Month: April 2022

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

A torch for traversing “the territory where no one possesses the truth… but where everyone has the right to be understood.”

Milan Kundera

BY MARIA POPOVA

This might be the most transcendent capacity of consciousness, and the most terrifying: that in the world of the mind, we can construct models of the real world built upon theories of exquisite internal consistency; that those theories can have zero external validity when tested against reality; and that we rarely get to test them, or wish to test them. Just ask Ptolemy.

In its clinical manifestation, we call this tendency delusion. In its creative manifestation, we call it art — the novel, the story, the poem, the song are each a model, an imagistic impression of the world not as it is but as the maker pictures it to be, inviting us to step into this imaginary world in order to better understand the real, including ourselves.

Because we are always partly opaque to ourselves even at our most self-aware, fiction and real life have something wonderful in common, wonderful and disorienting: the ability to surprise even the author — of the story or the life.

Both are a form of walking through the half-mapped territory of being, real or imagined, making the path in the act of walking and so revising the map with each step.

In both, we can set out for one destination and arrive at another, or as another.

In both, we are propelled partly by our directional intentionality and partly by something else, something ineffable yet commanding that draws its momentum from the energy of uncertainty.

The great Czech-French novelist Milan Kundera articulates this something else with uncommon clarity in The Art of the Novel (public library), published two years after The Unbearable Lightness of Being — the 1984 classic that might be read as one long elegiac entreaty for embracing the uncertainties of love and life, challenging Nietzsche’s notion of “the eternal return.”

With an eye to storytellers’ ability to surprise themselves in the telling as the story crosses the terrain of imagined existence under its self-generated momentum, Kundera writes:

When Tolstoy sketched the first draft of Anna Karenina, Anna was a most unsympathetic woman, and her tragic end was entirely deserved and justified. The final version of the novel is very different, but I do not believe that Tolstoy had revised his moral ideas in the meantime; I would say, rather, that in the course of writing, he was listening to another voice than that of his personal moral conviction. He was listening to what I would like to call the wisdom of the novel. Every true novelist listens for that suprapersonal wisdom, which explains why great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors. Novelists who are more intelligent than their books should go into another line of work.

Kundera locates that suprapersonal wisdom in “the wisdom of uncertainty” — something his poet-contemporary Wisława Szymborska named as the crucible of all creativity in her superb Nobel Prize acceptance speech. In a sentiment evocative of physicist Richard Feynman’s astute observation that uncertainty is the prerequisite for truth and morality, in science as in life, Kundera writes:

The novel is the imaginary paradise of individuals. It is the territory where no one possesses the truth, neither Anna nor Karenin, but where everyone has the right to be understood, both Anna and Karenin.

Great storytelling, then, deals in the illumination of complexity — sometimes surprising, sometimes disquieting, always enlarging our understanding and self-understanding as we come to see the opaque parts of ourselves from a new angle, in a new light. Kundera writes:

Every novel says to the reader, “Things are not as simple as they seem.” That is the novel’s eternal truth, but it grows steadily harder to hear amid the din of easy, quick answers that come faster than the question and block it off.

So understood, storytelling becomes a way of walking with uncertainty and sitting with nuance, which is in turn a way of broadening the possibilities of existence in each of our lives. Echoing Adrienne Rich’s notion that all forms of literary imagination are “the arts of the possible,” Kundera writes:

A novel examines not reality but existence. And existence is not what has occurred, existence is the realm of human possibilities, everything that man* can become, everything he’s capable of. Novelists draw up the map of existence by discovering this or that human possibility. But… to exist means “being-in-the-world.” Thus both the character and his world must be understood as possibilities… [Novels] thereby make us see what we are, and what we are capable of.

A quarter century earlier, James Baldwin had captured this in his lovely notion that the artist’s role, the writer’s role, the storyteller’s role is “to make you realize the doom and glory of knowing who you are and what you are.”

Complement this portion of Kundera’s altogether illuminating The Art of the Novel with Iris Murdoch on storytelling as resistance, Toni Morrison on storytelling as sacrament to beauty, Susan Sontag storytelling as moral calibration, and Ursula K. Le Guin on storytelling as transformation, then revisit poet Naomi Shihab Nye’s advice on writing, Anton Chekhov’s six rules for a great story, and psychologist Jerome Bruner on the psychology of what makes a great story.

For a library of great fiction writing instruction, click here.

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

Classical stories have characters that almost epitomize an emotion or quality. Achilles is angry. Odysseus is clever. Nowadays, we like our characters more “realistic” or more “complex”. Modern stories tend to give their main characters “psychological depth”. Nonetheless, even the “well-rounded” characters of modern stories may be accurately described with primary character traits. Emma Bovary is, for instance, romantic. Indiana Jones is adventurous. Bridget Jones has prejudices, Darcy is proud. What is this character?

In stories, the characters’ emotions are ultimately the sources of their actions, because motivations are ultimately based on emotions.

Determining the emotional core of a character in a story may lead to a clearer understanding of that character’s behaviour, i.e. their actions.

What we’re getting at here is essentially a premise for creating a story. We have noted that if you plonk a group of contrasting characters in a room – or story-world –, then a plot can emerge out of the arising conflicts of interest. If you’re designing a story, one approach is to create the contrasts between the characters (their essential differences of character) by giving each character a core trait or emotion. One character may be frivolous, another penny-pinching. One may be fearful, another cheeky.

You might object: Isn’t that a bit one-dimensional? Aren’t characters with just one core emotion flat?

Not necessarily. Focusing on one core emotion is not a cheap trick. It is as old as storytelling.

Classical Storytelling

Ancient stories focus on characters with specific emotions or qualities. It is these emotions that make them distinguishable, that give them their character. –

Gilgamesh is initially proud and arrogant – he needs to be made humble. He is later struck by grief, and must learn to cope with this emotion. Enkidu is wild. He needs to be tamed.

Achilles’ wrath and rage are legend, his core emotion is anger. Other ancient heroes have specific character traits. Odysseus is clever. Agamemnon, while kingly and steadfast, is primarily haughty. Aeneas is pious and just.

Beowulf is strong, but in danger of being proud.

In The Divine Comedy, the character Dante is spiritually lost, and guided by the reasonable and wise Virgil.

Shakespeare built some characters around one primary emotion: Othello is jealous.

You might say that this type of character, fashioned around one single principle, is old-fashioned. Nowadays audiences and readers prefer more realism and psychological complexity. But is that really true?

Modern Characters

Flaubert is often credited with creating a watershed in storytelling. It is claimed that his characters are psychologically complex and may therefore seem more “realistic” to modern sensibilities. Nonetheless, Emma Bovary’s core trait is that she is romantic and naïve.

