice.

In IFS, Internal Family Systems, they call these parts exiles. Parts of us that carry wounds or truths that we’ve buried. But these parts can also be other things, like protectors or rebels or caretakers.

So when you’re writing, you might be giving them space to live outside of your body and become someone else.

I know it’s weird. But it’s also really practical when it comes to the creative and imaginative process of writing.

Whether we subscribe to this or not, and like I said, I’m still on the fence and just kind of exploring this, but how could we use this kind of — I was going to say worldview, but it’s really more of a self-view or a mind-view — how could we use this in our writing?

First, when a character surprises you, I know that my first inclination is I want to shut it down. I’ve got my story planned out. I don’t know where this thought is coming from, where this idea is coming from. It’s not what I had planned. So shut up, right? And let me write my book.

Instead of doing that, get curious about it.

Think about who this voice might really belong to inside of you. What is it trying to get you to understand? What is it trying to get you to say?

Like I said, I used to shut it down. I assumed it was just a reflection of some past book I’d read or some movie I’d watched. That I was mistaking cliché and predictability for creativity.

When things came too easy for me in writing, I feared it. I steered the story in another direction.

And I still think that can be true. I still think that sometimes clichés and the obvious choice pop into our heads, and it can feel like inspiration if we don’t really examine it and see where it’s coming from.

But is it always that way?

Secondly, in IFS you can actually interview your characters using IFS-style questions. In Internal Family Systems, part of the process is getting to know these characters and asking them questions. It’s about getting really curious about who they are, what their worldview is, all of that.

Ask them questions like, what are you afraid of? What job are you trying to do for me? Are you trying to protect me? Are you trying to destroy me?

Which none of them actually are [trying to destroy you]. When you get down to what they’re doing, often they’re misfiring in the way they’re trying to protect you.

What would happen if you stopped doing the job that you’re doing?

That is such a powerful one to ask because what it reveals is really the fear that that part is encompassing or is taking on for you.

You will be shocked at the depth that comes out when you stop trying to control the story and start listening to it and the characters that you’ve created to work around in this story.

There are a couple of different ways to access these parts, or we may want to think of them more as characters that live within us and are trying to get out on the page.

One way to do this is through a kind of quiet and meditative reflection. You just close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, and relax into yourself. Then literally try to imagine that part or that character sitting across from you.

Or maybe you can feel where that character or that part lives in your body. That sounds weird, but take just a moment when you’re doing this, if you want to try it, and see if you can locate where they’re coming from.

Often, if it’s a fearful part or a character who’s afraid of something, I find them deep in my chest. I can just kind of feel that heaviness there. Then I will imagine I’m talking to that piece of me.

So that’s one way. It’s that quiet meditative reflection. Just ask them a question. What do you want to say? Let your mind stay open to whatever answers come.

The weird thing about this is that you don’t want to think your way into an answer. You just want to be patient and see if an answer comes up out of that place. It often does. Not always, but it often does.

The other way to approach these parts or these characters is the one that I prefer. Which is to write a dialogue scene between me and the characters.

Sometimes it’s between two different characters and I’ll have them talk to each other, but often it’s between me as the writer and this character or this part that is trying to reach out in some way.

You can treat it like a script or a conversation in a novel. Just ask them questions. What are you afraid of? What job are you trying to do in this story or in me or in the other characters? What would happen if you stopped doing that job?

Just wait for those responses to come and see if this character, see if this part begins to reveal itself to you.

This writing is very quick and dirty. I’m not worried about spelling, paragraph form, or anything like that. I’m just trying to capture these thoughts and questions as quickly as I can on paper.

So don’t worry about making them polished. Just let it flow. You might be surprised how much clarity and emotion comes out when you give these parts of yourself permission to speak freely.

It sounds weird. How many times am I going to say that in this episode?

But often these parts of yourself have been ignored or pushed down or exiled for years and years, if not decades and decades. They’ve been crying out to tell you what they know or tell you what they feel.

So be prepared for some strange things to happen.

This process can unlock incredible internal insights. It can also be emotionally intense, and that’s OK. Give yourself some grace in this process. If you try it, you’re not just creating characters. You might actually be healing parts of yourself along the way.

Now, I am not a professional counselor. None of this is meant as therapy advice. But I do want you to know there are licensed therapists out there who specialize in Internal Family Systems work. If you try this and you find it particularly fascinating or maybe especially emotional, you might consider seeking one of them out.

That’s what I’m in the process of doing right now. In fact, I have my first appointment tomorrow to explore this Internal Family Systems dynamic and how it may be working in me and how I can use that as a way to write better, more complete, more realistic characters into my work.

So what do you do when a character takes over? It doesn’t really matter where this is coming from. Whether you’re on board with this or not, it still happens sometimes.

What do we do when we start to feel a character grabbing hold of the reins of our story and taking it in a different direction?

Do we force them back into line? “Hey, Mr. Character, Mr. Part, I’ve got this planned out. I’ve got it outlined. You’re going to stick to it.“

Or do you say, “OK, you’ve got a story to tell. I’m going to step back and let you tell it.”

Here’s what I’ve found. And this is just my personal experience. It’s not meant as advice even. It’s just my personal experience.

There’s no danger in following a character’s lead for a while. Let them go down the path they’re taking you on for a little bit. We all have delete keys on our computers. We have erasers on the ends of our pencils.

If it doesn’t go somewhere interesting, then we’ve just had a little more time writing and we can delete it and go in a different direction.

So I always like to let it speak for a while and see where it goes. Follow it with a pen or follow it with your keyboard and see what story it wants to tell.

Sometimes it leads you somewhere far more interesting and far more true than what you had planned. But not always. Sometimes it just has something it wants to express. Then once it gets it off its chest, it feels better and you feel better and you’re ready to move forward.

That moment can feel mysterious and magical when you start having your characters come alive and take actions on their own. Just because it feels magical doesn’t mean it’s right. Doesn’t mean it’s the right direction to go.

What you’re hearing, when we think of them as this jumble of parts we have working in us, is just one perspective. It’s one voice. It’s one possible truth.

The experience of hearing from it might be powerful, but it’s not the whole story. A character or a part is just that. It’s a piece. It’s a part of the whole. It’s not your entire self. It’s not the entire cast of your novel.

So it’s important to take a moment to honor that character or honor that part. You can even thank them for showing you something honest about themselves. Let them know they were heard. And then, if you don’t want to take the story in that direction, just invite them to become part of the larger story that you’re telling. Not the one they want to hijack and take in a different direction.

I know this seems weird to be in conversation with these. But until you try it and open your mind to see if it works, I hope you won’t just condemn it and think, oh, Brad has lost his mind in this episode.

I don’t talk about things unless I think not many other people are saying them or I’ve got some unique take on it. This one, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anybody talk about in this frame of writing. So I wanted to get it out there.

All right. Am I alone in this? We’re going to slip into our Wise Words section here.

I always want to check my own instincts and thoughts against other especially accomplished and recognized writers, just to see if I have indeed lost my mind. And here are some other writers that I think are hinting at what I’m talking about here.

George R. R. Martin once said, “I have a character who’s a priest and he started preaching. I don’t know where that came from.”

I’ve had characters like that too, where I’ve created them and they don’t feel anything like me. But yet they come to life in my head in a way that surprises me, that has talents and abilities and perspectives that I didn’t know were inside me.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Big Magic, “I’ve had characters begin talking to me in my dreams. They’ll argue with me, offer suggestions, refuse to cooperate. It’s unnerving and also amazing.”

That really feels like it captures what we’re talking about here today. I don’t have that experience in my dreams, at least not that I remember, but I definitely have that experience while drafting stories.

And then finally, we’ll get another Stephen King quote in here. He’s been showing up a lot in our Wise Words.

This is from On Writing, and he says:
“Stories are found things, like fossils in the ground. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible.”

I love this because it has that feeling of digging for the truth, for the things underground that we don’t realize are there, and bringing them up to the surface to get them into our stories.

That’s what this process feels like, exploring this internal family or all these internal personalities that are bubbling within me, trying to get their stories told.

Whether it’s intuition, creativity, or something more internal, writers across genres have long acknowledged that characters sometimes speak first. And I’d encourage us to just listen.

Not to take them speaking as some kind of divine direction for our story, but just as one person’s, one character’s, one part’s take on it. Like an option that we have to consider.

So next time a character goes rogue, try welcoming them instead of resisting them. Ask who they might represent. Let them speak.

Don’t be surprised if they have something profound to say, not just about the story, but maybe even about you.

So that leads us into our challenge this week.

Write a short monologue from one of your characters as if they were a real voice in your head. And again, this can feel strange. This can feel like, “I hope I don’t end up as a split personality here,” right? It’s not going to happen.

But let them tell you what they want. You might learn something important, both from a writing and a personal growth perspective.

Now, like I said, we got a little weird here today, and I’m sure we lost some of you along the way. But I truly hope you’re able to take something useful from this that can inform your writing practice.

I’d love to hear your reactions to this episode, positive or negative, or just what-the-hell reactions, either in the comments on the episode’s web page over at insidecreativewriting.com, or you can always shoot me an email. It’s [email protected].

If you liked this episode, check out the links in the show notes and the transcript online for more on things like character development, emotional depth in fiction, and writing from the inside out.

Before you go, if you’d like more deep dives like this, join the Inside Creative Writing email list. When you sign up over there, you’ll get a free copy of the Story Rescue Checklist. It’s a resource to help you figure out if your novel is on the right track, and if it’s not, how to get it on the right track.

So you can head over to insidecreativewriting.com/SRC to get that guide and get signed up on the email list. I reach out about once a week with just some thoughts generated from the podcast and from the thinking and writing that I’ve been doing each week.

I hope you’ll check that out and join our emerging community over there.

As always, the best way to improve as a writer is by writing,and maybe even writing from the parts of you that you didn’t know you had.

So go get some of that done this week, and I’ll be looking forward to spending some time with you again next week.

Thank you so much for being here!

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

How can I use index cards to plot a novel?
The index card method helps novelists visualize and organize their story by dividing it into key turning points across a four-row layout, one row per story act. Each card represents a single scene, allowing writers to pace their novel, identify structural weaknesses, and rearrange plot points easily before drafting.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

When writing a novel, it’s easy to get lost in the fog of ideas and endless possibilities. That’s where index card plotting comes in. In this episode, we explore a screenwriting method that translates perfectly to fiction: using index cards to build out your novel’s structure.

This hands-on, visual approach helps writers of all styles, plotters and pantsers alike, get a clear view of their story’s pacing, major turning points, and emotional beats. Whether you’re stuck in the messy middle or just getting started, index card plotting offers clarity and momentum.

Key takeaways include:

If you’ve ever felt stuck or unsure of your novel’s trajectory, this is a powerful method to get you moving. For deeper story guidance, check out our full How to Write a Novel guide and listen to How to Plot a Book and Claymation and Story Structure.

Today, we’re going to steal from the screenwriting world to hack our story plotting. We’re going to explore a card game of sorts and figure out your story.

Welcome back to Inside Creative Writing, where we help you craft authentic immersive stories one technique at a time. I’m your host, Brad Reed, and today I want to introduce you to one of my favorite tools, borrowed, or maybe stolen, from screenwriting: the index card method.

Now, if you’ve studied screenwriting at all, you’ll probably be familiar with this tried and true method of plotting and pacing a film. But if you haven’t, this could revolutionize the way that you plan and plot your story. So, with a little tweaking, we can take it from the screenwriting world and make it work for novels and even short stories as well.

This is one of those techniques that feels weirdly old school, which I kind of love. But trust me, it works. It’s flexible, it’s tactile, and it helps you see your story in a different way. And the best part? You don’t have to be a plotter to use it. Even if you’re more of a discovery writer, index cards can bring just enough structure to keep your novel from wandering off into the…

Before we dive in though, I want to pause for a second. Because if you’re not yet sold on the idea that structure matters, you’re not alone. A lot of writers resist it. I used to resist structure, too. I thought structure would cage my creativity. What I’ve learned is that structure actually frees it.

