I had a dream about you after everything happened. We were five again, playing in the schoolyard. I was aware of your body even then, how sinuous it was compared to mine. In my dream, recess came to an end and you were behind me in line. You weren’t talking because you were starting to…
Dear lovely reader,
You thought this editor’s note was gonna be about comics. But you’d be wrong. It’s about tampons.
Specifically, about the instructions on the back of the tampon box.
You see, dear reader, I struggled to read growing up. The letters were more interested in wiggling around than being deciphered. Phone numbers were impossible to remember. I couldn’t spell anything to save my life. Little b’s and d’s conspired to look identical. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead at the mere mention of reading aloud in class.
Stubbornness became my strongest ally. Dani Hedlund, I told myself, wasn’t going to admit she couldn’t do something, that she had a problem. She was going to be just like everyone else, and even if she wasn’t, if she was “behind,” she was just gonna fake it ‘til she made it.
But having not cracked reading by the age of twelve—and having gotten past the humiliation of being the one kid in my class who went to special ed—I started to think I could just live without the skill all together. My little town was too small and too poor to have a proper special ed teacher, to even know what the word “dyslexic” really meant, so I’d instead been branded with the title “slow.” Well, by the teachers anyway. My peers had other words for it.
So, the game became not about learning to read, but about pretending. I’d mastered asking my dad to read my homework to me at night, memorizing anything I might need to “read aloud” in class. Not to worry my parents, I would sit between them as they read in front of the roaring fire and stare down at my Goosebumps books, carefully turning pages when they did, eyes running back and forth over meaningless words.
And really, the pretending wasn’t that hard. Sure, my grades weren’t great. Despite studying all the time, I lived in a world of Cs. And yeah, I dreaded school, dreaded failing, dreaded the sympathetic looks of my teachers even more than the mockery of my peers, but hell, it was just school. How much did school even matter? Like my parents, I wasn’t planning on going to college. Just the thought made me feel nauseous. No way I’d willingly subject myself to four more years of torture.
But then, everything changed.
In the locker room, I heard about a girl in my class getting her period. And although I hadn’t yet, I panicked. Later that night, sitting on the floor of my parents’ bathroom, I realized my hack of having Dad read things to me wasn’t going to work this time. I remember staring at my mom’s pink tampon box, trying over and over again to make the letters form words, to make those words form sentences. To understand what the hell those sentences meant.
I was so sure they would explain away the horrifying black and white diagrams on the box (so much scarier than the illustrations in my Goosebumps books), that the words held secrets to being an adult, to being independent, that I just couldn’t unlock.
And I started to wonder: How many other things would there be like this? Things I wanted to know privately? Or what about the times I needed to read something, and my dad wouldn’t be there? In a small farm town, we didn’t really have street signs—or, well, streets—but the city, what if I wanted to move there some day? Surely, I would need to read the signs? Figure out which bus goes where?
Soon the tampon box was even harder to read, my tears making the wiggling letters even wigglier. And like those letters, I felt the promise of independence grow blurrier and blurrier… until I couldn’t see it at all.
A few days later, I knocked on my Dad’s office door, where his bear of a body was hunched over the table, glasses slid down, nose nearly touching the fly he was tying. Dad tied the best prince nymphs in town, always eager for a break to take us fishing. But when he couldn’t get away—which was most of the time—he’d sit up in his office and stockpile flies, like a man who longs to travel but can only pack bags he’ll never take to the airport.
“What’s up, pumpkin?” he asked, not looking up.
I don’t know why I didn’t go to my mom about this. It was a girl thing, after all, but my mom was always so put together, never a wrinkle on her pink blouse, never an eyelash uncurled, and I feared that perfection. Someone like me would never be able to live up to that standard.
But Dad? Dad was messy, funny, weird. His hair was always wild, like he’d been driving with the windows down. His Hawaiian shirts were often buttoned incorrectly, flip flops held together with electrical tape. And it wasn’t just his appearance. Dad didn’t think or talk like the other parents. Dad thought Dune was way better than the bible, that lightning storms were better than the movies, that school would never be as important as the Rolling Stones and a great mayfly hatch. Surely, he wouldn’t judge me.
“Dad, I… well, the thing is… ”
“Take your time, kid,” he said, finally looking up to see me blushing. “And hand me some thread.”
“Which color?”
“Surprise me.”
I walked over to the wall of thread spools, all neatly organized, a rainbow of possibilities. Dad knew that always calmed me. The colors. Being creative. Not having just one right way to do something.