In the twentieth century, perhaps because of Freud’s influence, the idea became prevalent that characters, in order to be more life-like, have to be psychologically “well-rounded”. In real life, people have all sorts of emotions – an author shouldn’t just pin only a single overriding emotional state on one character. This would not be true to life.

Stories, however, are slices of life. One of the main reasons stories exist in the first place is to show us the potential effects of certain traits. Moral parables and fables demonstrate this most explicitly: the boastful hare is taught a lesson about his overconfidence by the tortoise.

You might say that most stories are not as simple as that, especially to modern audiences. But, just as an example, you see the same tortoise and hare scene in the movie Cars.

You might say that stories for adults don’t – or shouldn’t – exhibit such clear “morals” or an “author’s message”. True. But that doesn’t mean that stories are no longer composed around primary character traits. Bridget Jones’s Diary works in the same way that its inspiration does, by focusing on two characters who exhibit strong primary character traits based on emotions: Pride and Prejudice.

The Story Arc

So how does an author make a character with one core emotion well-rounded? How must the character be in order not to appear flat?

A character becomes interesting to audiences by having contrast within him or herself. A character who is consistently fearful, frivolous, penny-pinching or cheeky can supply no surprises for the audience or reader, and therefore runs the risk of being boring. This is avoidable by seeing emotions as axes, along which specific actions occur. The axes of emotions create dimensions of character. Some “big” examples:

• extrovert vs introvert
• neurotic vs well-balanced and healthy
• open vs inward-looking
• agreeable vs unfriendly or disagreeable
• conscientious vs lazy
• selfish vs helpful and selfless

Give characters scenes in which they exhibit a quality at one end of a spectrum, but drop in a scene in which they show themselves capable of acting the opposite way. This will intrigue the audience!

Look at a story, any story, and see if you can’t spot a curve, usually a learning curve, in the protagonist. This change is sometimes called the character arc. Isn’t the main character, and probably some other characters too, wiser at the end of the story than at the beginning? Irrespective of his or her success in doing so, was there not some internal problem that the character really needed to solve before the end of the story? If so, that internal problem was likely based on a character trait, and character traits tend to come from an emotional stance or value-set. From that emotional stance it is only a short step to a pinpointable primary emotion at the core of this character.

Find out now in what ways characters in story differ from real people. Click:

Characters vs. People.

To read more of Beemgee’s writing craft articles click here

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

From Beemgee.com’s story creation library.

Many stories feature a character having to make a difficult choice. Sometimes a choice the character makes is the inciting incident that sets off the bulk of the story. Sometimes a moral choice will determine the pivotal central action of the character and mark a kind of point of no return. And often the story journey leads up to a crisis in the form of a dilemma or moral choice. This choice may involve the character’s fear, or the learning curve the character has gone through on the way to resolving the internal need. The choice may be an alternative to the goal the character has sought throughout. The choice represents two distinct and probably opposing value sets, thesis versus antithesis. Whatever the dilemma is, either and any choice of action must appear viable and in some way potentially beneficial to the character. In other words, the choice must be hard rather than obvious to the character.

To read more of Beemgee’s writing craft articles click here

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

An obstacle is the manifestation in a plot event of a problem. Internal obstacles are the instances of opposition that the character faces which arise out of her or his internal problem. Stories establish a direction by setting a want and a goal for the character. On the way to that goal, the author hurls every obstacle possible at the character – because if things are easy for the character, there is no tension in the story. The biggest obstacle may come from within, from the internal problem. This may be the most important thing for the character to learn or overcome in order to grow into a changed, usually better person. Before the climax, the scale of the problem must become clear, which means the character cannot overcome an internal obstacle first time round.

In stories, characters are faced with obstacles.

These obstacles come in various forms and degrees of magnitude. And they may have different dimensions: they may be internal, external, or antagonistic.

Often the obstacles that resound most with a significant proportion of the audience are the ones that force the main characters to face and deal with problems within themselves, in their nature. In other words, with their internal problem.

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Internal obstacles are the symptoms of the characters’ flaws or shortcomings, i.e. of the internal problem. The audience perceives them in scenes in which the character’s flaw prevents her progress. 

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Not every story features characters with internal problems. An internal problem is not strictly speaking necessary in order to create an exciting story.

But it helps.

The Emotional Truth

An internal problem makes the character appear fallible – and thus more credible, more human, more like us. Internal problems are invariably emotional and private. They express the inner life of a character, and often reflect our own inner feelings. They are therefore usually far closer to the reality experienced by the recipient of the story, the audience or reader, than the surface structure of the story, which is based on the external problems of the characters. Everybody knows feelings like doubt, fear, pride, desire, anger, etc. We can relate to emotions like that more intensely than we can relate to, say, the work of an FBI agent, the adventures of an archaeologist, even the ordinary life of an Irishman on a June day in 1904. Or rather, we are interested in the work of the FBI agent, the adventures of the archaeologist, the ordinary life of the Irishman because they have emotions that we know.

So fairly early on in the story, while the audience or reader is being introduced to the characters, the story may also provide clues about the main character’s internal problem. The character then sets forth on the story journey, hoping to achieve the want and the goal, which the story has also established quite early on.

The Story Journey

At first, small hindrances turn up that need to be overcome or circumnavigated in order to continue. They may appear as tests.

It is vital for the whole concept of the internal problem that in the first few instances where the character bumps into obstacles that challenge the internal problem, the character will fail. These obstacles or tests show the audience/reader as well as the character that the internal problem is jeopardizing the character’s chances of overall success. The problem reveals itself as a negative character trait which will prevent the character from achieving his or her want. Only if the character can recognize the negativity of the character trait – usually round about the middle of the story – and change it into a positive one towards the end, will the character have overcome the internal obstacle and solved the internal problem.

In other words, an internal obstacle is a manifestation of the internal problem. The obstacle shows us, the audience, an instance of how behaviour typical to the character is engendered by the character’s internal problem, and how that hinders the character.

Internal obstacles arise as manifestations of the character’s inner problem. They are instances that occur only because of particular character traits the character really needs to address. 

So if the character’s internal problem is excessive doubt, fear, pride, desire or anger, the first few times the character runs into obstacles, the character will react to them with excessive doubt, fear, pride, desire or anger, and will therefore suffer a setback. Eventually, after an escalation of setbacks, a revelation may occur in the character when he or she recognises the reason why such setbacks occur.

At the goal, which is the gateway to the want, the character then faces the final battle with the most massive form of the internal obstacle.

By this time, the story may have woven the various sorts of obstacles together, so that the climax is about the character overcoming them all at the same time.

