
Six days after elbow surgery: out of a cast and into a brace.


Monday. Broke right elbow. Unable to do much for now.
Stay safe.
Post again when I can.
Richard
Fictionary’s Story Elements Series
If your story were a train, every scene ending would be a station—offering your reader a choice: Do I stay on this ride, or step off for the night?
The right scene exit hook makes that choice effortless. The reader stays onboard, turning the page, chasing the tension. Because something is unresolved… and they have to know what happens next.
Scene exit hooks are the last impression your reader gets before a transition—whether that’s a new scene, a new chapter, or a new point of view.
If the ending falls flat, so might the reader’s interest.
Fictionary’s Scene Exit Hook element helps you (or your editor) evaluate whether you’re closing each scene with enough suspense, momentum, or emotional tension to compel continued reading.
Great scene endings don’t just resolve—they propel.
When evaluating your scenes in Fictionary’s StoryCoach software:
💡 Use the Story Map (Visualize page) and select:
Seeing these side-by-side helps you visualize how each scene opens and closes—and whether they flow or falter.
Think of a scene exit hook as a magnetic pull. It keeps your reader from turning out the light, from scrolling away, from moving on.
A great exit hook doesn’t need to be flashy—it needs to ask a question, raise the stakes, or shift the ground beneath your characters.
Some of the most effective scene endings include:
“He said he forgave me. But why did he still have the gun?”
“Then she opened the letter—and saw her own handwriting.”
“He didn’t make the call. And now it was too late.”
“Everything she believed about her father was a lie.”
“The floorboards groaned. Someone else was in the house.”
“He knew where the bodies were buried. But not all of them.”
The key? Vary them. If every scene ends with a dramatic cliffhanger, readers will catch on—and lose interest. But mixing in moments of tension, mystery, or emotional surprise keeps the journey unpredictable.
Remember: every POV character in every scene has a goal. Use the exit hook to show whether they’ve achieved it—or failed spectacularly.
Failure, in particular, creates stakes and forward motion.
If your character’s goal is to escape unseen, and the final line is “A flashlight beam found the back of her jacket,” you’ve built a hook and introduced conflict—all in one.
Scene exit hooks are your novel’s lifeline. When they’re strong, readers don’t pause. They don’t sleep. They don’t stop.
So ask yourself:
❓Does this final line make the reader need to know what happens next?
If the answer is no—it’s time to rewrite.
Welcome back to The Pencil’s Edge.
Grab Attention or Risk Losing Your Reader
When a reader flips the page to a new scene, you’re standing at a crossroads. One direction pulls them deeper into the story. The other leads them to set your book aside. What makes the difference? A strong scene entry hook.
Every scene is a fresh opportunity to engage your reader—or lose them. The beginning of a scene is one of the most vulnerable moments in your novel. If there’s no compelling reason to keep reading, many readers won’t.
Fictionary’s Scene Entry Hook element helps editors and writers evaluate whether a scene’s opening grabs attention, raises questions, and drives momentum. Without that spark, even the most well-structured story risks feeling flat.
As an editor, your job is twofold:
Here’s how to mark it in Fictionary:
The Reading Room is an especially helpful tool here—read several scene openings in sequence and look for sameness or lulls.
A great hook doesn’t need to be loud or shocking. It just needs to pull the reader forward. Think of it like a whisper that makes them lean in, not a shout that pushes them back.
When revising your own scenes, ask:
Here’s an example from The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides:
“Alicia Berenson was thirty-three years old when she killed her husband.”
This opening raises immediate questions. Why did she kill him? What happened? Readers turn the page to find out.
You don’t need a murder to create a hook. Consider:
Whatever you choose, make sure the opening does something—emotionally, narratively, or psychologically.
Readers are always deciding whether to keep reading. Every scene opening is a promise: This will be worth your time. The Scene Entry Hook is your chance to make good on that promise. Master it, and your story becomes harder and harder to put down.
Welcome back to The Pencil’s Edge.
Imagine opening a novel, landing in a new scene… and having no idea who’s talking, where they are, or when this is happening.
If that’s ever happened to you, you know the feeling: disoriented, confused, maybe even tempted to put the book down.
That’s why anchoring your scenes is essential—and why Fictionary’s Scene Anchored story element deserves your close attention.