I’ve seen this play out in my creative writing classes over and over again. If I tell the students to write a story about anything they want, I get nothing but blank stares. They don’t know where to start. There are just too many possibilities. But if I give them limitations, they leap into storytelling.

So something like: write a scene where a character must leave a voicemail for someone they haven’t spoken to in over a decade. They only have 60 seconds before the recording cuts off. They can’t say why they’re calling until the final sentence.

Now notice how many rules there are to that, or how much structure there is to that prompt, but what it does is it focuses the creative mind and gets it moving. We start asking questions about that situation, about that prompt. It starts suggesting possibilities and even characters and types of conflict that we could write about because we’ve given it that structure.

If you’re on the fence about using structure in your writing, I highly recommend checking out a couple of past episodes of this podcast before or after listening to this one.

The first one is called How to Plot a Book: The Secret to Strong Story Structure. That episode discusses something called the “somebody wanted but so” and “somebody needed but so” frameworks for creating a focused, cause-effect driven story structure.

You also might check out How to Plan a Book with the Snowflake Method. This is an interview with Randy Ingermanson about breaking a novel down into manageable planning steps.

And then finally, maybe my favorite one on this topic is called Claymation in Story Structure. It uses claymation as a metaphor to explain why underlying structure supports creative flexibility without limiting your expression.

Check those out if you’re still not quite sold on structure or want some different angles to look at it from; they’ll help you figure out your own approach.

So let’s get back into today’s technique. What is the index card method?

Let’s talk first about how screenwriters actually use the index card method and why it’s often based, at least for them, on a 40-card layout.

They start with 40 index cards. Now, in the world of screenwriting, structure is everything. A typical screenplay runs about 100 to 110 pages long and it follows a three-act structure almost religiously. To plan that structure, many writers use 40 index cards. What they do is lay them out in four rows of 10 cards each.

The first row, the first 10 cards, is for Act One. The second row of 10 cards is for the beginning of Act Two up to what we call the midpoint. The third row is from the midpoint to the end of Act Two. And the last 10 cards are for Act Three.

So first row: Act One. Second and third rows: Act Two, with a midpoint in there. And fourth row: Act Three.

Let’s look at Act One, cards one through ten. This is the setup, basically. You’re introducing the protagonist, their world, their central problem. Each one of these cards represents a scene, a major scene, that sets up the world and lays the foundation for the story.

Somewhere around card 8 or 9 (this is flexible) we hit what we call the first major turning point. This is the moment where the story really begins and the protagonist commits to a new path. We’ve talked about this as the inciting incident. It’s not always specifically the inciting incident, but it often is.

Let’s look at some examples because that always helps.

In The Hunger Games, if we went to card 8 or 9 in our layout, we’d see that’s about when Katniss volunteers as tribute. Up until that point, she’s just surviving. We’re getting to know her and her world and the conflict. And then suddenly, when she volunteers as tribute, she can’t turn back.

Let’s look at Harry Potter, too. I know there’s lots of feels about the writer of Harry Potter. I’m still using it as a source because it’s such a shared story. I’m not endorsing anything here, just using it as a common story that we’re all familiar with.

The turning point in the first Harry Potter book is when Harry boards the Hogwarts Express. Up until that moment, we’re just seeing his ordinary world. He’s under the stairs. But then he enters the magical world, where the story really takes off. That would be about card 8 or 9 in that first row of the card system.

You could go through and look at each of those scenes leading up to that and see how they’re building up to that moment. Maybe it’s card 10. Maybe it’s card 5. It’s flexible. But 8 or 9 is that sweet spot.

I’ve got a couple other examples here. If you’re curious or need some more help on this, shoot me an email at [email protected] and I can send you more.

So let’s go ahead and look at Act Two now.

We know that each card represents a scene in the story, or in this case, still talking about film, a scene in the movie that builds up to the end of Act One, where something big happens. Some major change throws the story into motion.

Now we’re in Act Two, the beginning of our second row of cards. This is the heart of the story. This is where we start to build tension.

In screenwriting, Act Two is often split into two halves. We start to see the character work through this new conflict, this new world they’ve been thrown into. But we’re building up to something called the midpoint, which happens at the end of that second row. The midpoint fundamentally shifts the direction of the story. Maybe it’s a big reveal, maybe it’s some kind of reversal, a sudden new goal, something gets flipped on its head about midway through the story.

When we first start planning these systems, we’re really only concerned with figuring out those main turning points. I want to start by knowing: what is my inciting incident? What is my midpoint? And then we’ll get to the third and fourth ones here in just a moment.

Let’s go back to The Hunger Games. So we’re looking at that row of 40 cards, or that second row of 10 cards. At the end of that second row, Katniss scores a major win with her alliance and gains a moment of safety. There’s almost a false sense of control right in the middle where the reader goes, “OK, we’re going to make it.”

And then the game makers raise the stakes again. The rules of the game change. If you know that story, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You can go to the book or screenplay, find that moment, and it’s right about smack dab in the middle of the story. The stakes have changed. Katniss now has to understand the games in a new way.

What does it look like in Harry Potter?

In Harry Potter, it goes from kind of school adventures; there’s a lot of fun in the beginning of Act Two, right? Because we’re getting to go to magic school, getting to know the characters. But suddenly, about in the middle, something pivots. We discover something really dark is going on at Hogwarts. And Harry is now in investigation mode. He’s not just learning the system. Now he’s trying to save the place.

So that’s our second row: Act Two begins and ends with a fundamental shift at the midpoint.

Now, how does the third row end?

The third row ends with something often called the second turning point. It always feels like the third one to me, because that midpoint is definitely a turning point. But you may hear it referred to as the second turning point or the end of Act Two turning point.

This is where things fall apart. You’ll often hear this referred to in screenwriting as the All Is Lost moment. And I almost hesitate to teach people about this because it ruins a lot of movies. Once you’re aware of this plot point and are looking for it, you can see it clearly in almost every film ever made. There are exceptions, of course, but that All Is Lost moment is everywhere.

Everything has gone wrong. There’s no way the protagonist is going to succeed. We think: we’re done.

In The Hunger Games, Rue dies. That moment where Rue dies, we see Katniss emotionally break apart. Her illusion of staying morally separate from the games is shattered. It really changes Katniss from a survivor to a rebel. But there’s that moment before she decides to be a rebel when we think as the viewer: this is it. There’s no way she’s going to overcome this.

In Harry Potter, the All Is Lost moment comes when Harry, Ron, and Hermione go through the trap door and are separated from the teachers. Suddenly they’re on their own. The adults can’t help anymore. They’re facing what seems like an impossible challenge without backup.

Now, there are stronger All Is Lost moments in film than this one, but again, we’re using a familiar story.

Let me see if I can find one more. Yeah, actually, I didn’t even think of it until right now. But in Elf, right? A comedy movie. Does a comedy movie have an All Is Lost moment? Absolutely. Almost every movie does.

That moment when Elf (Will Ferrell) is looking over the side of that bridge into the river. He’s lost everything. He’s lost his family. He’s lost everything he cared about. He’s looking over the side of that bridge, and we get the sense, just for a moment, that he might jump.

Elf is thinking about suicide in that moment. The script doesn’t say that or anything, he doesn’t say, “Oh, should I jump?” but we get that feeling: “Oh my gosh, all is lost here. What does he have left to live for?”

That is an excellent example of an All Is Lost moment in a comedy.

So that’s the end of Act Two. We reach that All Is Lost moment. That would be the third card you want to start with, right? You want to start with the inciting event, then know your midpoint, and then define what that All Is Lost moment looks like.

And then finally, Act Three, or that final row of cards, is the resolution.

It usually starts with some big change. Something unexpected happens. The rules change. Or there’s a sudden event. In Elf, we’ll use that as an example again, Santa Claus comes down out of the sky. Will Ferrell’s character sees Santa Claus in the sleigh, and suddenly there’s life again. There’s hope again.

So Act Three starts with some kind of “Oh my gosh, maybe all isn’t lost. Maybe the protagonist can confront their biggest challenge and still reach the resolution we’re hoping for.”

The final 10 cards focus on payoff, transformation, and ultimately closure. That last card of Act Three is: How does this story end? How does it resolve?

It’s a little hard to do in audio format, but hopefully you’re able to picture what that looks like.

To use the card system, you come up with those major turning points first. And I know I’m going over this again, but it’s so important:

Once you know those, what you do is go back and backfill the other cards, the scenes that build up to each of those points.

Why use 10 cards per row? The reason that’s so helpful is it keeps your pacing balanced. It makes sure the buildup in each act feels right. No part of the story feels rushed. No part feels too slow or like it’s plodding along.

Now is there flexibility? Of course. But this system helps you stay aware of how you’re pushing against the expected structure. If your first act is pretty long, you’ll know it, and you can make decisions from there about whether you want to take that risk or whether to cut it down.

This is not about being rigid. It feels very rigid, just like we talked about at the beginning, some rigidity actually inspires creativity. It gives us problems to solve, and we have to come up with unique plots and unique characters to make it all work.

It always feels like putting together a puzzle to me. A puzzle where you don’t have the box to look at, so you don’t even know what the picture is that you’re trying to build. This system is about knowing what needs to happen in each section of your story so you don’t drift off or kind of lose steam.

When screenwriters lay out these cards, they’re writing scenes. They’re thinking in bits of action, sometimes called beats, for how to build up to those main points. And each card focuses clarity. So basically, on each card, you’re just writing a single sentence about what happens in that scene.

If a scene doesn’t earn its place, it doesn’t get a card.

I have used this system for many stories that I’ve written, and it’s one of the best ways I’ve found to get rid of the stuff that doesn’t really matter. If you’re putting something on a card and you realize, “Oh my gosh, am I really going to waste one of my 10 cards (or whatever number I’m working with) on this scene?” No. Maybe that scene gets cut. Maybe it gets combined with another scene, and I realize I can accomplish this in a single scene.

Sometimes you’ll find scenes that need to be expanded. When you write it on your card, you’re like, “That’s not really a scene, that’s like a second of dialogue or action.” You need to figure out how to expand it to make the pacing and trajectory of the story work.

So that’s basically how it works for screenwriters.

Now, how does this work for novelists?

For novelists, this level of focus is gold. Even if your book is 300 or 400 pages long, you can still use this approach to make sure that the major movements of your story are working together and that the pacing feels purposeful. Even if it takes a lot longer to get to these points, the pacing is still going to be there.

Instead of jumping into just, “I’m going to write an 80,000-word novel,” and jumping in blind, you can start with a simple stack of cards, each one summarizing a single scene or turning point. The visual and tactile layout helps you understand your story at a glance.

And what’s really fun is that you can carry these cards around with you and work on your story in little moments almost anywhere. If you’re chilling in a coffee shop, you can pull out your stack of cards, lay them out on the table, rearrange them, examine your story, brainstorm some linking scenes if you’re still working on that. Mix them up and see if your story works in a different order. And really watch your story take shape in a hundred different ways that isn’t rewriting pages and pages of text.

This part of the process: I love it. It is so much fun to create this card system and just start playing with your story until that big picture clicks in and you have that “aha” moment. Like, there it is. There’s my story. Even if it’s a rough idea, now you have a road map for how to get there.

So how do you set this up for a novel?

I always start with 40 to sometimes 60 blank index cards. Now, you can do this digitally, but I find that paper—real index cards—works super well for me. I punch holes in the corners of them so I can put one of those binder rings through it. That way, I can take them anywhere, undo the ring, and lay them out to play with them.

The classic way to do this is to put up a big cork board on the wall and use pushpins or tape them to a whiteboard or something like that. But I really like the portability of cards on a ring. That’s up to you.

What you’re going to do is write one sentence on each card describing what happens in that scene. Don’t overthink it. Just the main beat of that scene.