Now, what we’ve described here is an archetypal way stories are structured. It sounds a little simplistic when put in abstract terms like this. But look at your favourite stories, whatever they are – however literary and high-brow or popular and entertaining they may be – and you will probably find that the basic gist of the story can be described in such abstract terms. If you want to tell a story, and you are in the process of composition, it might help to set some internal obstacles for your character to overcome.

The internal obstacles a character encounters in a story are the consequences of the character’s internal problem. Dealing with these obstacles helps the character to recognize her or his real need.

To read more of Beemgee’s writing craft articles click here

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

By Kristen Kieffer

Have a hundred thrilling story ideas rumbling around in your brain?

Choosing which of those many ideas to write next can seem impossible — especially when you’re of unsure which idea best aligns with your aims and abilities as a writer — but have no fear! Today, we’re going to cut through option overwhelm by discussing the tips and tricks that can provide clarity as you decide which exciting story idea to write next.

Are you considering the right kind of ideas?

There are ideas for stories, and then there are story ideas — the difference being that story ideas have workable premises, whereas ideas for stories are merely scraps of inspiration that haven’t yet found a home.

You may be excited about an idea for a new magic system or a fun meet-cute or one heck of a heart-wrenching scene, but unless you have characters and core conflicts to go along with those ideas, you likely won’t get far into your pre-writing or discovery drafting process before you hit a wall.

If you have a premise, on the other hand, you have promise. 

Premises pull storytelling weight. They can be plotted and provide structural clarity as you draft, reasonably ensuring the story idea you ultimately choose to write won’t turn into a flop. To create a premise for your own story idea, simply answer the following questions:
 

• Who is the protagonist?
• What is their goal?
• How do they plan to achieve their goal?
• What disaster will throw the protagonist off balance?
• Who or what will oppose them?
• What is the core conflict?

Here’s an example of what a story’s premise can look like:

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I don’t believe any time spent writing is ever wasted, as there’s always something to be learned from your experiences. But if you want to save yourself a little time and frustration, take care to choose story ideas that stir both passion and potential.  

My top tips for choosing between story ideas…

Choosing between story ideas can feel a bit like pulling teeth, but there are a few tips and tricks that may make the process a little less harrowing. Perhaps the simplest of suggestions is this: if one story idea excites you more than all the others, choose that one!

Concerns about your ability to write or market a particular story can certainly weigh heavy, but I believe passion to be magnetic. If you pour your heart and hard work into a story you love, there won’t be able any room for regret.

If, however, you’re eager to write all of your story ideas, here are a few tips and tricks — presented in no particular order — that can help you make the best decision for you and your writing life.

TIP #1: DEFINE YOUR WHY 

What is your intent for the next book you write? Do you want it to be your publishing debut or to fill a specific place in your publishing plan? Would you like it to help grow your fan-fiction following or put a smile on your children’s faces? Or, are you writing simply for yourself?

By defining the purpose you want your next book to fulfill, you should gain a clearer understanding of which story ideas can provide the most creative fulfillment. 

 TIP #2: IDENTIFY YOUR CURRENT CREATIVE SEASON 

Our creative lives go through seasons. Sometimes, we need our writing to be a sure, stable oasis in our otherwise chaotic days. Other times, our creative energies are bouncing off the walls, urging us to write, write, write!

Identifying your current creative season can help you choose the story idea that best fits your needs. For example, you may want to save your most ambitious story idea for a time when your creative energies are running high, whereas a fun and simple story idea may be the best choice to pursue when life gets tough. 

TIP #3: BE A BIT GRIM

If you knew you could only write one more story before your time was up, which story idea would you choose? Albeit a bit grim, asking yourself this question can help single out the story idea that’s most captured your heart.

For some, that idea may be the most outrageous in their repertoire or the one that finishes out their series. Others may choose to write the idea that tackles an issue weighing heavy on their hearts, or perhaps the idea that simply feels right.

Whatever the case, it’s time to write with no regrets. You never know which story may be your last.

TIP #4: MULL OVER THE PRACTICALITIES

When choosing the story idea you want to write next, you’ll want to balance passion with practicality. You’ll likely spend the next several months — or even years — working with the story you choose. Is it one you feel confident dedicating your time and attention to writing? 

Alternatively, mulling over the practicalities of your story ideas may point out which are more a flash in the pan than stories you want to spend your foreseeable future creating.

TIP #5: CONSIDER WHICH IDEA IS MOST UNIQUE

Sometimes, the most exciting ideas are those that challenge old tropes or put a fresh spin on classic storylines. Do you have a story idea you believe will challenge the standards of your genre or the publishing industry as a whole? Don’t back down from the challenge!

Pursuing the most revolutionary idea in your arsenal can be a great way to liven up your writing life and help your work stand out from the crowd.

Choosing which of your many story ideas to write next certainly isn’t easy. With any luck, the tips and tricks we outlined today should help you whittle down your options by clarifying which ideas best align with your aims and abilities as a writer.

If you’re still stuck between two or three ideas, however, you may simply need to pull the trigger. Choose one from a hat. Close your eyes and point. Have a trusted friend choose for you. Remember, the only thing worse than having to choose between several exciting story ideas is never writing a word because you refuse to take action.

Make decisions that are right for you and where you are in your writing life, and I promise you’ll have no regrets, writer. It’s time to get your next creative endeavor underway!
 

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

If the character is already aware of their internal psychological or emotional problem at the beginning, then the story is probably one of overcoming it. If not, then the story is likely to be one of realisation or revelation. The task a character faces is to resolve the external problem she or he will be confronted with at the beginning of the story. But in order to do so, the character usually has to deal with the deeper internal problem too. This inner issue or shortcoming is often an indirect or metaphorical expression of the external problem. The internal problem is a character trait, flaw or weakness that may result in anti-social or hurtful behaviour. Often the realisation it exists occurs first at the midpoint but is not acted upon until shortly before the character’s goal is reached. At what point in the narrative does this character become aware of the internal problem? Is there a particular “aha-moment” when the character experiences a new understanding of the self? Or is there such a moment for the audience, the reader or viewer?

What’s the problem? Does the character know?

In storytelling, discrepancy between a character’s awareness and the awareness-levels of others is one of the most powerful devices an author can use. “Others” refers here not just to other characters, but to the narrator and – most significantly – to the audience/reader.

Let’s sum up potential differences in knowledge or awareness:

1. A character’s awareness of his or her own internal problem or motivation
2. A difference between one character’s knowledge of what’s going on and another’s
3. The narrator knows more about what is going on than the character
4. The audience/reader knows more than the character – dramatic irony

In this post, we’ll concentrate on the first point: Awareness of the internal problem. We’ll break that down into

• Becoming Aware – the importance of the revelation
• The Story Journey – and where to place the revelation
• Surface Structure and Deep Structure
• The Need for Awareness – or, Alternatives to Revelation

Becoming Aware – the importance of the revelation

In many stories, major characters, especially the protagonist, have some sort of character flaw that holds them back from achieving what they want or that causes them to hurt other characters around them. Quite often, the characters are not aware of this failing until later in the narrative, when the story leads them to a sort of insight or revelation. This moment of self-discovery allows them to change their typical actions in order to make good their failing. In short, to grow into a better person.