To anchor a scene means to orient the reader quickly and clearly in three specific areas:
Every scene needs to establish these three things in the first few paragraphs, ideally without being heavy-handed. When done well, the reader glides effortlessly into the scene. When missing, the reader stumbles—and might not keep going.
On the Evaluate page in StoryCoach, you’ll assess each of the following:
Click the blue circle to mark each as anchored when those elements are established early in the scene.
Then, on the Visualize > Story Map, select:
☑️ Scene Name
☑️ POV Anchored
☑️ Scene Setting Anchored
☑️ Scene Time Anchored
You’ll get a clear visual of which scenes are doing their job—and which ones may leave your readers drifting.
When your scenes aren’t anchored, your reader may:
Worse yet, they may stop reading out of frustration.
And as editors or story coaches, that’s exactly what we want to help our clients prevent.
After reading the manuscript, check the Story Map. If:
📌 Important Exception:
If your POV character is waking up in a foggy room or trapped in darkness, intentional disorientation can add tension. Just make sure it’s clear the confusion is on purpose—not poor anchoring.
Want to keep your readers locked into your story? Make sure they’re never confused about:
Identify the POV character early. Especially important in multi-POV stories.
Offer setting clues in the first few lines. You don’t need a full description—just orient the reader.
Ground your scene in time. Has a minute passed? A year? Is it day or night? Let readers know quickly.
Examples:
Subtle anchoring works just as well as direct exposition—and often better.
If you find a scene hard to track, it might be missing an anchor. Use the “Anchored” elements to flag what’s missing: POV, setting, or time.
Then suggest the author:
Remember: the sooner a reader understands who, where, and when, the sooner they’re drawn back into the story.
Every new scene is a reset. And every reset needs a reorientation.
Whether your story spans hours or centuries, anchoring the reader in POV, place, and time gives them confidence—and gives your story clarity.
It’s not about writing more—it’s about writing with precision.
After almost two years of on-and-off writing, rewriting, and walking with Millie and Molly through every challenge they face, I’m honored to announce that my newest novel, Millie’s Daughter, is officially available.
This story is raw, emotional, and deeply personal. It’s about a mother who risks everything to protect her daughter—and the journey that follows when home is no longer safe.
Millie Anderson has only one goal: get her daughter, Molly, out alive.
What begins as a desperate escape from domestic violence becomes a powerful story of survival and resilience. From a duplex apartment in Chicago to the streets of New York City, and on to Millie’s hometown of Sanford, North Carolina, Millie’s Daughter follows the heart-pounding journey of a mother and daughter forging a new path in the face of overwhelming odds.
Along the way, they encounter moments of kindness, unexpected allies, and threats that refuse to stay in the past. As their bond deepens, so do the questions about trust, healing, and what it truly means to start over.
Millie’s Daughter is a story about grit, grace, and the enduring power of love—even in life’s darkest moments.
You can now order Millie’s Daughter in the following ways:
To everyone who encouraged this story, listened to my ideas, or simply asked how it was going—thank you. Writing is often a lonely road, but your interest and support make it worth every mile.
If you do read Millie’s Daughter, I’d love to hear your thoughts. A short review on Amazon or Payhip goes a long way in helping others discover the book. And as always, feel free to share the story with someone who might need it.
Here’s to new beginnings—and to the stories that help us find our way home.
Warmly, Richard L. Fricks
Welcome back to The Pencil’s Edge.
What’s the last thing your reader sees before flipping to the next chapter?
The final line of a scene is like a cinematic cut: it either fades to black, slams a door, or opens one. Fictionary’s Scene Closing Type element helps writers strategically shape those final moments to heighten tension, reinforce character, and keep readers eagerly pressing on.
We often obsess over great beginnings—and rightly so—but how you end a scene is just as important.
Scene closings have a job to do:
When every scene ends the same way—especially with description—readers feel it. Repetition dulls impact. That’s where the Scene Closing Type insight comes in.
Each scene can end in one of these four ways, based on the last sentence in the scene:
“I’m not coming back,” Jake said.
Ends with someone speaking—often leaving the reader with a direct or emotionally charged statement.
Get a grip and pull yourself together, she thought.
Ends with the POV character’s internal reflection, hinting at growth, doubt, or decision.