I love using the Somebody Wanted But So as the scene description. If you’re not familiar with why that’s helpful, we’ve done a couple of different podcasts on it. I’ll put links at the website again for those episodes so you can get familiar with that.

By using the Somebody Wanted But So, it ensures that the scene has some kind of conflict, some kind of stakes. Something is happening in that scene that justifies its place among your cards.

One card. One scene.

Optionally, you could color-code the cards. Some people use:

There are all sorts of ways to color coordinate. Don’t worry too much about that when you’re first figuring the system out. Just use plain cards. As you get more comfortable, you’ll customize it for how your brain understands story.

You’ve got to make up your own rules for this card game.

Basically, what you do is lay the cards out on a table or pin them to a wall—something like that, and you start creating. The world is at your fingertips here. Anything is possible. Major changes can be invented, cut, rearranged in just a few movements of your hand, rather than editing pages and pages of text that you’ve poured your soul into.

In fact, when I start writing a new novel or story, I’ll just sit down with some index cards and write scene ideas out. “It would be cool if this happened. It would be cool if that happened.” I don’t care at that point if they’re turning points or resolutions. Doesn’t matter. I just get them on cards so I can lay them out and start playing around, seeing how the story might come together.

What this gives you is a bird’s eye view of your novel. It helps you immediately notice pacing issues, dead spots, missing scenes, where you need to invent some more plot, or places where one thread disappears for too long.

You don’t need to end up with exactly 10 cards per row like a screenwriter would. That would be more like a novella at that length. But it will help you see if you’ve got an overloaded first act, or if Act Two is super thin.

Even if you’re using 15 or 20 cards per row, you’ll be able to see it at a glance. If one row is way bigger or smaller than the others, that’s a red flag. “Oh, I’ve got work to do here.”

And what’s fun about that is when you realize, “Oh, my second row is really short,” it drives you into that new place of creativity. You start inventing new plot ideas you never thought of. New conflicts, new directions, sometimes even new characters come to life and walk into your story because you realize, “I’ve got the space and the need to flesh this out some more.”

It goes right back to what we talked about earlier: limitations drive creativity. It’s an incredibly powerful concept to understand.

Why does this work so well? Because it forces clarity and flexibility at the same time.

It gives you clarity because if you can’t summarize a scene in one sentence, that scene probably isn’t doing enough. “Joe goes to the store” is probably not a scene that needs to make it into the novel, right? Maybe we need to flesh that out.

But it’s also flexible because it’s so easy to shuffle cards around or change them out. It’s no big deal to throw away an index card, grab a new one, write a new scene idea, and play with it. You’re not deleting 2,000 words, you’re just moving a little card around.

It also helps with pacing. With cause and effect. You can see how your scenes connect together, and you can see the emotional rhythm of your story—not just what happens, but how it feels.

I love being able to lay my story out in these cards and “read” it just by walking through the beats and scenes in a few minutes.

What I’ve found is that this system isn’t just helpful for plotting and getting ready for a rough draft, it actually helps me while I’m drafting.

My card system becomes my rough draft roadmap. Once I’m actually driving that road, things change. That’s no big deal. I add a new card, shift things around, make sure the story stays intact.

Maybe I’m writing my midpoint and I hate it; it’s just not working. I can stop at that point, write a new midpoint, reshuffle some cards, create new ones, and get my story back together.

Let’s look at some wise words today, because structure is definitely talked about among many writers.

The first is from James Scott Bell, author of Plot & Structure. He says:

“Structure is not a prison, but the skeleton that gives shape and strength to your story.”

I love that. It’s basically the same concept I used in the episode on Claymation, how the armature of a claymation character can work as a metaphor for the kind of structure we build into story.

Here’s another from Stephen King. Now, Stephen King is famous for being kind of anti-structure. If you’ve read his book On Writing, which is fantastic, he really hammers that idea of not starting with a plot.

But here’s what he says about structure:

“I don’t start with a plan. But once I have something down, I step back and look for structure. If it’s not there, it doesn’t work.”

So even Stephen King, this well-known proponent of starting without a plan, says at some point he stops and makes sure he’s naturally built structure in. If it’s not there, he rewrites.

You could almost think of it like building a house versus putting up a tent.

Building a house, you start with a plan. You start with a foundation and skeletal structure, then build.

Stephen King’s approach is more like pitching a tent. You lay it all out on the ground—no structure—and then you prop it up with the poles. You give it structure after it’s already been spread out.

That’s the way Stephen King approaches it. He just gets into writing, makes a mess on the page, and then he goes back and props it up with the structure that it needs.

Really, either way works. It’s whatever system works best for you.

So, for our weekly challenge: this one’s going to be a little bit different.

The challenge could be something as simple as starting to write some cards for a story. But what I want to do instead is build off our recent episode called Reading Like a Writer, where we talked about learning deep craft elements by really analyzing stories.

So here’s the challenge: consider creating a set of index cards for one of your favorite example novels. One of those three or so novels you go back to again and again for inspiration.

Go through that novel, or you could do this with a film, and actually create the index cards that show the structure. For each scene (sometimes that’s each chapter, but not always), write down what’s happening. What is the main movement or beat of that part of the story?

When you’re done, lay those cards out. See if it shows a three-act structure, or maybe something else. Then notice how differently you see that novel now, once you can see the skeleton underneath it.

If you do this, I’d love for you to share that experience in the comments over at Inside Creative Writing. Just look up this podcast episode on the website and you’ll see the comment section at the bottom of that page. I’d love to talk about it with you there.

If you’re writing a novel and you feel stuck, overwhelmed, or just tired of rereading the same scenes over and over without knowing where it’s all going—try the index card method.

Grab some cards. Lay out your story. Give yourself permission to play.

If you’re looking for more help on structuring your novel, definitely go back and listen to the episodes I mentioned earlier. They’ll be linked on the website. They’ll walk you through what story structure is really about and why it’s so important.

Even if you hate outlining, this method can be really, really fun.

I hope you’ll also check out the full How to Write a Novel guide over at insidecreativewriting.com. It walks you through every stage, from the idea to draft to revision, the whole thing.

And I do want to plug one thing that I just built this week over on the website: Five Minute Writing Prompts. It’s an automated little program you’ll find right on the site. You click a button and it randomly gives you a five-minute writing prompt.

These aren’t your usual prompts. They’re really specific to the kind of work we do here at Inside Creative Writing. They lean into some of the concepts we talked about in this episode. I use them myself when I don’t feel like writing or don’t feel creative. I’ll pop one up, write for five minutes, and it gets the wheels turning.

They’re great for warming up, but also for reimagining a scene or trying something from a new angle. So if that sounds interesting, head over to the site, search for “Five Minute Writing Prompts,” and try it out. You can even suggest a prompt, if you want to. That would be awesome.

Until next time, keep writing, keep experimenting, and remember: the best way to improve as a writer is, of course, by writing.

I’m off to get some words on the page, or maybe some words on some index cards, and I hope you are, too!

Thanks for listening.

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

Why is boredom important for writers?
Boredom gives the brain space to reflect, wander, and make creative connections. Without constant distractions, writers can tap into deeper ideas and story insights that often remain buried beneath the noise of modern life.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your writing has nothing to do with your keyboard. In this thought-provoking episode, Brad explores how boredom can actually be your secret weapon when writing a novel. By leaning into stillness, cutting distractions, and giving your mind space to wander, you unlock deeper insights, clearer ideas, and stronger connections to your story.

In a world constantly filled with noise, this episode makes the case for building boredom into your writing life, not avoiding it. Through personal stories, classroom experiences, and scientific insights, you’ll learn how to reframe boredom not as a productivity killer, but as a vital part of the creative process.

Key takeaways include:

Whether you’re stuck in your novel’s early stages or trying to rediscover your writing spark, this episode will help you reconnect with your own imagination.

If you want even more clarity on where your novel is headed, be sure to grab the free Story Rescue Checklist or explore the How to Write a Novel page for more essential tools.

Did you know that you have a writing superpower that you’re probably not using? On today’s podcast, we’re talking about the awesome power of boredom. Let’s get started.

OK. Before we jump in, I want to warn you that I may sound like an old man at times during this podcast. There are going to be some good old fashioned “back in my day” stories, so be prepared for that.

With that in mind, I want to start with an experience I had going back to college to become a teacher. This was probably about 2014. I took a class on the psychology of adolescence. One of the textbooks we used was old, like pre-Internet old. One of the chapters was all about how important boredom was for the formation of the adolescent mind and how essential it was for the exploration and discovery of one’s unique identity.

Back then, teens spent countless hours alone in their rooms, bored and thinking, contemplating who they were and the world around them. They could throw themselves into books or take long walks without music or podcasts in their ears. When they couldn’t sleep, they would just lie awake, bored and thinking. Car rides were quiet, except for maybe the radio, for long hours in the back seat.

The thesis of that part of the textbook was that this forced boredom was vital for young people to figure out who they were, what they wanted to do with their lives, and how they saw the world. That kind of unscheduled solitude wasn’t just downtime. It was essential for identity formation.

Now, if this were a psychology podcast, we could dive into what’s been lost and how much of our cultural identity crisis comes from this lack of boredom and introspection that we’re now shielded from. As a society, we have constant boredom-killing technology. But this isn’t a psychology podcast, so what does this have to do with writing?

If you’re a writer, that kind of introspection is still essential. You don’t just write stories. You write your stories. And to do that, you have to know what matters to you. What images haunt you? What questions keep tugging at the edges of your brain?

You can’t find those answers while doom-scrolling. Trust me, I’m as guilty of that as anyone. Those answers come in the quiet, introspective, and yes, even boring moments that we all try to avoid.

Here’s story number two. It was the middle of summer. I was maybe seven or eight years old. There were five stations on the television. Other than Saturday mornings, almost none of them showed anything for kids. There was no cable TV. There weren’t even VCRs. The Internet wasn’t even imagined yet.

So my brothers and I would be bored stiff. Sure, we had the occasional soccer practice or maybe a trip to the movies, but other than that, there was nothing structured to do. We didn’t have screens. We had long stretches of hot afternoons.

So we invented things. Not on purpose; we just didn’t have any other options, other than complaining to our parents about how bored we were, which we did a lot.

I remember one day we reimagined our basement into a medieval kingdom. We built a throne room. We got out all the pillows and blankets and stacked books up. One of us, usually my older brother, reigned over the rest of us as king.

We did this every day for what seemed like weeks. Maybe it was just a few days, but in my memory, it lasted forever. The rest of us were knights sent on impossible missions into other rooms, upstairs, or even out into the wild lands of our backyard. There were dragons. There were betrayals. There were secret scrolls and ancient swords.

It was thrilling. It was life-and-death adventure. And in our minds, it had all the depth and suspense of a Tolkien novel. Amazing times. Amazing memories.

Another time, and this is going to sound really nerdy because it was, we gathered every stuffed animal we could find in the house. Every figurine. Anything that could be imagined to be alive and have a personality. We brought them all into the basement and held a massive election for President of the House.

We each picked our candidates and gave speeches for them in front of the gathered masses. We held a vote where everyone in attendance was represented. We would go through and become each stuffed animal or figurine and explain how they were going to vote.

Thinking back, my older brother, who was always the king, also managed to get his candidates to always win as well. The system may have been rigged.

This whole process took hours. We were completely engaged. We invented issues, imagined personalities, and created opportunities for how to improve our little world.

Yes, it was nerdy. But was it creative? Absolutely. And it was driven entirely by boredom.

I could tell a hundred other stories about the things we created during those years. And I often do when I’m sitting around with my brothers. But the best part? All of them grew from nothing. It all grew from being utterly and completely bored.

Now I want you to think back to your own childhood. Or maybe you’re younger than me, but try to imagine being a kid during this time. Not during school or structured activities, but those long, lazy afternoons when you’re sprawled on the carpet staring at the ceiling. There are no phones. No Internet. You’re just there with your meandering thoughts.