Such a self-revelation can by definition only come about if the character is unaware of the internal problem at the beginning of the story. Conflict makes stories interesting, and it is the conflict between how the character sees him or herself and how the rest of the world – or the audience/reader – sees him or her that can make the character interesting. When will this character realise the truth?

There is a tricky writer trap here, but we’ll get to that later.

Furthermore, the revelation should not be confused with a reveal, which is a scene type. In a reveal, the audience learns something it previously did not know. A reveal usually marks a plot twist, a “the plot thickens” moment.

Despite the pitfalls involved, revelation is perhaps the single most powerful element of storytelling. That is one of the reasons why mystery and crime fiction is so popular – because these genres inherently feature a revelation when the mystery is solved.

Without revelation, there can be no realisation, and therefore no learning experience, which is at heart what stories are all about. Not only for the protagonist, but for the recipient – the reader or viewer. A good story will often have a single pinpointable moment where the recipient, or at least the protagonist, realises something important. This scene can give meaning to the entire story.

Some examples: The audiences fully realises the depth of Michael Corleone’s fall at the moment the door is closed to his wife. Indiana Jones realises that spirituality is not all hocus pocus and mumbo jumbo as angels and demons appear when the Lost Ark is opened.

The Story Journey – and where to place the revelation

The bulk of the narrative can be described as the story journey, beginning from the point at which the character acts on the external problem and moving all the way to the denouement. In the story journey, awareness of the internal problem often arises at the midpoint, though at first it may be ignored or denied. Proper awareness and the final choice of how to act upon it typically comes at the crisis point of confrontation towards the end of the narrative.

So awareness may not come in one go, but might grow, especially in the second half of the narrative. Essentially, the story journey consists of the character either taking action or discovering information, and of course the latter especially leads to growing awareness.

Awareness of the inner problem comes to a character by revelation, typically at the midpoint and/or at the crisis.

Surface Structure and Deep Structure

We have said that the external problem forms the basis of the plot, and is therefore superficially what the story is about. The internal problem leads to character growth – which is good, because it gives the story a deeper level of meaning.

What does deeper level of meaning mean?

By getting the audience/reader to watch a character deal with an internal problem, the author can impart a universal truth about human emotions and how people act towards each other. On the whole, this is good. It’s what stories are for.

But for an author there is a danger not only of overdoing it, of moralising. There is also the other danger: feeling one has to do it at all. That’s the writer trap of revelation.

The Need for Awareness – or, Alternatives to Revelation

It would be excessive to suggest that the audience/reader expects or demands a self-revelatory insight of the protagonist in the story. Or at least we would say that the audience/reader should not necessarily expect this sort of effect. After all, why must the protagonist realise that s/he was wrong to //insert character flaw//?

Antagonists are often be unyielding. But it can be just as powerful, perhaps even more so, when an author defies convention and lets the protagonist keep and savour the flaw too. An unflinching protagonist who is aware of and steadfastly holds on to his or her failings and shortcomings can be more interesting than one who “learns” and is made “better” in the eyes of society. For society, read audience. We’ll posit as examples to consider stories such as Dirty Harry or American Psycho. Do those protagonists learn by revelation of their internal problem? Or do we find them fascinating because they don’t? Indeed, do these characters perhaps force us to consider our own internal problems?

It’s up to the author to decide what story to tell, and how to tell it. Many workshops and modern books on storytelling suggest that the protagonist requires self-revelation, i.e. revelation of the internal problem (though they might put it differently). While this is undoubtedly a valid and effective technique, we would point out that alternatives are perfectly valid too.

There is no absolute blueprint for stories.

Nonetheless, one of the deepest and most essential elements of story is revelation. More important still than that the protagonist experiences revelation is that the audience does. This emotion – the aha-effect, if you like – is one of the most satisfying for readers or viewers.

To read more of Beemgee’s writing craft articles click here

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

By Kristen Kieffer

When I speak of writing amazing first drafts, I don’t mean to imply that you’ll ever write a first draft that isn’t in need of revision. That’s not at all how they’re meant to work.

You see, first drafts are famously shitty — all of them — and they’re meant to be. They’re called rough drafts for a reason after all. That’s why I like to think of writing first drafts as a mining process. I dig deep into the dark caverns of my mind to dredge up the gems of a story that will later be cleaned, cut, refined, and set into something truly beautiful.

So what qualifies a first draft as amazing if you are, in actuality, getting your hands dirty as you write? And what in the world do you need to ask yourself if you want to write amazing first drafts of your own? Let’s dig into today’s article, writer!
 

Discovering your unique drafting process…

When it comes to writing first drafts, all writers should strive to get the bare bones of a good story out of their head and down onto paper (or onto the computer screen — you catch my drift). But here’s the thing: there is no right way to draft a novel.

Every writer has a unique creative process, and so each of us approaches our work in different ways. The tips, tricks, and techniques that work well for one writer simply aren’t guaranteed to do the same for another, and that’s okay. 

To write amazing first drafts, we must work to find the creative process that best fits our schedules, project goals, work ethics, and artistic energies — drafting process included. It’s only when we find the drafting process that works best for each of us that we begin to write first drafts that leave us feeling creatively fulfilled and eager to tackle the next steps in our writing journeys.

But how does one go about finding the drafting process that best fits their creative needs? Admittedly, this does take a bit of time and creative exploration, but have no fear! Asking yourself the following questions can help you find your groove…

QUESTION #1: AM I A WRITER OR A RE-WRITER?

Some writers enjoy drafting, while others like myself prefer re-writing and revising. Neither preference is better than the other, but knowing what parts of the writing process you most enjoy will likely shape how you choose to draft.

For example, if you’re not a fan of revising, you may want to spend extra time and energy on your first draft, perhaps even doing a bit of editing as you write so the revising process isn’t so overwhelming.

Or, if you’re like me and would rather revise than write, you may want to finish the drafting process as soon as possible by utilizing fast-drafting techniques. Whatever the case, don’t be afraid to tailor your drafting process to fit your writing preferences. Doing so is just smart writing!

 

QUESTION #2: HOW MUCH PRE-WRITING HELPS ME DRAFT WITH CONFIDENCE AND EXCITEMENT?