He also knew that talking was easier for me when I had something to do with my hands, when I didn’t have to make eye contact.
“I think… I’m… bad at reading,” I finally confessed.
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, the words… I… they don’t stay still. I can’t… I don’t understand them. They hurt my head.”
“All the time?”
“Yeah.”
I heard him lay his tools on the table, click, click, then the creak of his chair as he sat up straighter.
“But your Goosebumps books?”
I swallowed, fingers shaking over a bright yellow spool of thread. “I’m just… looking at the pages.”
“But… you seem to genuinely enjoy them? I’m always looking up and you’re smiling.”
“Oh, yeah… I’m, ah… I’m making up the stories in my head, from the illustrations.”
“But you aren’t reading the words?”
I could feel myself tearing up, shame burning through me. I remember being so sure my dad could see my whole body blushing, the skin on the back of my neck like a red stop light. Turn back. Go no further, the sign said. This girl is stupid. Worthless. Unlovable. Stop before you get tangled in the wreckage.
“How long?” he finally asked.
“For… ever. Always.”
“Hmm.”
I remember how long the silence felt. Endless. Finally, I heard him stand up, walk over. I was too afraid to turn around, to see how disappointed, disgusted, his face would be. Something lifted in front of my line of sight: the nymph he was tying. I remember its fluffy gray body woven around the hook with a little green feather coming out the back, like a bird’s tail.
“What do you think?”
I knew the question wasn’t about the quality of the fly (Dad was the best) but about the color to add next. Fish aren’t entirely color blind, but the conditions of the water affect how their sight has evolved. Freshwater fish, like trout and salmon, can see reds, oranges, blues, and greens, and you want to make a fly that catches their attention.
I looked from the fly to the wall of threads, carefully selecting a burnt orange and then a shimmery, metallic purple. “Orange first, on the body,” I said. “But maybe a stripey layer of purple on the very top? So they get to see the glitter, and we get to see the cool colors.”
“Magic.” He took the thread, and unlike me, his hands were big enough to hold both spools in one hand. “Listen, Pumpkin, I don’t know about the reading thing. Let me think on it. But…” He waited until I looked up at him to finish. “I do know something already.”
“What?”
“You’re not dumb. I promise. It’s like what Mick Jagger said, ‘Different isn’t dumb.’”
A smile cracked on my face. “Did Jagger really say that?”
Dad shrugged. “Probably… at some point. He’s a talkative fellow.”
A week later, I was summoned up to Dad’s office and handed a present. It was summer, but Dad still wrapped it in Christmas paper. Taped to the front was the orange and purple fly with the green tail. When I tore the paper away, revealing the cover of a book beneath, I was instantly disappointed. How in the world did Dad think I’d be able to read this? Was he telling me I was just lazy? That I just needed to practice more?
But then I flipped it open, and there weren’t walls of daunting text. There were illustrations everywhere.
And not the sporadic black and white sketches in my other books, but big, colorful drawings on shiny paper. Some of the illustrations had words in text bubbles or in boxes, but it wasn’t overwhelming.
“It’s called X-Men,” Dad said. Then he leaned behind him to pull out another identical comic book. “I got one for me too, and I thought we could read them and then talk about them. Like a book club.”
“But… what if…”
“It’s okay. The images will do most of the work, showing you what’s happening. But try to work on the words, okay? I think it’ll get easier.”
And it did.
Dad didn’t know any of the amazing research about how comics are an incredible tool for low-literacy and reluctant readers. He didn’t know that the lack of justified formatting of the text makes it infinitely easier for people with dyslexia to read. He didn’t know why I struggled, but he knew that I loved stories, and if I could just find a way to engage with them, to get pulled into the plot and characters, then I would have enough passion to try, to really try, to get past the fear of doing it wrong. To create a system that worked for my brain.
Decades later, when you ask my mom what my struggles with reading were like, she always tells the story of me running through the house, loudly and frantically reading everything—cereal boxes, postcards, the back of her tampon box. That’s always the one she remembers, me standing in front of her in my My Little Pony pjs, reading the entire back of the tampon box like it was Shakespeare.
“It was like a lightbulb turning on,” Mom always says, “and then you couldn’t stop.”