Maybe laying under the coffee table suddenly became a spaceship. Or maybe you invented entire worlds from the patterns in the carpet. If you’ve got stories like that, I’d love it if you’d share some of your bored-kid inventions below in the comments. I’d really love to hear from you, especially those moments where boredom turned into creativity.

So that was boredom. And it was glorious.

Now, we didn’t think it was glorious at the time. In fact, we whined about it constantly to our parents.

“I’m bored. I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.”

But eventually our imaginations would kick in. And once they did, they swept us away. We didn’t know it at the time, but those moments of boredom were required to reveal the creativity and imagination bubbling just under the surface.

Our brains, unoccupied by scrolling or swiping, turned inward. They wandered. They wondered. They created stories.

The thing is, today we never have to be bored. We can fill every empty second with something: music, text messages, podcasts like this one, videos. Even standing in line at the grocery store comes with a side of TikTok.

Think about your reaction when you’re in a waiting room or a commercial comes on the television. I know mine: I reach for my phone. And everyone else does too. Just look around. In those moments, nearly everyone is on their phone trying to fill even the smallest moment of boredom.

Now for writers, this is a massive problem. Creativity needs space. It needs emptiness to echo into. When your brain is always consuming someone else’s content, you don’t have time to hear your own voice. You don’t have room to think your own thoughts that aren’t colored by the nonstop fire hose of information.

Boredom isn’t the enemy of productivity. It’s the birthplace of insight.

When you’re bored, your brain enters what psychologists call the Default Mode Network. This is basically the part of your brain that lights up when you’re daydreaming, reflecting, connecting ideas. In other words, it’s where storytelling begins.

Learn more about the default mode network.

One more story from my college years, and then I promise I’ll be done with those. We were in a unit on how to teach students to become better readers. Just out of curiosity, I asked my classmates (all future English teachers) how they first fell in love with reading.

We were all voracious readers, so I was curious. How did we get that way? What made us fall in love with books?

As people shared their stories, something really interesting came to light. Every single one of them had the same origin story. They were bored.

One talked about house-sitting for her grandma who lived out in the country. No Internet. No cable TV. Just a few channels with rabbit ears on top of the television. She was stuck there for a few days with nothing to do. Then she saw some books on a shelf. Picked one up. Started reading. And it came alive to her. From that moment, she was a reader.

Another shared that their English teacher set aside ten or twenty minutes every day for personal choice reading during class. No phones. No music. Just you and your book. At first, it felt like torture. A prison sentence. But eventually, with nothing else to do, they opened the book and got pulled in. It changed everything.

Someone else talked about getting grounded and losing phone privileges. There were books lying around, so they picked one up. That was it. The spark.

Every story was the same. Boredom led them to books. Stillness led them to stories.

This isn’t just true for readers. It’s just as true for writers.

We discover who we are as writers the same way we discover who we are as readers: in moments of boredom. When our brains are finally quiet enough to pay attention to the stories swirling around inside us.

But here’s the wild thing. We’ve become almost afraid of being bored. Like it’s some kind of unnatural state that needs to be fixed immediately with a scroll or a swipe or some kind of distraction. We’re starting to treat boredom like torture. Something to avoid at all costs.

But here’s the thing. The history of human beings is boredom. Massive, all-encompassing, perpetual boredom, interrupted only occasionally by action or entertainment.

Think back to earlier eras in human history. Hours and hours of reaping and sowing in the fields. No entertainment. No music in your ears. Just the rhythm of your work and the spinning of your mind. It was inventing. Creating. Thinking deeply.

Or think about days spent walking behind herds or tracking prey. Hours of monotony with nothing to fill it. That is what it meant to be human for most of our existence.

Seasons spent simply watching the fire. Long stretches of silence with nothing but your thoughts and the sound of the wind in the grass.

And from that silence, myth was born. Music was born. Language. Tools. Storytelling. Creativity itself. All of it came from that deeply human space of boredom.

I don’t know if there are studies on this, but I genuinely believe that the ability and opportunity to be bored is one of the primary things that set humans on our evolutionary path. I can’t get inside my dog’s mind, she’s snoring softly next to me. I don’t know if she gets bored when she’s just lying there. But I do know the human mind. And it gets bored. And when it does, it starts spinning. Imagining. Creating.

So why do you think humans became so inventive? So imaginative? So capable of building entire fantasy universes in our heads? It’s not in spite of boredom. It’s because of it.

Have you ever wondered why some of your best ideas happen in the shower? It’s practically a cliché at this point, but there’s a reason for it.

Unless you’re blasting music or catching up on a podcast while you shampoo, the shower is one of the only places left in modern life where we’re not consuming content. And it’s not something magical about the water hitting your body. It’s one of the only moments in your day when you are forced to be bored. Your body is doing something repetitive. Your mind is free. That short burst of boredom is gold for your creative brain.

We can create those same conditions in our writing life. It just takes intention and a little tolerance for stillness. A little tolerance for allowing ourselves to be bored.

We’ve talked before on this podcast about how writing a novel is both an art and a craft. You can learn structure. You can practice sentence formation. But the soul of your story, that can only come through stillness.

Stillness is not glamorous. It’s not efficient. But it is vital.

Let your mind be quiet. Go for a walk without earbuds. Take a drive in silence. Sit on your porch and do absolutely nothing. At first, it’s going to feel uncomfortable. Like withdrawal. But eventually the noise dies down. And underneath it, that’s where story lives. That’s where creativity lives. That’s where your best ideas come from.

Let’s jump into our wise words segment and see what other writers have to say on this topic.

Anne Lamott, author of Bird by Bird, an incredible book on creativity that we’ve mentioned several times, says this:

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”

We love that. That’s exactly what we’re talking about. If we’re not working, if we’re not feeling creative, maybe we just need to unplug. Be bored for a little while. Let the mind reset.

Another one, from John Cleese. You might know him best from Monty Python, but he’s also a writer and a famously creative thinker. He says:

“To get into a creative state, you have to create a space for it. That means setting aside time and letting go of the need to be efficient.”

There is nothing efficient about being bored. Sitting and doing nothing is practically the definition of inefficiency. But that’s where creativity lives.

Here’s this week’s challenge, and I bet you already know what it’s going to be. Build boredom into your writing routine.

It doesn’t have to be long. Maybe just ten minutes a day of silence. No phone. No notebook. No podcast in the background.

Now don’t confuse this with meditation, which can also be a powerful writing tool. We’ve done an episode on that. But meditation is about quieting your mind and letting thoughts pass without holding onto them.

This is different. This is about letting your mind wander. Let it skip from thought to thought. Let it dig around in the dark places and see what’s lurking there.

Like anything else, you might need to practice this. Don’t expect the plot of your next novel to drop into your brain the first time you sit still. But trust this superpower: boredom. Relax into it and see what it delivers. Just be. Let your mind drift. Think about your characters, or don’t. Let ideas sneak up on you when they’re ready.

This is the opposite of hustle culture. It’s not about squeezing more output from your day. It’s about creating inner space so your best, most original ideas can surface.

Because stories aren’t made from content. They’re made from contemplation.

If you’re feeling unsure about where your work in progress is going, or if all the noise has made it hard to trust your gut, I’ve created something that might help. It’s called the Story Rescue Checklist. It’s a quick and powerful tool to help you step back, clear the clutter, and get a fresh look at your story’s direction.

It’s completely free, and it’s one more way to create that space where clarity can finally break through.

You don’t need more inspiration. We’ve all consumed enough stories to last a lifetime. What we need is more silence. More stillness. More beautiful, essential boredom.

You might find that it becomes the most important and most overlooked part of your writing process.

Thanks for spending some quiet time with me today. And if you’d like to reach out, I’d love to hear from you. You can email me at [email protected] with any comments or topic suggestions for future episodes.

Until next time, remember that the best way to improve as a writer is by writing.

And I encourage you, in addition to writing, let yourself get wonderfully, gloriously bored.

For more novel-writing insight, check out our comprehensive How to Write a Novel guide.

See you soon.

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

Should I keep writing even if I never get published?
The most important reason to keep writing, even without the promise of publication, is to honor your passion and creative voice. Writing from a place of truth and emotional necessity, not market pressure or platform-building, creates authentic stories that matter. The process itself is the art, and that alone gives it lasting value.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Why do you write? It’s a deceptively simple question that can unravel or resurrect your creative life. In this deeply personal episode, Brad Reed invites listeners into an honest exploration of the emotional and practical reasons that drive us to tell stories. From past failures turning passion into obligation to reclaiming joy in the writing process, this episode offers a powerful reframing of the writer’s journey.

Brad reflects on how writing can lose its spark when overshadowed by dreams of publishing and visibility, and how the truest stories are often the ones we write for no one but ourselves. He introduces the idea of “craft-based writing,” a mindset that prioritizes voice, honesty, and emotional resonance over formula and trends.

Key takeaways include:

This episode is a must-listen for any writer feeling stuck, burned out, or unsure why they’re writing at all. If you’re ready to rediscover the joy of storytelling and reconnect with your purpose, this episode will guide you back to your center.

Today, we’re exploring a question that a lot of writers don’t give enough thought to: Why do I write? Knowing the answer can change everything about your writing. Let’s dive in.

OK, so why do you write? I want you to actually attempt to answer that question right now. You can even pause the podcast for a few minutes if you need to and give it some thought. Why do you write?

All right, so hopefully you paused and took some time to think about that. You may have come up with some answers, like many other writers do: answers like to make some money and build a writing career, or maybe to process trauma, to feel power in a world where I don’t often feel powerful. Maybe to get followers and subscribers on social media. Maybe to just connect with somebody, even if that’s only imaginatively through your story.

A lot of writers say things like, Because I have to write. There’s something inside me that just drives me to write. I have to write. “To create beauty” is another reason writers often give. Maybe it’s to impress others or gain recognition; sometimes that’s a reason a little bit under the surface that we don’t really pay that much attention to, but it’s there. Maybe it’s to leave something behind in this world, to make your mark by leaving your writing, your thoughts behind. Maybe it’s to make sense of the chaos of this world, and there’s plenty of that to go around right now.

Maybe it’s to say what you couldn’t feel like you could say out loud. You can say it through writing. Maybe it’s just to prove to yourself that you could do it: I could write a book. Maybe your answer is, I don’t know. For a lot of writers, that actually is their answer: I’ve never really thought about it. I’m not sure I know why I write. Or maybe it’s a mix of a whole bunch of different things all mashed together that drives you to the keyboard or the pen.

So if you’re feeling bold, I would love for you to share your reason in the comments below. I’d love to see what your thoughts are there, what you came up with. That’s what we’re going to explore today: this big, overarching question: Why do I write? And we’re going to find out why the answer to that is so powerful in our writing lives.

I want to start with a little bit of a personal story about my previous life. I’ve done a whole bunch of different jobs in my life. As you may know, I’m a high school English teacher now, and a creative writing teacher, but it’s not what I always did. I went back to college in my 40s to do that. And before doing that, I had a whole bunch of different jobs and businesses that I tried.

So I’m going to take you all the way back to high school for this first little story. I was in love with music. I was learning to play the guitar, the piano, a little bit of drums.. I just loved making music, writing music, and especially performing it with other people. I started a little band in high school that was absolutely terrible. I started some other bands after high school that were actually pretty good, and we had a lot of fun. It brought me so much joy. I had so much passion for writing and making music, especially with other people. I loved it, and I was convinced: This is my life’s calling. This is what I want to do.

I was living in a small town at the time. I couldn’t exactly pick up and go to LA or New York, but I knew that I loved to record music as well. So I thought, I’m going to start a little recording studio here in my town. I invested a bunch of money in it. We rented a location for it. I ended up spending money remodeling it into a studio, put the site up, and started doing this as a business.