Pre-writing tasks such as outlining, mapping out character arcs, world-building, and defining theme can be a sore spot for many writers, who far prefer the creative exploration of playing with characters and scenes on the page. 

Other writers, however, love how pre-writing allows them to draft with purpose and precision, both enabling them to draft more quickly and to avoid heavier revisions later in the writing process. Still others find pre-writing to be the perfect bridge between the exploration of draft one and the careful crafting of draft two.

Discovering the level of pre-writing that allows you to make the most of your drafting experience may take time, but it should prove well worth your while when you find your writing groove.

 

QUESTION #3: DO I PREFER TO SCULPT DRAFTS OR KNIT THEM?

We’ve talked a lot about discovering process thus far in today’s breakdown, but we’re not done yet. You see, many writers treat their first drafts as a sculptor would their clay, carving out a complete figure that they’ll later go on to revise and refine.

Some writers, however, like to knit the many elements of their stories together over the course of several drafts. In most cases, writers who work this way focus on dialogue and action during drafting, adding in additional descriptions, backstories, and narrative prose once they’ve finalized their stories’ scenes.

Again, there is no right or wrong here. Whether you’re a sculptor, a knitter, or somewhere in between, what matters most is that you’re utilizing techniques that help you make the most of your unique drafting process.

 

QUESTION #4: WHAT ARE MY GOALS FOR MY FIRST DRAFT?

Setting specific goals for drafting can help you find focus and clarity as you write, though the goals you choose to set can vary.

Begin by asking yourself why you’d like to draft your novel. Are you looking to fall in love with writing again? Do you plan to query agents, self-publish, or upload this project to an online fiction site like Wattpad? Are you writing for the sheer joy of writing?

Whatever the case, knowing your why can help you set actionable goals that put a little healthy pressure behind your drafting process. These goals may be time-oriented, such as writing for a certain amount of time each day or working to complete your novel before a specific deadline, or you may wish to set a goal for how many words you’d like to write per drafting session.

Of course, you’re also welcome to skip goals altogether in favor of a little fun, carefree writing. If you do choose to set goals, however, make sure to do so with your unique drafting process in mind.

 

QUESTION #5: WHERE DO I STRUGGLE MOST IN FINISHING FIRST DRAFTS?

If you’ve struggled to finish first drafts in the past, it’s time to address the root cause of those pesky writing issues now so that you can avoid or counteract them in the future. 

For example, if you often find yourself stuck on a scene for weeks on end, you may want to try non-linear drafting or writing notes within your draft, such as “I’m stuck here. Fix later!”. Doing so can help you maintain writing momentum as you work to rock your next first draft.

Is this not your particular struggle? Here are a few other common drafting issues you may face, complete with suggestions for conquering each one:

 

Struggle: Do you often lose motivation or edit too much as you draft?
Solution: Give fast-drafting a try.

Struggle: Do new and exciting story ideas frequently plague your attention span?
Solution: Combat plot bunnies with these popular tips and tricks.

Struggle: Do you often struggle to draft your story’s middle act?
Solution: Learn how to avoid Sagging Middle Syndrome with a little extra pre-writing today.

Struggle: Does your protagonist’s journey seem directionless and without end?
Solution: It’s time to take a step back and discover your character’s story goal.

Struggle: Do you frequently think of “better” ways to tell your story & find yourself starting over?
Solution: Learn how to conquer the fear of finishing a first draft.

 

This is by no means a comprehensive list of the struggles you may face as you work to complete your first draft, but if certain pesky writing snags appear often in your drafting process, don’t be afraid to tackle them head on. Divide and conquer, writer. You’ll be whipping up first drafts before you know it!

There’s truly nothing better than discovering what makes your creative process tick. Pre-writing extensively, fast-drafting my rough drafts, and pouring the bulk of my energy into revising my stories has worked wonders for my current work-in-progress, but it’s taken nearly five years of explorative writing to figure out what works best for me. 

One thing I can say about all these years of testing out tips and techniques? The time and effort put in to finding my creative process has been nothing if not worth it. In many ways, I’m still working to refine my creative process — and creativity can evolve with time, certainly — but where I am in my writing journey now is far improved from where I stood five years ago.

I encourage you to begin exploring your own creative process as well, writer. Nothing beats finding your writing groove, especially when that means you’re writing amazing first drafts that leave you feeling on top of the world.

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

A character’s real need is the solution to her or his internal problem. A character may be aware of an external problem and want to solve it. But before the want can really be attained, that character may have an internal problem that needs to be solved. Quite possibly the character is blind to this character flaw or fault, and the real need is initially to become aware of it in order to then be able to take action to resolve it. Sometimes the character does not attain full awareness of the real need until more or less reaching the goal, even if it has been hinted at earlier but initially ignored. Achieving the goal may turn out not to be what the character really needs. So the real need is an act of learning or emotional growth.

In most stories, what a character really needs is growth.

Characters display flaws or shortcomings near the beginning of the story as well as wants. What they really need to do in order to achieve what they want is likely to be something they need to become aware of first.

The real need relates to the internal problem in the same way the perceived need relates to the external problem. The character has some sort of dysfunction that really needs to be repaired.

That means the audience or reader may become aware of a character’s real need long before the character does. Most stories are about learning, and learning entails the uncovering of something previously unknown. So the real need of a character is to uncover the internal problem, to become aware of their flaw.

To recap: The usual mode in storytelling has a character consciously responding to an external problem with a want, a goal, and a number of perceived needs. Unconsciously, that character may well have a character trait that amounts to an internal problem, out of which arises that character’s real need – i.e. to solve the internal problem.

So if a character is selfish, the real need is to learn selflessness. If the character is overly proud, then he or she needs to gain some humility. In the movie Chef, the father neglects his son emotionally – his real need is to learn to involve the child in his own life. The audience sees this way before the Chef does.

Even stories in which the external problem provides the entertainment – and with that the raison d’être of the story – may profit from a sub-layer of internal problem and real need. It is not vital to enjoying Raiders Of The Lost Ark, but notice how at the beginning of the story, Indiana Jones fervently believes the obstacles to his gaining the treasures he seeks are due to mechanical trickery (“hocus pocus”), whereas at the end he recognises that there are indeed spiritual powers beyond his secular world-view (“Don’t look!”).

Revelation

There is a strong connection, then, between the real need and self-revelation. If a character must repair a fault in his or her character, the fault must first be recognised. Often this occurs at the midpoint and is typically acted upon just before the goal – indeed the act of learning to accept the real need might make the goal redundant. The character makes amends for the fault – in the above examples, through an act of selflessness or by being humble – and as a reward gets what he or she wants, often not via the goal but by a route the character had at the beginning of the story not foreseen. Of course not, because the character at the beginning of the story had not recognised the internal problem and therefore could not know his or her real need. By the very end of the story, the character has grown. The real need is no longer there.