But Mom was wrong. It wasn’t a lightbulb. Wasn’t an “ah-ha” moment. It was a long road. A road paved with brightly colored panels of superheroes. And like my favorite X-Men, Rogue, mastering her mutant powers, it took eons to learn my limits, to practice, to be strong enough to not despair. I learned to look for patterns instead of individual letters, to use the easy-to-identify words (nice short ones) as anchors to more effectively guess at the bigger ones—just as I had used the illustrations to anchor the text in my comics. With a strong coding framework, I could read most words as long as they were in context, even when all the d’s looked like b’s and all the n’s masqueraded as r’s.
But Mom was right about it being impossible for me to stop. Once the passion turned on, I was hooked. For me, reading became a portal to other words, to other experiences. And although it was hard, although it took me so much longer to read anything than my peers, I loved it. Not just to the act of reading. But what it gave me, how it changed who I was. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the scared one, the quiet one, hoping to go unnoticed.
I was the girl with her hand raised in class, the girl who knew the right answer.
And that became addictive, being good enough, smart enough, knowing things. Not just how tampons worked (which, it turned out, was just as horrifying as the diagrams), but also how the world worked. Physics. Mathematics. Politics. The economics of why “spice” was so valuable in Dune. How Winston Churchill conducted meetings in the bathtub. How hard it was for Banner to control the Hulk. How, in all those stories, a single person, with enough stubbornness, could actually change the world and make it better.
It’s not surprising that I wanted to grow up to be like them.
Nearly a decade later, I sat across from a white man in a black suit at the University of Oxford and finally got diagnosed with dyslexia. I remember his shock, eyes moving from my transcripts to my newly printed cognitive reasoning score. I finally received official confirmation that I wasn’t slow, I wasn’t lazy. My brain was just a bit different.
I remember watching his eyebrows furrow, an unspoken question written in their confused curves. “How in god’s name did you get into Oxford?” those eyebrows asked. But he didn’t ask me. Instead, he took
a deep breath, saying instead, “Of course, reading and numbers are obviously a challenge. Anything with sequencing. But you can avoid that.” He picked up a paper before him, presumably my transcripts covered in firsts. “I assume you’re studying… arts? Painting? Maybe dance?”
I smiled, proud, stubborn. “English, philosophy, and maths.”
He laughed because he thought I was joking. I laughed because I wasn’t.
I was in the last year of my degree, and I’d decided to turn down every smart-move job offer to instead keep running a little dream of a nonprofit. A dream of books and storytelling and people like my dad, who looked past the obvious to find the potential hidden within.
I think of my laughter every time I step into a classroom, comics like the ones you’re about to read tucked under my arm. From low-income high schools to max-security prisons, we use comics to teach low-literacy and reluctant students, from dyslexic kids like me to those who have fallen through societal cracks in far more drastic and heartbreaking ways.
These comics don’t just help improve literacy, critical thinking, and communication; they can give us the biggest and most important gift of all: the ability and desire to change the story we tell about ourselves. To be heroes in our own narratives. To discover our own superpowers, to nurture them, to develop the resilience and stubbornness to fight for our future, even when the world tells us we don’t have what it takes.
In these pages, you’ll find nine amazing stories that do just that: make us think differently about the world. All of these works were first published in Brink’s publishing imprint, F(r)iction, a collection of amazing stories, poems, essays, and comics that we teach in all our nonprofit education programs. Spanning nearly a decade of publishing, these original short comics are our favorite and most effective teaching tools, helping students think differently about themselves and the societal norms that try to shape us.
Some stories are fantastical, saturated in family curses, apocalyptic worlds, long journeys to the stars. But, like the X-Men comics I first fell in love with, real themes and hard lessons live beneath the fantasy. Characters explore the difficulties of accepting their bodies, of finding hope in the darkest times, of letting go of the past to carve a new future. We see how caring more about success than the people around us can transform even the strongest hero into a villain, that fear can erode the good in our lives, that accepting our flaws is the only way to embrace our strengths. Others are steeped in reality, like the comic memoir that closes the issue. “Brilliance” came out of our Frames Comic Program, a story from a formerly incarcerated student who spent nearly a year reading and discussing comics with us as he sculpted his own powerful memoir.
For the comic lover, you’ll see some big names from your favorite comics and novels, but the majority of these stories are from emerging and debut talent. New, brave creatives whom we’ve mentored to make sure that the next generation of readers can be inspired by diverse, incredible voices.
I hope, as you read these stories, that you think of your own story. Of the decisions you’ve made that have created the person you’ve become, both the good and the bad. I hope you embrace the parts of you that you love and have the courage to acknowledge and accept the parts you don’t. And remember, above all, that you have the power to decide who and what you want to be. We might not have mutant powers, but we are all powerful. We all have unique talents and perspectives, and we can do truly incredible things with them.
