Stop introducing your characters. Readers don’t want a list of traits—they want the pleasure of discovering who someone is through action, dialogue, and the little details that make a story feel real. Trust your readers to connect the dots, and your fiction will become stronger, faster, and far more engaging.
Some of the most memorable people in our lives were never the main characters. The same is true in fiction. If your supporting characters exist only to deliver information or move the plot along, your story misses an opportunity to create a richer, more believable world. Every character should feel like they have a life beyond the page.
Why does Stand By Me still hit forty years later when so many stories vanish almost as soon as the credits roll? Because it isn’t built on spectacle or plot twists. It’s built on emotional truth. Four boys, one long walk, and a story that trusts us to care about the people more than the destination. That’s a rare thing. And maybe that’s why it still works.
Setting isn’t wallpaper. It’s the emotional engine under every scene you write. A confession uttered beneath stained-glass saints is a completely different moment than one whispered in the soft half-light of a bedroom — same words, wildly different meaning. If a scene feels limp, nine times out of ten the setting is the culprit. Make the room work just as hard as the characters, and suddenly the whole story sharpens.
Writers love to worry about swearing — usually more than their characters do. The truth? Profanity isn’t “good” or “bad.” It’s a tool. A sharp one. Used well, it cuts cleanly through tension, reveals character, or snaps a moment into focus. Used poorly, it just bleeds all over the page.
In this post, Mark breaks down when swearing works, when it absolutely doesn’t, how genre affects your choices, and why every curse word has to be earned. If your characters are going to swear, make sure they mean it.
Writers love to add more scenes, more twists, more explosions… but half the time the real problem is simpler: we don’t actually know what the story is about.
Once you can answer three deceptively basic questions — What’s it about? What will the protagonist learn? How will they change? — the whole book snaps into focus. Plot becomes purposeful. Scenes stop wandering. And suddenly you’re not writing 300 pages of Stuff That Happens™ — you’re writing a story with meaning.
Writing a story without understanding your main character’s arc is like driving cross-country blindfolded — you might arrive somewhere, but odds are it won’t be where you meant to go. Every protagonist travels an emotional and psychological path, changing (or refusing to change) because of the story’s events. When you understand that inner journey — and how it collides with the outer, plot-driven one — every scene gains purpose, every choice deepens meaning, and your rewrite count drops dramatically. Know your hero’s lie, the truth they need to learn, and what the story will throw at them to force that transformation. Everything else flows from there.Is this conversation helpful so far?
A “reasonable” villain might seem believable—but it’s also the fastest way to kill tension in your story. The best antagonists aren’t fair opponents; they’re towering, terrifying forces that make the hero dig deep and evolve. From Goliath to the Borg, it’s the impossible odds that make victory unforgettable.
Conflict is the heartbeat of fiction—but not all conflict is created equal. External conflict drives your plot forward, while internal conflict drives your character’s growth. When you make those two forces feed each other, your story hits harder and lingers longer.
Great fiction doesn’t come from easy wins—it comes from impossible choices. When your protagonist is forced to pick between two equally awful options, the story stops being about “victory” and starts being about what they’re willing to lose. That’s when stakes rise, true character is revealed, and readers stay glued to the page.
Writing fiction should make you feel something. If you’re not laughing, crying, or at least smirking at your own words, your readers won’t either. Emotional resonance starts with the writer. From cardboard characters to scenes that don’t belong, here are five reasons your story might be falling flat—and what to do about it.
A great antagonist isn’t a cartoon villain twirling a mustache—they’re someone who truly believes they’re right. The most compelling conflicts come when your villain’s goals clash with your hero’s in ways that feel uncomfortably relatable.