This is all neat, satisfying – and often conventional. We all know popular novels and Hollywood films that work this way. Which is absolutely fair enough.

But writer trap: Self-revelation with immediately positive results can quickly seem like a cliché. The technique seems to lead too easily to the happily-ever-after, and has inherent dangers like moralising or ascribing simplistic causes (such as a backstory trauma) to what the audience or reader is intended to perceive as a character flaw.

There are alternatives.

For instance, it might make for a good story if the character is not able to get what he or she really needs. In stories that do not end quite so happily-ever-after, there is often a scene that corresponds to the self-revelation or the crisis moment of choice. It is when the audience or reader recognizes that the character will not get what he or she really needs. Often this audience epiphany must be provided by another character’s act of recognition, as in The Godfather, where Michael’s wife Kay has the door shut in her face. In that moment, she realizes – and her face shows it to the viewers – that Michael has not been able to achieve his need, the need to escape from the family business. Quite the contrary.

Another way of avoiding the self-revelation writer trap is by basing the internal problem on a mistake rather than on a character flaw. Note that a mistake is something the character did, so it is active, rather than a trauma, which is often caused by something that happened to the character, and is therefore passive. If something the character did once upon a time (i.e. in the backstory) resulted in the current mess (i.e. the external problem), the real need may well involve recognition of this past act as having been a mistake. But there may be nothing the character can do about it now. If the character once made a mistake, it’s up to the gods and the author whether any atonement will bring redemption. May ancient classics hinge on mistakes, such as the story of Oedipus Rex.

And indeed, who says the character wants to be redeemed? Perhaps such a character will happily continue in their incorrigible way, and burrow him or herself into our collective consciousness as an unforgettable fictional character. Not every character must grow in order to be memorable. In cases where fictional characters do not change and grow, it is usually us, the readers or audience, that do the growing. Such characters tend to be revealed slowly, in stages, so that while they have not altered, our perception of them has, because by the end of the story we know more about them than at the beginning, and thus we have learnt something about ourselves. Consider Ishmael and Ahab in Moby Dick.

In any case, an emotional need in a main character provides some level of deeper psychological, emotional or moral meaning below the surface structure of plot. So this real need of a character provides a basis for a story’s “deep structure”, and tends to bring on the change that forms the emotional core of the story.

To read more of Beemgee’s writing craft articles click here

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

by Lewis Jorstad / March 22, 2022 / Character Development

The word “hero” carries a lot of weight.

Classic heroes are a staple of nearly all fiction, regardless of the genre you’re writing in. These characters are those who face seemingly impossible challenges, rise to the occasion, and then return to share the rewards of their journey with their community.

At first glance, this “hero’s journey” seems universal, and in many ways it is. However, there’s another side to this story that doesn’t match up with the traditional hero—and that is the heroine. Believe it or not, heroes and heroines aren’t the same. So, in this article, let’s explore all the differences between the hero and heroine, along with why these character types have nothing to do with gender!

Who Are the Hero and the Heroine?

Contents [hide]

• 1 Who Are the Hero and the Heroine?
• 2 The Hero’s Arc vs. The Heroine’s Arc
  • 2.1 The Hero’s Arc – External:
  • 2.2 The Heroine’s Arc – Internal:
• 3 A Note on Primary vs. Secondary Arcs
• 4 Writing the Hero vs the Heroine

A few years back, I wrote a post focused on the twelve stages of the hero’s character arc.

In that article, I explained that this arc is based on Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey, which states that all fictional heroes follow the same common patterns—which Campbell calls the “monomyth.” In this theory, the hero’s quest is about a character leaving home, facing a series of tests and trials, and then using the lessons they learned to heal and preserve their community for the future.

It’s this “return” that sets the hero apart from the rest of your cast.

By making the difficult choice to return home, your hero caps off what is basically a three-part journey:

The Known World:

The hero begins in their normal world. This represents stability and the status quo, though there are undeniable flaws beginning to form. Most heroes are discontent in their known world, even if they appreciate the security it provides.

Facing the Unknown:

This shifts when the hero enters the unknown, a wild place filled with possibility. This is where they’ll face tests and trials that help them attain mastery of their new world, eventually equipping them with the tools they need to resolve their story’s conflict.

Returning to the Known:

Finally, the hero returns to the known. By now, they fully understand their community’s flaws, and use that understanding to heal their world. In the process, they become a hero, safeguarding their community and ensuring its future for years to come.

This journey is what forms the foundation of the “hero’s character arc,” which takes these more plot-focused elements and translates them into a character-centric framework. Of course, these are just the basics! There are a whole variety of unique story beats that characterize a well-written hero, along with their cyclical journey from known to unknown.

This is where the heroine comes into play.

You see, the hero and the heroine’s arc both follow this three-part structure. What sets them apart, however, is their focus. While the hero’s character arc is all about a character gaining physical mastery over their world, the heroine’s arc is much more concerned with their mastery over their own mind.

In the end, this has nothing to do with gender, and there are plenty of excellent female heroes and male heroines out there. Instead, these two character arcs act as mirror images—with one focused on an external quest, and the other on an internal one.

The Hero’s Arc vs. The Heroine’s Arc

The Hero’s Arc – External:

So, how do these arcs compare?

Well, we’ll start by discussing the hero’s arc. This is what most people associate with the classic hero, so it provides a great baseline for understanding how these character arcs unfold:

The Known World:

The hero begins their story suffering from some inner struggle. Meanwhile, their community is suffering too. Though they might not realize it just yet, a powerful threat is brewing beneath the surface—both within and outside of their known world.

A Threat Revealed:

This threat reveals itself at the Catalyst, forcing the hero to leave their known world behind in search of some reward. This is where they first step foot into the unknown.

Entering the Unknown:

Once in the unknown, the hero will face a variety of challenges, learning and adapting as they struggle to get their bearings. Along the way, they’ll start to understand the flaws of their community, though they won’t know how to handle those flaws just yet.

Receiving Their Reward:

This culminates in a major test, where the hero embraces their truth and receives their reward. This could be anything from a new skill to key allies, powers, or physical tools. Whatever it is, it’s rarely what the hero expected at the start of their quest.

Dreading the Return:

Now comfortable in the unknown world, the hero will dread returning home. They’ve attained mastery over the unknown, and are hesitant to leave. Instead, they make plans to resolve their story’s conflict without abandoning the unknown world.

Facing Failure:

Unfortunately, this falls through. After a major defeat, the hero is forced to question their place in the unknown, as well as the fate of their known world. If either is to survive, they must sacrifice their own desires in order to protect them.