And when in doubt, remember what Mick Jagger probably never said: “Different isn’t dumb.” Different can be a magic all on its own.
Dani Hedlund
Editor-in-Chief
Why do we dream? Science has yet to fully answer this question, though many theories exist. Some suggest that dreams help us consolidate and analyze memories and serve as practice for real life situations. Physiologically, experts believe the forebrain generates dreams while the brainstem generates rapid eye movement (REM) sleep, the cycle of sleep during…
You’re in a torchlit cave in France studying a hunting chronicle left behind by an Aurignacian who scratched the burnt end of a stick onto rock. You’re in the Met trying to decipher the hieroglyphs etched onto a slab of stone by Egyptians. You’re in a pew in Wisconsin ignoring the sermon and taking in the vivid, sun-soaked colors of the nativity of Christ pictured in the stained glass. You’re in a bathroom stall in Spokane trying not to laugh at the most profane mural of graffiti even as you uncap a pen to add your own cipher. You’re in a bar in Austin and a man with whiskey breath pulls up his sleeve and shows you a rippling slab of muscle coated in ink and tells you a story of grief that explains why he spent twenty hours getting needled. You’re in a nursing home in Boca Raton and your grandmother is flipping through scrapbooks and photo albums, telling you wandering stories about the ghosts of her past.
Businesses like to categorize (and subcategorize and sub-sub categorize) things, even our stories. A bookstore or a record store will send you in one direction for horror or metal, another direction for romance or country. Streaming apps will direct your scroll into peculiar strands like “Feel Good Food and Travel” or “Buddy Late Night Comedies.” Producers and editors worry over metrics and formulas and graphs. But our brains aren’t driven by algorithms. And most storytelling ignores taxonomy.
Comics embody this truth; they are a medium of defiance and rebellion. I’m not just talking about their niche or underground status. Or how, throughout their history, they have been a topic of moral panic and censorship, maligned by parents and politicians and the media. I’m also talking about the way they rebel against any strict form, flout boundaries, lean into experimentation, appeal to synesthesia.
They blend visual and textual literacy so that the navigation of the page can be driven by color or border or letter or line. If the sentences of a novel or memoir are laid out as cleanly and uniformly as rows of corn in a field, the pages of a comic surprise and even assault you with every page turn, as you take in the epic visuals of a splash page or tick, tick, tick your way through the boxes of a nine-panel grid or descend and ascend through five vertical columns. You’re constantly relearning how to process information—which makes you lean forward, which makes you arguably more engaged and complicit in the act of storytelling.
Sometimes, when I read a graphic novel or grab a monthly issue off the rack, I slowly digest each page, savoring and delighting in every detail. But sometimes I flip through to pleasure in the art alone. And (I say this as a writer) here is the humbling truth of comics. You can ignore every dialogue balloon and narration caption and still finish the story and comprehend it and think, now THAT was a hell of a comic book. The artist is the true director and wizard of the medium, in other words. This is one of the reasons comics are considered such an excellent teaching tool. The reader is decoding language, yes, but the setting, the time, the arc of the plot, the behavior and feelings of the characters can all be comprehended on some level through the art alone, making comics a vivid gateway drug to literacy. And from there, self-expression, conceptualizing new futures, rewriting the negative narratives that the world has told us about ourselves. Let’s drop more anthologies like this one into classrooms and libraries and prisons (and and and and) please.
Even if superheroes have been gobbled up by the Hollywood machine, comics are far from mainstream. Seeking out the single issues and trades and omnibus editions remains a cult activity, the brick-and-mortar comic book shops often secreted away in strip malls between the vape stores and tanning salons. The true believers might bag and board their issues or they might read them over and over and over until they fall to pieces in their hands, but these are holy texts. The cape-and-spandex canon of DC and Marvel is the gateway drug that leads you to the punk rock published by Image or Storm King or Vault. And those stories might lead you to local zines or internet showcases like Webtoons…
…or journals like F(r)iction. The name alone—a name that embodies defiance, a welcome discomfort— makes it clear that this is an ideal home for comics. And over the past few years they’ve been publishing some mind-melting work by boss-level creators. See for yourself. In these pages you’ll be assaulted by the hack-and-slash aesthetic of Carmen Maria Machado and Shan Bennion, you’ll be seduced into the sepia-toned nightmare of Ben Mehlos, you’ll be lost in the desert darkness and spectral wonder of Rebecca Roanhorse and Isabel Burke, and more, so much more, a catalog of some of the most exciting and challenging work that will widen your eyes and light up all your nerve endings and constantly surprise you.