Boy, did I record some terrible music. Terrible artists. But they were willing to pay me. And what I noticed was that very quickly, my passion was gone. It was still fun sometimes to do it—I loved doing it—but that drive, that passion I had for it, started to go away pretty quickly. Suddenly I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for this artist, whose music I was only recording because they had money to pay me. I needed money. I had invested all this in the equipment.

Pretty quick, it started to just feel like a job.

That happened to me again. It’s happened a bunch of times in my life. The other one I want to talk about is not too long after high school. I was pretty young, right at the dawn of the internet, right when businesses were realizing, Oh, we probably should have some kind of website out there.

So I started playing around with website design and found it was really fun. It was almost like a new form of art that I could put out there for the whole world to see. Back then, putting something on the internet was a big deal. Businesses used to advertise that they had a website.

I loved that building of something new and being on the cutting edge. So of course, I took that love and enjoyment of just creating that content, and I started hiring it out. I started doing websites for anybody, any business that wanted one and could afford it. Started meeting with them, building out these websites, and pretty quickly I was not having fun anymore.

Because again, I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for them. I was doing it for the paycheck that came at the end of the project. That company didn’t last very long either, because I didn’t want to spend my life building websites for any random business that walked in.

A large part of what we’re going to talk about today is how turning passion into a job can rob us of the passion and joy we once felt. In both of those examples, music and web design, it started with joy and passion. But I turned it into an obligation, something beyond what I was interested in or enjoying.

Now, as I’ve been thinking back about my own writing journey, and even about this podcast, I can see that I’ve fallen into this trap many times. That same element is in play with writing right now, and I’ve been doing a lot of introspection on this.

Writing right now feels close to that same edge where the love and passion I have for it is starting to dissipate, because my perspective is in the wrong place. My answer to the question “Why am I writing?” is off. It’s become more about the end result and how I can get it out into the world than about the process of writing. And this podcast has felt the same way at times, too focused on listener stats, too focused on things like SEO, site ranking, and iTunes charts.

It’s really easy to fall into that as the focus. In fact, as I was thinking about this, I realized that in the past, when I’ve paused the podcast for extended periods, it was often because I had lost the joy. I had gotten my perspective off, and the passion left. And those were the times when I thought, Why do I do this? Why do I do this podcast?

I don’t know if that’s ever come through in the podcast, but I’m still really proud of the work we’ve done here at Inside Creative Writing. I’m excited about where we’re headed with it. But I can admit that at times, it has felt disconnected from what I really want to be teaching and talking about. Not that the content isn’t valuable or interesting, but sometimes my perspective has gotten out of whack.

So I’m doing something different today. I don’t know if you can tell. I have a directional microphone that’s supposed to weed out all the background noise, but if I had an omnidirectional mic, you’d probably hear seagulls. You might hear surfers walking by or car doors opening and closing, because I’m literally sitting here looking out at the ocean.

I’ve been doing a little introspective writing this morning. I have a journal next to me. I’ve been thinking through these thoughts, trying to get my perspective right. I really felt like I needed to shake things up. I didn’t want to just sit in my home studio trying to be professional. I wanted to get to the heart of what I’m doing.

The question I’ve been exploring is this: Why am I writing? Why am I podcasting? If I’m not doing it for a class, or a deadline, or an audience, why am I doing it?

What I’m realizing, and this won’t be news to anybody, is that modern writing culture, especially online culture, focuses on publishing, sales, and visibility above all else. It’s all about building a platform. It’s all about how do I get published? Or if you want to self-publish, it’s how do I market this book and get people to buy it?

Maybe it’s about market research, figuring out what kind of books are selling right now, or what agents are looking for. A lot of it’s about jumping on trends. What’s popular right now? How can we write something that fits the trend?

What I’m finding (and I’ve been victim to this too, which is why I’m doing all this introspection) is that when we make that the perspective, writing becomes about the outcomes. Even subconsciously, as we’re writing, we’re thinking about followers, fans, publishing deals, monetization. We’re thinking about how this content can “go somewhere.”

So writing becomes about the end goal, not the process. We turn writing into a job, just like I did with music, just like I did with web design. And at least with music and web design, I was making some decent money. Turning writing into a job, though, is, for the vast majority of us, a job that brings in $0.

Maybe you’ve figured out how to make a few bucks here and there, but for most people who write, we’re not making money. And yet, even with that, we’re not primarily writing for ourselves. We’re doing it for some future reward, some goal that, when you really think about it, is almost entirely out of our control.

How many times have we heard the stories of amazing writers, famous, well-respected writers, getting rejection after rejection after rejection? It almost feels like hitting the lottery when a book gets published. And in a lot of ways, it is. It’s about timing. It’s about finding the right agent looking for exactly what you’ve written, and it being ready enough to roll with.

That perspective causes a ton of pressure which is the last thing we need when trying to be creative. That pressure leads to abandoning drafts because they aren’t marketable. You’re halfway through a rough draft, but you think, There’s just not a market for this right now. Or, Who would want to read this? Even though you’re into it, you second guess whether an agent would even want it. So you quit.

It causes us to hold back on what we write, on what we say in our books, because we’re afraid of offending people. We’re picturing readers, family, agents. So we censor ourselves. We cut things. We avoid exploring interesting directions because it doesn’t fit the mold. It’s actually a major cause of writer’s block as well.

One of the worst effects of that pressure is the way it fuels inner self-talk. We chide ourselves if we miss a day, or a week, or God forbid, a month of writing. We start sounding like a terrible boss who knows exactly how to make us feel terrible. You’re not a real writer. What you’re writing is garbage.

That pressure makes us compare ourselves to other writers who are succeeding. Every time someone publishes a book, there’s that gut reaction: Should’ve been me.

But if we’re focused on the process, not the result, then it doesn’t really matter. So someone else got published. That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to write the best story I can write. I’m trying to write something that’s true to me.

That’s where the freedom is, when we realize the process matters more than the outcome.

That pressure makes us write out of fear, often convincing us that we’re wasting our time. That we’re not good enough to write what we’re working on. That our platform isn’t big enough, or that we don’t have enough followers on Twitter (I’m not calling it the other thing), or TikTok, or BlueSky so we’ll never get a publishing deal. So we start trying to write things that will energize a specific audience or attract followers.

And in doing so, we hand over our joy and creativity to something completely outside of our control. The online writing world is largely built on that view, that the ultimate goal should be publication and book sales.

Just look at the most popular writing resources online. They’re obsessed with that. The pitch is always: Come to us, take our course, and we’ll get you published. We’ll get you on the bestseller list.

Here’s the kicker, and this is really where I want to go today. I’m not saying publishing, sales, or visibility aren’t important. We create art because we want to share it with people. That’s part of it.

But here’s the problem: If you write with publishing, sales, and fame as your main goal, that almost never leads to writing that actually gets published or sells a bunch of copies or makes you famous. Because you end up writing stuff that isn’t true to who you are.

Now, do formulaic, unoriginal books get published? Do they make some money? Sure. But is that what you want from your writing? Is that how you’d answer the question Why do I write?

If your answer is, To write formulaic, unoriginal books that make money, there are easier ways to make a buck. Turning your art into a business and sucking the joy out of it? That’s not what most of us want.

I doubt that’s the reason you came up with when I asked that question at the start of this podcast. I bet your reason wasn’t: To turn my passion and joy into a business so I could make a buck and lose that joy along the way.

Now, if it is, if you’re like, No, seriously, I just want to write whatever will make me money, this probably isn’t the podcast for you. You’ll want one that’s laser-focused on publishing and platform building. That’s not us.

I’ve started countless novels over the years dreaming of commercial success, publishing contracts, imagining myself on a book tour, but I could never seem to finish them. I always ran out of gas. And even when I did finish them, I didn’t like them. I had written books that I didn’t even want to read.

It wasn’t until I decided to write the book I wanted to write, regardless of marketability, that everything changed. The book I released in the last couple of years, I knew it had very limited market potential.

It’s about a woman who loses her religious faith after a major natural disaster. Think about those two red flags: To write a book about losing faith, I had to start with a woman who was deeply religious. That turned off a lot of readers, and agents, who read the first chapter and assumed it was a Christian book. It’s not.

Then, it’s also about a major natural disaster. In today’s world, do we really need more disaster stories? Publishers didn’t think so. One even said, This isn’t the right time to be releasing a disaster novel. People want escapism, not more reminders of what could go wrong.

So how do you market a book like that?

I knew the challenges. But my passion for it, despite all the reasons not to write it, powered me through years of writing and revision. And it’s now the single piece of writing I’m most proud of. By miles. Because I loved that story. It came from my gut. I wanted to tell it, no matter how many copies it sold.

I’ve made a few hundred dollars from it, to be totally transparent. If I calculated the hourly rate, it’s probably $0.001 an hour. But if I could go back in time and do it again, knowing that, I would 100% do it again.

That story came from who I am. And now that it exists, it will always exist for whoever wants to read it. You can’t put a price on that.

Maybe someday it ends up in the hands of a movie producer or Oprah finds it in a used bookstore. That’s not going to happen. But if it did? Amazing.

Regardless, I have this story I’m proud of. One that I would read, had I not written it.

Isn’t that what we’re writing for? That feeling of I’m proud of this. I created something that never existed before.

That’s success.

I’m not saying that projects we’re passionate about can’t lead to commercial success. They absolutely can. In fact, it’s when we tap into our honesty and our passion that we have the best chance of writing stories that resonate with readers, and with agents and publishers. They’re still people, (until AI takes over everything, anyway!).

Let me give you an example of what I mean.

One of the writers who’s inspired me the most is Cheryl Strayed. If you don’t know her, she’s the author of Wild, which was later turned into a movie. She’s written several other books, but the piece that had the most impact on me as a writer wasn’t Wild.

It was an essay she wrote called The Love of My Life, published in The Sun magazine in 2002.

I’m not going to read Cheryl Strayed’s essay here—it’s a bit long, and it’s her work—but I want to tell you about it.

That essay blew me away. I had never read anything so raw and so honest. It felt like, well, I was going to say a confessional, but that’s not quite right. It’s a deeply personal piece about going through profound grief and how it completely derailed her life.

She reveals things in that essay that most people would never tell a soul, some of the most shameful things she’s done. And she doesn’t do it to shock the reader. She does it to be honest. To say, This is what grief can feel like.

It’s gripping, powerful, and real. I didn’t know writing like that existed. I didn’t know people did that.

When you first read it, and I imagine when she first wrote it, it wasn’t with the mindset of, Someone’s going to snap this up and pay me for it. That wasn’t the point.

You don’t walk away saying, Wow, she’s such a talented writer, even though she absolutely is. Instead, you walk away completely absorbed in her story, stunned by her vulnerability.

Writing like that, writing that comes from necessity, from an inner need to tell the story, is what creates emotional impact. It’s about honesty, not polish. It’s about truth, not marketability.

I was exposed to that essay in my very first creative writing class when I went back to college in my 40s. I was studying to be a teacher and took a creative writing class on the side because it sounded fun. That essay might have been the very first thing we were assigned to read, and it changed my world.

I sat there reading it, thinking, Oh my gosh. I didn’t know writing could be like this. I wanted to know how she did it. How did she make it so powerful, so engaging?

Now, you might read it and think, Yeah, that was fine. Maybe it just hit me at the exact right time in my own emotional journey. But I can’t overstate how deeply it affected me.

Her piece is nonfiction; it’s her real life. But I’m not saying every book has to be about your deepest, darkest secrets. You don’t have to reveal things you’d never tell anyone.

What I am saying is that even when you’re writing genre fiction (sci-fi, horror, completely made-up people in completely made-up worlds), you’re still striving for honesty, craft, and voice. You’re still telling stories that come from your guts. You’re still exploring difficult things.

Because that’s what connects with people, whether it’s in genre fiction or literary fiction.

And here’s the thing: those three elements—honesty, craft, and voice—are the first things we sacrifice when we start putting publication first.

Our honesty starts to disappear because we don’t want to offend anyone. We hold back. We play it safe.