The clouds parted over the empty marina as the tide rolled in.
Ends with atmospheric observation or narration—can calm the pacing or reinforce tone.
He clenched his jaw, slammed the door, and disappeared into the dark.
Ends with movement or physical response—drives urgency and motion.
On the Evaluate page in StoryCoach, choose the appropriate Scene Closing Type from the drop-down menu once you’ve read the final sentence.
After completing your read-through, use the Scene Closing Type insight on the Visualize page to assess:
Your closings might need work if:
📌 Tip: If a scene ends with summary or setting detail, consider cutting back to an earlier moment with a stronger hook—like a revelation, decision, or threat.
Let’s say your scene involves someone discovering a betrayal. Here’s how you might close it differently:
Each version reveals something unique—emotion, tone, pace, and character response.
As you revise:
🎯 Pro tip: If your genre thrives on suspense (thrillers, mysteries, YA), lean into action and dialogue. If you’re writing introspective or literary fiction, thought and description may be more dominant—but still require variation.
Your reader just hit the last line of your scene. What do you want them to feel?
What do you want them to do?
If the answer is “keep reading”—then your scene closing type better make it irresistible.
Use it well. And use it wisely.
Here’s more about my latest novel–Millie’s Daughter.
Every once in a while, a character walks into a story and surprises you.
You think you know what role they’ll play. You think they’re just the daughter, just the sidekick, just the kid.
And then they start speaking.
And you realize: they’re the soul of the story.
That’s who Molly Anderson is in Millie’s Daughter.
She’s more than the girl Millie is trying to protect. She’s more than a victim of circumstance. She’s more than her age.
She’s the reason Millie runs. She’s the reason the reader stays. She’s the one whose quiet observations and buried questions ripple through the entire novel.
Molly is twelve when Millie’s Daughter begins—but life has forced her to grow up early.
She doesn’t have the language for everything she’s witnessed. She doesn’t always know how to express what she’s feeling. But she knows.
She knows something is deeply wrong in their home. She knows her mother is afraid but trying to hide it. She knows to stay quiet when Colton is drinking and to disappear when voices rise.
And yet, she is not broken.
Molly reads. She writes. She thinks in metaphors and keeps a small notebook where she sketches her thoughts—little stories, reflections, lists of questions she’s too scared to ask out loud.
In a way, Molly is the novelist inside the novel.
For me, Molly represents what survives.
When everything else is stripped away—safety, comfort, normalcy—what remains is this irrepressible spirit. This fire.
She challenges Millie without even realizing it. She grounds the story when the danger escalates. And in the end, she’s the one who carries it forward.
Molly isn’t perfect. She’s impulsive. She’s scared. She sometimes retreats into silence or fantasy. But that’s what makes her real. And it’s also what makes her brave.
Here’s a moment from early in the novel, just after she and Millie have left Chicago behind and are waiting at a rundown bus station:
“You think he’ll find us?” Millie looked at her, startled. “No. No, honey. We’re safe.” Molly nodded and turned her gaze back to the vending machines. She didn’t believe her. But she didn’t want her to lie better. She just wanted to get on the bus.
This line always gets me. Because in it, Molly does what so many children do: she sees the truth, understands the stakes, and chooses—out of love—not to press any further.
Molly’s voice deepens as the novel unfolds. And though Millie’s Daughter is told in third person, it’s Molly’s emotional growth that quietly steals the show.
In the next post, I’ll be sharing more about the novel’s upcoming release—what you can expect, where it will be available, and what kind of experience I hope it gives you as a reader.
But for now, I’d love to know:
Have you ever read a novel where the child wasn’t just present—but essential? One whose voice stuck with you long after the story ended?
Let me know in the comments—or just hit reply if you’re receiving this via email.
Until next time, —Richard
Welcome back to The Pencil’s Edge.
What’s the first thing your reader sees when they start a new scene?
If your answer is “uh… description, probably?”—you might be missing a key opportunity to grab their attention.
The Scene Opening Type is one of the most underrated elements in storytelling, yet it plays a huge role in pacing, tone, and reader engagement. With Fictionary’s StoryCoach, this becomes a trackable—and improvable—element of your craft.
Every scene in your novel begins one of four ways:
Each of these has its strengths, and a well-written novel uses a variety of them to keep the storytelling dynamic and engaging.