Becoming a Hero:

Realizing their reward is the secret to saving their community, the hero makes the choice to leave the unknown world and return home. In a final test, they share their reward and sacrifice a part of themselves for the greater good, earning the title of hero.

Finally at Peace:

With their community safe, the hero is left with a foot in both worlds. No longer restricted to one or the other, they bridge the gap between the known and unknown.

As you can see, this hero’s arc is tightly focused on the hero’s physical mastery over their world—though it still contains all the elements of a successful character arc. Though they’ll still have to confront their inner struggle and (eventually) embrace their truth, the main reward they gain is external.

For instances, consider Disney’s Mulan.

Mulan begins her story when she sets out to protect her father from the draft, only to find herself struggling to survive in the Chinese army. Luckily, she eventually gains mastery over this new unknown world, until she eventually defeats the warlord threatening her people. In doing so, she returns home with honor, rising to the status of hero and completing her hero’s character arc.

This is a great example of the hero in action. Though Mulan learns a lot about herself and overcomes her inner struggle throughout her journey, her story is primarily about overcoming physical threats—and thus attaining physical mastery.

The Heroine’s Arc – Internal:

In contrast, the heroine takes a different approach.

This character starts out in the same known world, suffering from a similar inner struggle—but, rather than set out on a physical quest, they leave home in search of their true self. This journey is all about wisdom, identity, and internal connections, following the heroine as they slowly rekindle their connection to who they really are:

The Known World:

The heroine begins their story suffering from some inner struggle, taking shape as an internal disconnect. Meanwhile, their community is suffering too. Though they might not realize it yet, a powerful threat is brewing beneath the surface—both within and outside of their known world.

A Threat Revealed:

This threat reveals itself at the Catalyst, forcing the heroine to leave their known world and enter the unknown in search of the wisdom needed to protect their people.

Entering the Unknown:

Once in the unknown world, the heroine will face a variety of challenges, learning and adapting as they struggle to shed the weight of their old identities. Along the way, they’ll begin to understand the flaws of their community, though they won’t know how to handle those flaws just yet.

Discovering Themselves:

This culminates in a major test, where the heroine embraces their truth and rekindles their connection with their true self. This internal change is typically represented by some symbolic action.

Then and Now:

Now comfortable in the unknown world, the heroine will dread returning home, unsure how to reconcile their old self with their new identity. Instead, they make plans to resolve their story’s conflict without abandoning the unknown.

Facing Failure:

Unfortunately, this falls through. After a major defeat, the heroine is forced to question their new identity, as well as the fate of their known world. If their community is to survive, they must accept who they are without fear.

Sharing Their Wisdom:

Realizing this wisdom is the secret to saving their community, the heroine makes the choice to leave the unknown and return home. In a final test, they share their true self and sacrifice a part of themselves for the greater good, earning the title of heroine.

Finally at Peace:

With their community safe, the heroine is left with a foot in both worlds. No longer restricted to one or the other, they bridge the gap between the known and unknown, finally at peace with who they are.

Right away, you can hopefully see how this heroine’s arc mirrors the hero’s arc—just with a more internal focus. While the heroine will still face plenty of physical conflicts, their true reward is the wisdom to heal both themselves and their community.

A great example of this is Moana.

Much like Mulan, Moana sets out into the unknown in order to protect her family. However, her story isn’t about physical mastery. Though she absolutely faces physical trials throughout her journey, her ultimate triumph is instead discovering her ancestry and accepting her emotional bond with the ocean. It’s this deeper understanding of herself that eventually allows her to save her people, thus marking her as a heroine.

A Note on Primary vs. Secondary Arcs

With those differences in mind, what should you do with all of this information?

Well, the first thing you’ll want to consider is that the hero and heroine’s arcs are secondary arcs. This is a term I’ve mentioned in past articles, but it essentially describes a subset of character arcs. Secondary arcs are optional, specialized patterns you can use to create specific types of characters like the elder, rogue, or hermit—along with the hero and heroine.

Meanwhile, primary arcs are the type of character arc most writers are familiar with. These are your classic positive, negative, and flat arcs, which determine the overarching journey your character goes on, whether they achieve their goals, and how their story concludes.

What makes this distinction important is that secondary arcs layer on top of primary arcs—meaning that, if you want to use a secondary arc to craft your hero, you’ll first need to consider their overall journey.

NOTE: If you’d like to explore other primary and secondary character arcs, these articles are a great place to start:

• The Coming of Age Arc: How to Write About Growing Up
• Redemption Arcs: How to Redeem a Flawed Character
• Character Arcs 101: Positive and Negative Arcs
• Character Arcs 102: Flat Arcs

Writing the Hero vs the Heroine

Ultimately, the terms “hero” and “heroine” are tangled up in all kinds of preconceived ideas, and those ideas can make it hard to see our characters for who they really are. Personally, this is why I find these character arcs so valuable! By understanding the specific journey each of these types of heroes goes on, I can look at my cast objectively and build better, more engaging stories.

The key is simply one of focus.

While the hero’s story is all about their journey into the unknown in search of physical mastery, the heroine’s is all about their quest to better understand their own mind. Because of this, the hero’s arc is mostly an external one, while the heroine’s arc is primarily internal.

Lewis Jorstad is an author and editor, a lover of reading and travel, and the steward of a very creaky sailboat. He hopes to visit every country in the world before he dies, but for now he spends his time teaching up-and-coming writers the skills they need to write their dream novels. Interested? Read more here or get in touch.

I’m currently taking a writing and blogging sabbatical due to family health issues. For now, I’ll repost selected articles from my Fiction Writing School.

Here is the link to this article.

by Carissa Taylor

Chapter Endings are so important. But how do we write them effectively? It’s simple, really.
Basically we want to end the chapter so that our readers will say:

     “Oooh! Can’t stop now — Just one more chapter!”

Okay, great. But how do we DO that? All chapter endings have a few key components. Over the course of your chapter, you will have introduced conflict that has now built up to a tantalizing climax. But argh, how to end it?

    Well. This post is for you!

The Two Key Ingredients of Chapter Endings:

• Closure for the previous chapter’s conflict (at least partial closure)
• Introduction of a new, tangible conflict

I know that this may be controversial, but I’m going to go ahead and say it. 

If you’re doing you’re job right, you basically want to end almost EVERY chapter with a cliffhanger.

  ( …but there are lots of types of cliffhangers. They’re not all what you’d think.)

10 Types of Chapter-Ending Cliffhangers 

Having scoured the interwebs, and also having written my fair share of chapter endings over the years, I’ve come to realize that there’s more than one way to inject your chapter end with a must-read-on-moment (aka cliffhanger). Quite a few in fact. I’ve grouped them into categories here. 