Dear lovely reader, Of the many embarrassing tales that plague my pre-adolescence, few haunted me more than the time I tried to fly. You see, it was rare in my elementary days to get an invite to a friend’s house, as I was, well, an odd child. Imagine bum-length, dishwater blonde tangles and a particular love of wearing my…
Many writers suffer from a slump from time to time, especially while tackling a big project like a novel. After days or weeks of plugging away, you hit a wall and don’t know what the next word should be, much less the next few pages. Or else you encounter a part in your story that is more difficult to get through, like a B plot or lull after the climax. Whatever the issue may be, it’s easy to give up, put your writing project away, and hope for a day when you feel inspired again. But this is a trap—don’t fall into it! Use the tips from this blog for practical and creative strategies to push through writer’s block and rekindle your motivation.
Prompts can bring a fresh perspective and reduce that overwhelmed feeling you have when staring at a new blank page. Plus, they are fun to work with and can take your story in unexpected, but not bad, directions. Here are a few prompts to help you get started:
There are also a vast number of writing prompts available online, if none of the above work for you—or you’re looking for more. One fun thing I like to do is look up a list of 100 Writing Prompts, which usually has 100 individual words meant to inspire. Using even a single word to start off a new part of your story can get those creative juices flowing again.
You know those TV show moments where a character needs to lie about their identity so they glance around and come up with a silly name like “Iceberg Lettuce”? Well, as silly as it sounds, you can do the same with writing. Look around you. Who or what can you see that might inspire a story? One idea to help with this is to go to a public place, like a park or café and do some people watching. Observe those around you, see what they do, and when something captures your interest, write it down. How can you incorporate that into the story you’re already telling?
Timed writing sessions create manageable goals to reach. You know you only have to keep writing for 20 minutes, so it’s easier to plug away. And the writing doesn’t have to be good—it just has to be on the page. To make this writing session the most productive it can be, eliminate all distractions for as long as the timer is on. Turn off your phone (unless you’re using it as a timer), close all your tabs, and put yourself in a quiet place. Who knows, maybe you’ll feel so inspired that 20 minutes will turn into two hours!
Sometimes you’re stuck on a scene or at a particular point in a story because it lacks conflict. Adding a new character can bring a new energy and offer more avenues for drama and tension. Think about a character who acts as a foil to another character, or who is obviously working in opposition to them. Make your new character clash with the ones who already exist, ensuring that you’re furthering the drama of the story. Who knows, you may end up inventing your favorite person to write about!
Another way to create drama and tension is through failure. When a character does not succeed at getting what they want, it automatically adds depth and tension to the scene. The failure doesn’t have to be anything big—it could be something everyday, like losing an important item, failing to keep a promise, or answering a question wrong. Whatever it is, it will add layers to your story by putting your character into a situation in which they don’t succeed. How they react to that, and the effect it has on the rest of the story, can motivate you to continue writing.
Tarot decks are not just fun and mystical, they’re often also beautiful, featuring art by talented artists to represent the different cards. For a fun way to get some inspiration, try using one to give a character a reading or take a description from a tarot book to determine a plot point. Other kinds of games, like Cards Against Humanity or Wingspan or a regular set of cards could also be used to inspire! Even playing a game like Scrabble can be a fun way to take a step back and use your brain in a different way for a while, which can get the creative juices pumping once again.
Don’t own a tarot deck? Check out our Literary Tarot. It’s a unique take on a classic tarot deck that utilizes famous stories to unlock the secrets of the arcana. Learn more here!
Sometimes, we feel stagnant because our surroundings are. It may be time to mix up where and when you write. Put yourself in a space where the people and sights around you can serve as invigoration. Some of our favorites include coffee shops, museums, parks, libraries, and libraries. Hearing others’ conversations or even just putting yourself in a new environment can help turn on the part of your brain that gets you writing.
Aside from all these prompts and ideas, the most important thing is to just keep writing no matter what. Even if you end up scrapping everything you write based on these or other prompts, using them will help you explore your characters and world more and hopefully result in further inspiration. Everyone struggles with feeling unmotivated sometimes, and so even if you do need to take a break from writing for a few days, don’t let it discourage you. Remember to celebrate even the smallest breakthroughs—like putting words on the page after a week—and find ways to inspire yourself.