Our craft starts to suffer because we stop pushing boundaries. We’re no longer experimenting or exploring; we’re just trying to follow a model.

And our voice? Our voice starts to fade. The one thing that’s truly unique to us, whether we’ve found it yet or not, it starts slipping away.

If you talk to any writer of truly great fiction, literary or genre, you’ll find that their stories come from deep in their guts. Not from a study of what agents want right now. Not from trend analysis. But from truth.

So in this podcast, I’m going to start calling this perspective “craft-based writing.”

Now, I’m not launching a system or selling a book on it; it’s just a way for me to frame things in my own head. To remind myself what this is about.

When I sit down to write or plan a podcast, I want to remind myself: This is about craft-based writing. It’s about learning to write what matters to us. To write without apology. To write without fear.

But it’s also about writing with care, with skill, with technique, because our stories deserve that. They’re worth telling well.

So this podcast is still going to focus on technique and process. But we’re going to let go of the outcome.

I always think in metaphors. So here’s one: I want you to imagine writing as a walk along the ocean shore. You’re stopping along the way to pick up rocks, to explore tide pools. Even if you’re a planner and you have your story mapped out, there’s still something magical about shifting your perspective, about finding joy in the process.

It’s like exploring the beach. You’re finding tiny, beautiful little things to bring into your story.

But when we’re focused mostly on the end goal, it feels more like a race. A sprint. You look down the beach and say, That outcropping right there is where I want to be. So you put your head down and just chug along through the thick sand.

And along the way? You miss the interesting rocks. You miss the crabs. You miss the octopus in the tide pool, which I actually found once, by the way, walking along the beach.

The process is about privacy. It’s just you, generating the story. That’s when the art is happening, before it ever becomes public. Before you even think about Does anyone care about this story?

If we’re writing from our guts, our emotions, our memories, those stories will resonate. None of it is wasted time.

Unless, of course, it doesn’t come from you.

That’s one of my biggest hangups. When I’m writing, and I’m deep in a project, I’ll get that voice in my head that says: You’re wasting your time on this story. Why are you even writing this?

Behind that voice is the perspective that writing only matters if it gets published. That it’s only worth something if a ton of people read it. Or if it makes money.

But that’s a lie.

Art (creating art and writing is art) is about the process. That is the art. That’s where the joy and the passion live.

Now, if it becomes something more, if it finds commercial success? That’s awesome. And let’s be real: many writers have written many, many books before they had one that really connected.

So none of it is wasted. All of it is practice. All of it is making us better.

You may feel a slight shift in this podcast going forward. It’s not going to be a dramatic change. I’ve been looking back through the older episodes as I re-upload and reformat them for the 2020s, and I’m really proud of what’s already there. I think it aligns well with this perspective.

But going forward, we’re not going to be talking about getting published. We’re not going to talk about building platforms. We never really have. But now I want to intentionally focus more on the process of writing.

On discovering stories that are meaningful to us. And learning how to honor those stories by getting them on the page in the best way we can.

Because I believe this: if we do that, the end goal will take care of itself, if it was meant to.

“Writing that brings you back to yourself.” That’s the phrase that’s been rolling around in my head lately.

You know, every writer I’ve interviewed on this podcast, I’ve asked them the same question at the end of the interview:

If you could go back in time and talk to the version of yourself before you had any writing success, what would you say to them?

And as I’ve listened back to those interviews, none of them—not one—has ever said anything about getting published or building a platform. None of them said, I wish I had spent more time figuring out what agents wanted at the time.

What do they say instead?

They say things like:

That’s what matters to writers who’ve “made it.” That’s what they would go back and tell themselves.

Today’s “Wise Words” segment is short but powerful. It comes from Toni Morrison’s Beloved:

“You are your best thing.”

Oh my gosh, I get chills just saying that simple little five-word sentence: You are your best thing. I’m going to print that out and stick it on my computer where I can see it every day when I sit down to write or podcast, or do anything else.

Because we’re full of second-guessing. Full of that internal voice that says, You’re not good enough. Someone else is way better than you. What are you even doing?

But here’s the truth: You are your best thing. And that’s absolutely true.

Nobody can write the stories that you will write. Even if you gave someone your idea, your entire plot, your characters, your outline, they would write a completely different book. Because it wouldn’t be from you.

There’s no way anyone else can write like you write. That’s the thing about writing. Thirty thousand, fifty thousand, eighty thousand words, your voice is the only one like it.

So here’s your writing challenge this week:

Write something that doesn’t go anywhere. And I don’t mean plot-wise. I mean something that doesn’t go anywhere outside yourself. Something no one else will read.

Write it only for you.

If you’re not sure where to start, consider writing about something shameful, something you’d never want anyone to know. Write it either autobiographically, telling your real story, or give it to a fictional character and have them walk through it.

It doesn’t have to be long. It could be a paragraph or two. Or maybe it takes off and you spend a lot of time with it.

But here’s the key: Write it with the intention that no one will ever see it. Even if it’s the best writing you’ve ever done, don’t show it to anyone.

Just let it exist for you.

Then, respect it enough to not turn it into content. Don’t fold it into a book. Don’t post it online. Let it remain a piece of writing that is purely yours.

And afterward, I’d love for you to share—not what you wrote—but how the experience felt. How did it feel to do that kind of writing?

You can share your thoughts in the comments below.

Before we go, I want to remind you about a free resource I’m really proud of; it’s called the Story Rescue Checklist.

This is for anyone writing a story, whether you’re on chapter one or finishing up, but feeling like something’s off. That nagging feeling that says, This isn’t working. It’s not what I wanted it to be.

The Story Rescue Checklist helps you look at your story from a bunch of different angles. It helps you figure out what’s not working and how to get things back on track.

You can grab it at:
insidecreativewriting.com/src
That’s SRC for “Story Rescue Checklist.”

Until next time, remember: the best way to improve as a writer is by writing. Getting those words on the page. I hope that’s what you’re up to at some point today.

That’s what I’m going to try to do, right after I post a little note on my computer that says: You are your best thing.

So go be your best thing.

And I can’t wait to see you on the next episode.

Explore our full How to Write a Novel guide here!

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

What is reading like a writer?
To read like a writer means looking past the story to study how it was built. After the first read for pleasure, you revisit the text to examine structure, pacing, dialogue, and emotional beats. It’s about learning how great writing works so you can use those tools in your own.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Great writing can feel like magic. In this engaging and practical episode, Brad Reed breaks down exactly how to read like a writer so you can start uncovering the techniques hidden beneath the surface of great stories. Whether you’re working on your first draft or stuck in revision, learning to read like a writer can transform how you approach your work.

Key takeaways include:

You’ll also hear about Brad’s favorite books for studying craft and how he uses them to solve real writing problems. Whether you’re looking to deepen your prose or get unstuck in your current project, this episode is a practical guide to improving your writing through intentional, curious reading.

Check out the full episode, and if you’re ready to go deeper, visit the How to Write a Novel page for more resources and writing challenges.

Today we’re talking about an essential skill for any writer: the ability to read like a writer. And to help explain how that works, we’re going to use magicians as our working metaphor. So let’s dive in.

When I was a kid—maybe eight or nine years old—I remember going to the county fair and seeing a magician on stage. It’s one of the earliest memories I have of watching someone attempt a magic trick. I don’t even know if he was good or not, but I remember being blown away by what this person could do.

That’s the metaphor I want to use today as we talk about how to read like a writer. So let’s build it out a little.

If I had wanted to become a magician at that moment, inspired by what I saw, what would I have actually learned just by watching him perform? Well, almost nothing. Especially at eight or nine years old. I might’ve picked up a little about stage presence or how a magician dresses, but not much more than that. There’s no way I could’ve turned around and performed those tricks myself.

Have you ever finished a book and thought, “Holy cow, that was incredible—and I have no idea how the author pulled it off”? That’s what great writing can feel like. It’s like watching a magician and having no clue how the illusion was done.

As writers, we often come across books that inspire us like that, and we think, “I want to figure out how they did this.” But if we approach that book the way I approached the magician as a kid—just sitting in awe—we won’t learn very much. That’s the paradox of trying to read like a writer.

Great writing is invisible on the first read. Just like a good magician hides all the sleight of hand and behind-the-scenes tricks, a skilled writer hides the techniques that make a story work. You’re not supposed to notice the structure or the craft on that first read. You’re supposed to get pulled in, to forget you’re even sitting in a chair in the real world. That’s what good writing does.

If a book is poorly written, it’s easier to see the structure and the flaws. But today we’re focusing on how to study great writing.

The first rule of reading like a writer is that you don’t read the book just once. It’s something you return to again and again with new questions, new curiosities, and new goals.

I have three books that I come back to constantly. There are others I read like a writer, but these three are the ones I pull apart, ask questions about, and even rewrite sections from to figure out how the author made the magic happen.

Just like the best way to become a magician is to take apart the illusions you admire and maybe adapt them with your own style, the best way to learn storytelling is by studying the books that first swept you away—and then picking them apart.

When I first started doing this, I worried that studying a book too closely would kill the magic. You’ve probably seen behind-the-scenes videos about how magic tricks are done—and afterward, they’re just not as magical anymore.

But with writing, I found the opposite to be true. The deeper I dig into a great book, the more I admire the creativity, voice, and ingenuity of the author. Instead of ruining the magic, it deepens my appreciation for it.

So unlike magic tricks, which lose their power when exposed, the magic in writing gets stronger the more you study it.

Once you’ve chosen a book that felt magical when you first read it, your job on that first reread is simple: just read it for pleasure. Don’t analyze. Don’t study. Don’t think like a writer.

But—buy a physical copy you can destroy.

This is my most controversial opinion, and I know some of you will be horrified: books are not sacred. They are consumables. Especially paperbacks. They’re meant to be read, underlined, dog-eared, and even torn apart if needed. And if you destroy one, there’s always another copy out there.

In my creative writing class, we do found poems using ripped-out book pages from library discards that were headed for recycling anyway. Some students are horrified by the idea of tearing up a book. I get it—but for the purposes of learning, the physical book needs to become a tool, not a treasure.

So on this first read, mark things that hit you emotionally. Highlight lines that stand out. Use sticky notes or highlighters to mark anything that makes you pause or smile or cry or laugh.

You’re not analyzing it yet—you’re just marking the spots that made you feel something.

Now you’ve finished your first read. You’ve highlighted, underlined, and left sticky notes all over the place. That book is officially destroyed. Perfect.

The second read is where you start reading like a writer. This is where you approach the book with curiosity—just like that 8- or 9-year-old kid watching the magician and wondering, “How did they do that?”

Revisit all those highlighted sections and try to reverse-engineer what the author was doing. Your job is to figure out what’s happening behind the scenes. The big word to keep in mind is curiosity.

As you go through the book again, pay attention to the beats in each scene. If that’s a new term for you, a “beat” is a moment of subtle change: an emotion shifts, a realization occurs, something small (or big, like an inciting incident) happens. Think of beats as the heartbeat of your story.

Without beats, the story flatlines. There’s no life in it. Even the smallest shift—like a character going from suspicion to anger—keeps the scene alive.

Look for:

You’re identifying how the author builds tension, leaves mysteries, or reveals character through subtext. How are they moving the reader from one scene to the next? What tricks are they using to make it impossible to put the book down?

As you reverse-engineer scenes, ask yourself:

Let your curiosity guide which of these questions you explore. Your focus may shift depending on what you’re currently working on in your own writing.

If a scene made you tense, excited, or afraid, look at how it was structured. Are the sentences shorter? Is the language tighter? These techniques are often hiding in plain sight.

One read won’t be enough. Some moments you’ll skim. Others you’ll study again and again. The book becomes a touchstone—something you’ll revisit for years with new questions.

When I was writing Crossing Cascadia, I returned to my core books constantly. Not to copy them, but to see how other writers tackled the exact problems I was facing:

I learned different things every time I returned.