• The Imminent Doom
• The Sense of Foreboding
• The Surprise Twist
• The Discovery
• The Failure
• The Emotional Hook
• The Vow / Decision
• The Dilemma
• The False Lull
• The Promise

1. The Imminent Doom

This is what we classically think of when we picture ‘a cliffhanger’ and where the term comes from. It’s when, at the end of the chapter, we leave the reader hanging with the protagonist if not literally off the edge of a cliff, at least in dire straits or mortal peril. 

• The Gunshot/Arrow/Knife to the Chest
• The Blackout/Fall/Car Crash
• The Dangle from a Precipice
• The Look Down the Barrel of a Gun
• The Natural Disaster

But … 

This is not the only type of cliffhanger. There are more you can (and should) use. Lots more.

2. The Sense of Foreboding

Rather than leaving the protagonist in actual physical peril, sometimes simply tugging the reader along in fear of what’s to come is enough. This may simply be a sentence or two setting the tone for the next scene and the next conflict. It may be an Inner Monologue from the protagonist expressing their dread. It could be a “sign” from the universe that the MC interprets as a bad omen.

• The Knock on the Door
• The Shadows in the Mist
• The Invasion Begins
• The Feeling That Something’s Not Quite Right
• The Bad Omen

3. The Surprise Twist

Reversals and plot twists are kind of a staple of writing, so instead of burying them mid-scene, why not end the chapter with one? Show the main character being betrayed by someone they trusted. Show a presumed enemy acting as an ally. Show a side character you’ve built up as a suspect in a situation which reveals their innocence. 

• The Plot Re-direction
• The Suspect Vindicated
• The Two-Faced Friend / The Betrayal
• The Unexpected Accusation
• The Unlikely Ally

4. The Discovery 

Related to the surprise twist, “The Discovery” is a moment where in the MC obtains a key piece of information related to the plot. Unlike the “Surprise Twist”, however, it’s something that the MC has actively been seeking and expecting. With this one, the key to making it an exciting chapter end is all in the execution. Show the MC opening the lockbox that contains the important documents she’s been searching for … but don’t show what’s in the box. Or, reveal the clue, but then show how it takes her backwards rather than forwards. Show her finally getting what she wants, only to realize that it’s not actually what she wanted.

•  Game Changing Info
•  Object of Desire Obtained, but …
•  Next Clue / New Lead, but …

5. The Failure  

Another great ending (so long as it’s not overused), is “The Failure” — it’s a low moment in the book, where the MC has been working so hard to achieve something only to fail miserably … whether due to internal shortcomings, the antagonist, or other external barriers. Readers will feel so sorry for your MC, they’ll have to read on to see how he/she gets out of this.

•  The Big Mistake
•  The Closed Door / Missed Opportunity
•  The Lost Soul

 Example: “Karou saw them and understood. The way to Elsewhere had been severed, and she was cast adrift.” — {  from Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor  }

6. The Emotional Hook

This is a similar ending to “The Failure,” but distinct in that rather than being directly plot related, this is simply an emotional moment for the main character. The estrangement of a dear friend, a rejection by a crush, a private, public and/or viral humiliation, the thrilling anticipation of a special outing / first date / proposal. The key here is to end on a poignant moment that tugs at the reader’s heartstrings. One way to do that is to break the chapter at a key moment where the MC pivots from one strong emotion to another. For example: A build-up of hope … only to have it crash down right at the last. A chapter that seems darker than dark which cuts away with a light at the end of the tunnel. 

• The Loss
• The Rejection
• The Embarassment
• The Thrill 
• The Longing

7. The Decision or Vow

You can probably only really use this once, or maybe twice per book. Unless your character is a really voicey MG protagonist and is always “vowing” to do things. Anyway. This could go alongside many of the other Cliffhangers as (a) a sort of one-line “zinger” at the end, where the MC vows to get revenge, to beat her enemy etc. Alternatively, this could take the form of (b) a choice that the MC makes, and the reader knows the options, but not which path the MC will take …. until the next chapter (thus making it a cliffhanger) 🙂

• The Vow to Act
• The Decision/Choice is made  (but not revealed until next chapter)

8. The Dilemma

You could almost think of this Chapter Ending as the set-up to “The Decision.” It’s where (1) it’s first revealed that the MC has an important choice to make, and/or (2) the consequences of that choice become painfully clear. The MC may take a long time to get around to making the decision (chapters even), but this is where the dilemma is first presented.

• Which Needs Changing: Self or Others?
• Speak/Act Up or Remain Silent?
• [Career] vs. [Relationship] etc etc
• Who Do I Trust?
• Moral Dilemma

9. The False Lull

Think of this as “The Calm Before the Storm.” It’s where you end the chapter on a happy, relaxed, hopeful, or joyful note. The key is to do so in such a way that makes the reader say: “oh no, this is too good to last.”

• I’ve finally gotten my heart’s desire
• I’m just about to get everything I ever wanted
• I’m in a happy place

10. The Promise 

This is where you end just before showing something that you know the reader has been dying to see. In Romance, this might be the when the MC and the crush have “a first moment/kiss/proposal.” In Fantasy or Sci-Fi, maybe it’s a cool setting, thing, or place that the MC keeps hinting at, but now you’re finally going to show it. Again, here, the key is to hint (strongly) that this is about to happen, but don’t show it  until the next chapter. (okay maybe a tiny peek. tiny.) You’re promising the reader that in the next chapter, you’ll show them that awesome moment/scene/setting that they’ve been dying to read about for pages and pages.

It’s Almost Time for…

• The New World
• The Epic Battle
• The First Date/Kiss/Proposal
• The Healing/Letting Go
• The Light at the End of the Tunnel

11. BONUS: The Revelation / The Idea
In some ways, this sort of like a combination of “The Promise” and “The Discovery.” It’s when your MC has an “aha” moment. It’ll likely be plot-related, but could also be your protag realizing something about her/himself as a person, or about a significant relationship, etc. Again, here, the success is in the execution. One way to leave it cliffhangery would be to show that an “aha moment” was had, but not show what the MC has thought of … until the next chapter. Another approach might be to reveal the basic revelation (or a piece of it) straight away, but not it’s broader/deeper significance in the story, so that the readers are left scratching their heads, going “wait, how is that going to help?”
A Few More Tips and Tricks:

• Techniques that can work:
  
        End with…
  • A dangling question
  • A new person or object
  • A switch of emotion for the MC
  • A teaser of a new scene
• Don’t bury the hook. End with it.
• Be specific. Vague doom isn’t scary.
• Don’t (always) give the reader what they want at the beginning of the next chapter
• Write your cliffhanger “zinger” lines in advance … when you’re plotting your first MS draft.