Readers subconsciously look for momentum. The first line of a scene tells them whether they’re about to plunge into conflict, reflect on emotion, or learn something new about the setting.
If every scene starts the same way—especially with description—the story starts to feel static. Predictable. Easy to skim. And for writers, that’s dangerous territory.
A good balance of scene openings ensures:
In StoryCoach, you’ll tag each scene’s opening type using the drop-down menu under the Plot tab on the Evaluate page.
Here’s how to identify the opening:
“Don’t touch my dog,” Susan said.
💬 If the first sentence includes speech—even with a tag—it’s dialogue.
Since Lance didn’t like personal messages on his cell, Shannon wrote a note.
🧠 If it starts in a character’s head, it’s thought.
The sun rose over the Atlantic, the waves breaking like glass.
🌅 Any narrative that sets the scene visually is description.
Jake scrambled forward and pulled Shannon’s tether.
🏃 Movement without speech or internal commentary = action.
Once you’ve tagged each scene, visit the Scene Opening Types insight on the Visualize page to see your balance. Is it weighted heavily toward one type? Could that type be used more strategically?
If you notice:
…it’s time to revise.
Example:
If your protagonist just experienced a traumatic loss and the next scene begins with a scenic panorama of the beach, you might be dulling the emotional impact. Try opening with thought or action to keep the emotional momentum.
Here’s a quick guide based on scene intent:
| Scene Purpose | Recommended Opening Type |
|---|---|
| Emotional Reaction | Thought |
| Conflict or Danger | Action |
| Revelation or Conversation | Dialogue |
| Grounding in New Setting | Description |
🎯 Tip: When using thought or dialogue, don’t delay revealing who else is in the scene. Readers need quick grounding to stay oriented.
📖 Genre Matters:
You’ve got one line to hook your reader—use it well.
The Scene Opening Type doesn’t just set the tone—it determines whether your scene surges forward or stumbles at the gate. With Fictionary, you can track, balance, and refine this element until every opening hits just right.
If you passed her on the street, you might not notice her.
She doesn’t beg for attention. She doesn’t command the room. She doesn’t crack jokes to make you like her.
But Millie Anderson doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful.
She is the heartbeat of Millie’s Daughter. And if you let her in, she just might stay with you forever.
When readers first meet Millie, she’s not in the middle of some grand transformation. She’s in survival mode. She’s hiding bruises under makeup. She’s quietly transferring money into a hidden account. She’s tucking her daughter into bed at night while watching the door.
What struck me while writing her is that strength doesn’t always look like strength.
Sometimes it looks like folding laundry while planning an escape. Sometimes it looks like applying for a job in another city while pretending everything’s fine. Sometimes it looks like protecting your child at the cost of your sanity.
Millie is doing all of that—and more.
Writing Millie wasn’t easy.
She’s guarded. She keeps her thoughts close. She doesn’t want to be pitied. And she doesn’t always make “perfect” decisions—because no one in real danger ever does.
But she’s also:
Millie also lives with bipolar II disorder, something she never uses as an excuse—but never hides either. Her highs and lows are real. They color her judgment, complicate her escape, and challenge her recovery. But they also add to her humanity.
She is not her diagnosis. She is not her trauma. She is a mother who refuses to let her daughter grow up afraid.
“I don’t care if the judge believes me. I don’t care if the world believes me. I just care that Molly never has to see his face again.”
It’s lines like that—raw, simple, protective—that remind me why I had to write this book.
Here’s a short excerpt from early in the novel, when Millie has just made the final decision to flee:
Millie stood at the edge of the bed, watching Molly sleep. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, and Millie imagined time freezing right there—no Colton, no deadlines, no fear. Just a child, safe under blankets she didn’t know were packed for leaving. She swallowed hard, knowing what came next. Once they walked out that door, nothing would ever be the same. But staying? That wasn’t an option anymore. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered. “We’re running because I love you. And someday, you’ll understand what that means.”
In the next post, I’ll introduce you to Molly—the daughter at the center of it all. She’s wise beyond her years, carries a fierce sense of justice, and has a gift for seeing through people’s masks.
If Millie is the novel’s heart, Molly is its voice.
Thanks for reading—and if Millie has already left a mark on you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
—Richard