We’ve talked a lot about learning from great books, but there’s also real value in studying awful books.

Bad writing teaches us what not to do—and often it’s much easier to see why something doesn’t work. When a book falls flat, ask:

My favorite “bad” book to study is Fifty Shades of Grey. Seriously. It’s not well written (in my opinion), but that makes the flaws really obvious. I learned a ton from it—not what to do, but what to avoid. And somehow, it was massively successful, which makes it even more fascinating to break apart.

If the ending of a bad book felt unsatisfying, ask why. Was it the stakes? Was the protagonist too passive? This kind of curiosity can teach you as much as studying literary masterpieces.

So far, we’ve focused on books—but storytelling exists in many forms, and reading like a writer doesn’t have to stop with novels. Great writers pull techniques from everywhere: screenplays, movies, plays, even news stories.

Alan Heathcock, in a previous episode, talked about how good writers are always writers. They’re always learning. They’re always stealing—not plagiarizing, but absorbing techniques from all kinds of storytelling.

One of his best pieces of advice? Watch a scene from a movie you love and then write it out as if it’s part of a novel. Try to capture the mood, the pacing, the subtext. It’s a lot of work, but you’ll be amazed at how much you learn.

Another piece of advice I picked up—though I can’t remember where—is to rewrite an entire screenplay or novel word for word. Literally.

I did this with the screenplay for Wild, based on Cheryl Strayed’s memoir. I bought a copy of the script, sat down, and typed the entire thing into a document, word for word.

It sounds ridiculous. But what I gained from it was incredible:

I could almost step into the writer’s head and experience their choices. And yes, now I can technically claim I’ve written the screenplay for Wild—not originally, of course, but word for word.

If that sounds extreme, it is. But sometimes we need to do the things other writers aren’t willing to do to grow our craft.

Let’s wrap up with a few hands-on exercises that can help sharpen your skills as you continue reading like a writer:

1. Reverse Engineer a Scene
Pick a powerful scene from a book you love and break it down beat by beat. What changes in each moment? How does the author build tension? What do we learn about the characters?

I did this with The Grapes of Wrath, marking every emotional and action shift throughout the book, even mapping it chapter by chapter to understand how Steinbeck structured it.

A great place to start? Chapter one of The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins immerses readers almost instantly—try unpacking how she does it.

2. Rewrite a Scene from a Film or TV Show
Take a favorite scene from a movie or show—maybe Breaking Bad, maybe The Lord of the Rings—and write it as if it were a novel. Try to capture the mood and emotion of the scene, but also use all five senses. Film is visual and auditory. Fiction lets you go deeper.

3. Keep a Reading Journal
Even if you’re reading purely for pleasure, take a few minutes after each book to reflect:

Over time, you’ll notice patterns. You’ll discover your personal beliefs about writing and your unique voice. That was one of the most surprising things for me when I started writing—that I even had a voice. But journaling helped me find it.

Before we get to this week’s writing challenge, I want to leave you with a couple of powerful quotes about the importance of reading like a writer.

Stephen King famously said:

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”

I agree with this almost entirely—but I’d add one thought. I don’t buy it when aspiring writers say, “I just don’t have the time to write.” I think we all have the time; we just have to choose how we use it.

And the same goes for reading. If you’re struggling to find the time to read, check out my earlier podcast episodes about finding time and finding a place to write. Those tips apply to reading, too.

William Faulkner offered another gem:

“Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad—and see how they do it.”

Absolutely. You won’t become a good magician without watching other magicians. And you won’t become a good writer unless you’re constantly reading—and learning.

This week’s challenge is simple, but powerful:

Choose at least three books that you’re going to study like your writing life depends on it.

These books may change over time, but be intentional. They don’t have to be award winners or bestsellers—though they can be. They don’t even have to be popular. But they do need to be books that felt magical to you on the first read. Books that made you say, “If I could only write like that…”

Here are my current three:

You might notice all three are road stories. That’s no accident—I consider myself a road story writer. There’s something about that structure and energy that resonates deeply with me.

So what are your books? I’d love it if you shared your list with me and with other listeners. Leave a comment below or send me an email directly at [email protected].

While you’re here, make sure to download your copy of the Story Rescue Checklist—a resource I put together for those moments when you feel stuck or uncertain in your writing. It’s packed with ways to look at your story from different angles and get unstuck.

As we wrap up, remember this: reading critically makes you a better writer. But it takes multiple passes to really understand how a book works.

We’re like magicians, studying every angle of the trick. Taking things apart. Asking how. Until one day, our readers are the ones leaning back and saying, “Wow. I have no idea how they did that.”

Until next week, remember:
The best way to improve as a writer is by writing.
I hope you get some words on the page this week—I know I’ll be doing the same.

Or maybe—just maybe—I’ll give The Grapes of Wrath another read, and let Steinbeck teach me another trick or two.

Have a great week.

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a resource video —

Can a Scene Generator AI Help Me Write Better Scenes?
Yes, but not by replacing your creativity. Instead, it serves as a powerful tool to show you what’s been done before by thousands of other writers. Use it as a way to avoid clichés, overdone tropes, and overly familiar writing that your readers have seen before.

I’ve recently been exploring the role AI could play in creative writing, particularly in scene description, and decided to put a scene generation AI to the test. We go deeper in the video above, so I recommend you watch it.

This video is a companion resource to the a podcast episode called Should I Use AI to Write My Novel? that goes into the topic even deeper.

Can a scene generator AI produce quality, original prose? Or is its output just an average of what’s already out there?

To find out, I set a simple challenge: I asked AI to write a description of a post office from the perspective of a character standing in line. The goal wasn’t just to accept whatever the AI delivered but to critically examine it, find what’s worth using, and identify what isn’t.

Here’s what the AI came up with:

“The post office smells like paper dust and the faintest hint of stale coffee, like someone spilled a cup years ago and the scent never quite left. The line moves at a pace that suggests time itself slows down here, each person ahead shuffling forward in reluctant inches. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like an annoyed insect. A woman near the front argues with the clerk about the price of a flat rate box, while a man two spots ahead shifts from foot to foot, sighing dramatically. The walls are lined with notices—one warning against mail fraud, another boasting about the efficiency of Priority Mail, though the bored-looking employees behind the counter seem to suggest otherwise. Somewhere behind me, a toddler whines. A woman taps her nails against her package in a steady, impatient rhythm. The person directly in front of me smells strongly of peppermint and wool, their coat shedding little gray fibers onto the tiled floor. I check my watch. Five minutes have passed; it feels like fifty.”

At first glance, the description looks solid. Impressive, even. It engages multiple senses and provides specific details. But upon closer inspection, it reveals a major flaw:

It’s completely average.

Everything described is exactly what you’d expect from any generic post office. There’s nothing unique or surprising here, nothing that truly makes the scene come alive. This highlights a fundamental weakness of AI-generated prose: it’s excellent at delivering what’s typical but struggles to deliver something original or memorable.

So, instead of simply using this description, I decided to use it as a starting point, illustrating how writers can harness AI-generated text to pinpoint precisely what not to do and brainstorm original ideas that stand out.

Great writing uses “defamiliarization,” a technique that makes familiar things appear fresh and engaging. AI, by its nature, does the opposite. It aggregates and averages previous descriptions, giving us exactly what’s familiar, safe, and expected.

To write memorable scenes, we need to push beyond this. Let’s try it with the opening line from the AI:

“The post office smells like paper dust and the faintest hint of stale coffee.”

This is predictable. But what if we reverse this expectation? Instead, perhaps the post office today smells like a bakery. Maybe the employees are having a potluck, and the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafts through the air. Immediately, this reversal offers potential for character insight. Does our protagonist find the unexpected scent delightful or irritating?

Another AI-generated sentence:

“The line moves at a pace that suggests time itself slows down here.”

What if, instead of being painfully slow, the line moves unusually fast due to an incredibly efficient, drill-sergeant-like clerk barking orders at customers? This unexpected detail can deepen our understanding of the character: Do they appreciate efficiency, or does this brusqueness make them uncomfortable?

AI often falls into clichés, such as:

“A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like an annoyed insect.”

While this is vivid, it’s also unoriginal. A better option is to seek a new metaphor or simile that surprises readers or to omit it entirely if it doesn’t add meaning.

AI’s descriptive details, such as bored employees or sighing customers, are universally familiar and thus unnecessary unless they’re deeply relevant to your story or character. Instead, pick one unique detail. (perhaps the postal worker sings joyfully behind the counter?) and leverage it to provide insight about the character (do they love it or loathe it?).

Curious to see if AI could improve, I asked it:

“Make this original in a way that nobody else has ever heard or written before.”

The AI responded with a description filled with poetic attempts and dramatic language. But here’s the catch: AI can’t create original content; it can only remix existing writing. While it might sound fresh at first glance, it’s still just a composite of what’s already been done. It’ll tell you that it’s new and creative and original, but all it can do is rehash others’ ideas, even if you ask it to do more.

While AI isn’t going to replace your creative judgment, it can still serve as a useful partner to get you started, but not in the way most people are using it. It provides examples of what not to do, which can lead you to some interesting and creative places. Use AI to generate ideas quickly, then challenge yourself to reverse, modify, and defamiliarize those ideas to produce something original.

Ultimately, great writing happens when we push beyond what’s typical and expected. AI can give you a start, but only your creative judgment and intuition can deliver truly memorable scenes.

(Note: I used OpenAI’s ChatGPT 4o as the AI generator in this exercise.)

Have you experimented with using AI in your writing process? I’d love to hear about your experience!

If you’re looking for more writing tools for writing your novel, don’t miss our Creative Writing Tools resource and the recommended links below!

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

Can AI help you write a novel?
AI can assist with structuring ideas, tracking details, and refining prose, but it lacks true creativity, emotional depth, and narrative instincts. Writers should use AI as a tool for support rather than a replacement for human storytelling.

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

AI is transforming many industries, but should it play a role in writing fiction? In this episode, we explore whether AI can truly help novelists or if it’s just an overhyped tool that dilutes creativity. AI for writers is marketed as a game-changer, but does it generate original ideas, structure compelling narratives, or simply remix what already exists? Is it the new answer for how to write a novel, or a distraction from the real work?

Join us as we break down:

Don’t miss the companion video to this podcast, a Real-Time Revision Video where we walk through an actual AI-written scene and learn how to use it to inspire something with human intelligence.

While AI can be a useful tool, the real magic of storytelling comes from human insight, intuition, and emotional depth—things no algorithm can replicate. Listen to the full episode to learn how to make AI work for you without letting it take over your story.

Want to go deeper? Check out our free resource, The Story Rescue Checklist, to make sure your novel is on the right track.

What does Michael Scott from The Office and artificial intelligence have in common? It’s likely a lot more than you think. If you’ve been wondering if AI can help you write a better novel, today’s show is for you.

So, AI in writing—is it a helpful tool, or is it a killer of creativity? We’re breaking that down today, including some really unexpected ways that AI can ethically help you be a better writer.

I consider myself an early adopter of a lot of technologies. Right now, as I sit here, I see a VR headset lying near me that I’ve used. I was one of the first people to buy one. I love new technology. So, when AI hit the scene, I was all about it. I wanted to figure out what in the world this thing was, get my hands dirty, and figure out how to use it.

I’ve been using it for a couple of years now for my day job—a lot, actually—and I’ve experimented with it as a creative writing tool as well. Now, I know some of you—your hackles are already a little bit up because we have very passionate feelings about AI and its place in the creative arts, especially.

I’m not the world-renowned expert on AI, but I do think I come to the table with a lot of real-world experience that can help us have a discussion about AI in writing. It’s not black or white. It’s here to stay—for good or bad, it’s part of our world—so we need to get our hands around it, our minds around it, and figure it out.

I’m not really going to talk about the ethical issues with it today—there are certainly a lot of those. I’m sure we’ll get into them in future episodes. But I want to begin with what the heck is this thing?

We need to understand that at its heart, AI is just another computer program running zeros and ones. Now, I hesitate to say just another one because, obviously, it’s fundamentally and foundationally different, but at its core, it is a computer program.

But when it hit the public—when it hit the knowledge of people at large—it came on the scene as almost like magic. And that’s what it felt like to sit down and use it those first few times.

I remember the first thing I did with AI—I had it write a poem. I said, “Write a poem about a beaver that fell in love with a spoon.” And it did it. It just spit out this poem that rhymed, and the structure was there, and I thought, “Oh my gosh, this is like magic!”

That’s how it’s been treated over the past couple of years—it’s like we’re sprinkling this little AI magic on everything, assuming it’s going to make everything better. And a lot of writers—people in the creative culture—have started sprinkling this AI magic on their writing. That has left us dealing with the ethical and moral implications of what that means.

Since its release, AI has wormed its way into almost everything. The other day, I saw an AI toothbrush. Apparently, it tracks your brushing motions, how long you’re brushing, the pressure you’re using, and it runs it through its AI and spits out all this information on how you can brush your teeth better.

Do we need that? Maybe. Maybe you’re very passionate about correctly brushing your teeth. But personally, I don’t think my teeth need anything to do with AI—certainly not with the toothbrush.

I think, as a culture, we’re starting to realize that the magic of this thing is really a lot about marketing. Even the name artificial intelligence is a marketing ploy. It isn’t intelligence—it’s certainly artificial, though.

In reality, it’s mostly a marketing ploy, or at least we see it mostly as a marketing ploy being applied to all sorts of products out there. But does it have a place in our writing lives? Because it is super, super powerful.

If it’s not magic, then what is AI really doing? Let’s make this as basic as possible. AI is not a thinking machine—it’s a predicting machine.

If I could wave my magic wand (not an AI version of one) and change the name of artificial intelligence, I think we should call it something like a super predictor or a prediction machine. Because, at the end of the day, that’s what it does—it predicts what the next word should be based on the words that came before. It’s as simple as that.

In cases where it can’t predict something, it just randomizes. I was playing with it in preparation for this podcast, throwing out some story ideas, and I put in: Write a story about an animal who takes on a human job.

There’s no way to predict what the correct answer to that would be, so it just randomizes. One time, it gave me Barry the Bear, who wanted to be a truck driver. The next time, it was Fred the Firefighter.

It loved alliteration for some reason—every name it came up with was an alliteration with the job.

So at its heart, AI is a prediction machine that also randomizes. In fact, it really helps to understand where this came from—it didn’t come out of the blue. It actually evolved from something we already had: autocomplete.

It started with that basic little function on our phones—when we’d type a text and it would pop up with, “Ooh, I think the next word you want is this.” That is the core of AI. That’s really all it is—it’s kind of a supercharged autocomplete.

It looks at patterns, it looks at context, and it tries to guess the most likely word to come next. That’s really important to keep in mind when we start using AI, because it feels like magic. It’s so good at predicting that it can fool us into thinking there’s more going on behind the scenes.

But there’s not.

AI is excellent at mimicking structure, but it lacks anything like true creativity. It can simulate creativity, and we’ll get into that later, but why does it feel so convincing?

If you’ve ever spent time working with AI—having it write things for you—it’s hard not to be astounded by what it can do. Why does it feel so powerful?

The biggest reason: AI is the first tool that can generate coherent, polished-sounding prose instantly.

And something about the ability to put together polished-sounding sentences gives it credibility. It makes us assign it more authority than it actually has. Because it sounds so smart. Most of the time. It makes errors, of course, but overall, it sounds smart.

But that’s not the same as good writing.

Coherent, polished prose isn’t what makes writing good.

Alright, so I have given my AI a name. I call mine Michael Scott.

If you’re a fan of The Office—the American version—you know exactly who Michael Scott is. And I did this because every time I sit down to use AI, I want to remember what it actually is and what it’s doing.

So in my mind—this is going to sound a little out there, but follow me—AI is like Michael Scott. I literally picture his face on my computer screen when I interact with AI.

Here’s why:

So I keep these things in mind every time I use AI. Because I remember—I’m not working with an actual person. I’m working with something that wants to impress me, even if that means lying, overwriting, or giving me nonsense.

This helps tame that magic feeling AI gives off. It stops me from just blindly accepting whatever it spits out.

Now that we’ve talked about how AI is like Michael Scott, let’s talk about the worst ways writers are using AI.

These are the three biggest misuses of AI:

AI may be excellent at constructing language, but it has no ability to work like a human mind does while reading or writing. Writing is an act of human individuality. Every writer comes to a story with their own beliefs, backgrounds, experiences, connotations between words, and personal connections to events in their lives. AI has none of that.

Reading is also a deeply personal act. Readers bring their own emotions, interpretations, and lived experiences to a book, creating a unique connection between themselves and the story. Writing and reading are conversations between the writer and the reader—an inherently human exchange.

A computer program, regardless of how advanced, can mimic that exchange. But it can never truly achieve it.

And that’s the real magic of storytelling—the connection between the writer and the reader. No computer will ever be able to replicate that.

Now, before you assume I’m completely anti-AI, let’s talk about where AI can be useful for writers.

I’m not here to say AI is all bad. I know I’m going to get emails from people saying, Any use of AI is unethical! And I get it. I may end up agreeing with you one day. But I’m not quite there yet.

These are the reasons I still use AI in a very limited way:

Let’s put this idea to the test with a writing challenge.

Check out this video to watch us do this writing challenge in real-time.

Then ask yourself:

What you’ll likely find is that AI’s description is competent, but it’s also generic. It won’t give you anything that feels fresh or unexpected.

That’s where you come in.

Let’s be real—what’s the point of using AI to write most (or all) of your book?

I don’t see the point.

The best-case scenario? Maybe you get it published. But honestly, I don’t think AI-written books will ever be good enough for serious publication. Some will get through, sure. But AI writing is technically fine—it has the right commas and the right structure—but it lacks the human touch that makes stories compelling.

The other reason someone might use AI is just to have a book with their name on it. And to that, I say: So what?

It’s like going out and buying a completed LEGO set, putting it on your shelf, and saying, I built that.

You didn’t.

If you have the skill to write AI prompts so good that it produces a compelling novel, then why aren’t you just writing the book yourself?

The best stories come from life experience. They come from intent. They come from symbolism, subtext, theme, and individual voice. AI can’t replicate any of that.

Writing is about tiny decisions. It’s about instincts. AI doesn’t have instincts.

AI doesn’t know when to linger on a moment or when to speed things up for dramatic effect. It doesn’t feel the story the way you do.

So, can AI write a book? Yes.
Can you use AI to generate a book and slap your name on the spine? Yes.

But have you created art?

Have you made something that will move people?

Will your story cause someone to see the world differently?

No way.

As we close, let’s get back to our tradition of wise words.

This one comes from Ray Bradbury:

“Your intuition knows what to write. So get out of the way.”

AI doesn’t have intuition. It doesn’t know what to write. It just predicts what might come next.

The real magic of storytelling comes from human emotion and human perspective. AI will never be able to replicate that.

At the end of the day, AI is a tool—not a replacement for human creativity. It can assist with brainstorming, organizing, or editing, but it cannot replace the heart of storytelling.

The only thing necessary for writing is a pencil and some light. Everything else is a luxury.

So, have you experimented with AI in your writing? I’d love to hear where you agree, where you disagree, or how you’re using it.

You can leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you! If you have a question, a comment, a suggestion, or just want to tell us about your work-in-progress, give us a shout!
[email protected]

— a podcast episode —

Helping writers craft authentic, immersive stories.
Find out more about us here.

Inside Creative Writing

Struggling to write? You’re not alone. Resistance is one of the biggest obstacles writers face, keeping them from making progress on their stories. In this episode of Inside Creative Writing, we break down what resistance looks like, why it happens, and—most importantly—how to push through it and get words on the page.

Listen to the full episode or skim the edited transcript with relevant links below. At Inside Creative Writing, we don’t just teach theory—we focus on practical, hands-on storytelling techniques that help you get real words on the page.

Resistance to writing is something every writer faces, but it often doesn’t show up in obvious ways. Instead, it disguises itself as productivity—outlining endlessly, researching, or tweaking sentences without making real progress. We convince ourselves that these activities are necessary when, in reality, they are just sophisticated ways of avoiding the hard work of getting words on the page.

Writing resistance is particularly insidious because it tricks us into feeling like we are accomplishing something. Have you ever spent hours reorganizing your workspace, color-coding your notes, or refining your story idea without actually writing? That’s resistance at work. It’s a powerful force that finds ways to derail our writing, often under the guise of making our work better.

One of the most common forms of writing resistance is the belief that we need the perfect conditions to write. We tell ourselves that we need a quiet space, a long stretch of uninterrupted time, or the perfect inspiration. But if we wait for those ideal conditions, we may never write at all.

Another sneaky form of resistance is what I call “preparation overload.” This happens when we convince ourselves that we need just a little more research, just one more book on craft, or just the right software before we can start. While preparation is important, it can quickly become an excuse for not actually writing.

Have you ever spent an entire writing session agonizing over a single paragraph, tweaking and revising until it’s just right? That might feel like writing, but often it’s resistance in disguise. First drafts are meant to be messy. The more we tinker too early in the process, the more we let resistance slow us down.

Another way writing resistance appears is through “busy work.” We convince ourselves that redesigning our writing website, updating our social media, or reading another book on writing is just as valuable as writing itself. While these tasks may have their place, they should never replace actual writing time.

The best way to beat resistance is to write anyway—despite the distractions, doubts, and excuses. One powerful technique is setting a timer for a short, focused session and committing to writing without stopping. Even if you only write a few sentences, you are actively pushing through resistance.

Another helpful strategy is setting process-based goals rather than outcome-based ones. Instead of aiming to write a perfect chapter, commit to writing for a set amount of time or reaching a specific word count. This shifts the focus from perfection to progress.

Accountability also plays a huge role in overcoming writing resistance. Joining a writing group, setting up check-ins with a friend, or even publicly committing to your goals can help keep resistance at bay. The more external support you have, the harder it is for resistance to take control.

More information on overcoming writer’s block can be found in our podcast episode “What to Do If You Have Writer’s Block: 3 Ways to Get Unstuck” and in this informative Psychology Today article from Dr. Barton Goldsmith.

This week’s wise words come from Steven Pressfield, who famously wrote about resistance in The War of Art:

“Resistance will tell you anything to keep you from doing your work. It will perjure, fabricate; it will seduce, bully, cajole. Resistance will assume any form, if that’s what it takes to deceive you. It will reason with you like a lawyer or jam a nine-millimeter in your face like a stickup man. Resistance will pledge anything to get a deal, then double-cross you as soon as your back is turned. If you take resistance at its word, you deserve everything you get. Resistance will not be reasoned with. It is always lying and always full of shit.”

Powerful words. Resistance is a liar, and the only way to defeat it is to recognize it for what it is and refuse to let it control your writing. For more on Stephen Pressfield and War of Art, check out this great article from Psychology Today.

This week’s challenge is to identify your biggest source of writing resistance and confront it head-on. Ask yourself: What excuses do I make that keep me from writing? Is it the need for perfect conditions? The pull of busy work? The endless cycle of revision?

Once you’ve identified your main resistance trap, commit to a small but meaningful action that directly counters it. If you wait for the perfect time to write, commit to writing in imperfect conditions. If you over-research, set a strict limit on how much preparation you do before drafting. The goal is to take action, however small, and prove to yourself that writing resistance doesn’t have to win.

Let’s break through resistance together. Happy writing!

The best way to overcome writing resistance is to build momentum, and structure is a key part of that process. If you’re struggling to start (or finish) your novel, check out our How to Write a Novel guide. It’s designed to help you stay motivated, organized, and on track—all without stifling your creativity.