Now that you know different ways to outline a story, how to build suspense and tension, how to write compelling dialogue, and more, it’s time to get started on a first draft of your novel (or other long-form work)! With the tips and tricks gathered from the Facts of Fiction series so far, there are plenty of tools in the workhouse to use when writing a longer, more complex story. But how does one even begin tackling the challenge of writing an entire novel?
First of all, know you’re not alone. November is now widely recognized as National Novel Writing Month, and whether you’re participating in the challenge of writing a novel this November or just interested in dipping your toes into writing a longer story, plenty of people are on this journey with you. Writing challenges can motivate you to strive for a realistic, if challenging, goal—such as 50,000 words in a month. Having this goal can keep you on-track for writing a novel. Our goal is to provide you with tools, like the ones outlined below, to keep you on track in beginning and maintaining momentum throughout writing a first draft of a novel or other long-form story.
Setting goals is one of the best ways to get words on the page. For example, a goal of completing 50,000 words in one month to about 1,700 words per day. Knowing and striving towards this daily goal will be the first step in setting yourself up for success in completing the challenge. Plus, it will force you to get into the habit of daily writing.
While not every writer writes every day, getting into a regular habit of writing will help you become a better writer—and will ultimately result in much more content. Depending on your schedule, setting aside time to write is the first step in tackling any writing project. You might follow a schedule that looks like this:
Or maybe it will look like this:
Or like this:
Or whatever works best for you. Some writers find it easier to break writing periods up into smaller sessions. Others like to settle in for longer periods of time to really flex their writing muscle. Either way, the important part is making it fit into your schedule and what feels good for you.
Aside from time goals, setting a word count goal can also help. You should base this on your own writing pace. Someone who likes to write quickly might want to set a higher goal, whereas someone who takes their time should avoid overwhelming themself. Generally speaking, between 500 to 1000 words per day is usually doable. Add more to make faster progress. Take some away if you find you’re struggling to hit your count.
There are also plenty of tools to help you do things like set a writing schedule and hit a word count each day or session. Here are three of our favorites:
You really don’t need anything fancy to write. These tools can be helpful if you find that you’re not getting as much writing done as you’d like, or if you need a place to organize all of your thoughts. But at the end of the day, it’s putting the pen to the page—or the fingertips to the keyboard, in this case—that will get you results! Other goals you might strive for are: number of pages written, story progress based on an outline, or chapters finished.
One question that writers always have to answer is what their editing process is going to be like. When tackling a challenge like writing 50,000 words in a month, we recommend just going for it and leaving the editing for later. But for regular writing, you may take a few different approaches.
One option is to edit as you draft. The risk of this approach is slowing down your progress because you’re constantly going back to fix what you’ve written. This can sometimes feel like taking two steps back for every one step forward and may even have you questioning elements of your story to the point of frustration. If that’s the case, just remember that a first draft is a rough draft and you shouldn’t be striving for perfection with it. However, this approach can result in a more polished first draft, which can make further revisions feel less overwhelming.
Another option is to wait until the end to edit anything. This will help you reach whatever writing goals you’ve set (especially if you’re working from an outline), but it may also give you more work for further drafts. Writers who enjoy this approach may find themselves with more content overall, which can either feel good or overwhelming.
Finally, a third option is to combine the two. If you’ve set up a writing schedule that you’re trying to stick to, maybe once or twice a week you can build in a specific period for editing. This way, you’re not constantly editing, but you’re not leaving it all to the end either.
Every writer does it differently. Our advice is to not let yourself get bogged down with the little details, whichever approach you take. Making the process of writing joyful is the best way to ensure you’ll make it a habit, from the first page of your novel to the last.
If you decide to edit while writing, limit yourself to editing only a certain amount per day—and make sure you’re still hitting your word goals. If you prefer saving all the editing for the end, try highlighting places you know you want to fix so you have guidelines when you do dive into editing. Always remember that your first stab at writing something isn’t going to be the best version. Only through the process of revision can you land on a final draft that feels complete. So don’t be afraid to take risks with the first version of any story and just get those words on the page!
When tackling a complex project like a novel, it’s important to:
No matter what happens, taking on a complex project like a novel is a huge task. You should feel good about even considering it! Let us know what kind of novel you plan to embark on soon on our Instagram. And if you feel great about a short story, poem, flash fiction piece, or creative nonfiction work you’ve written, consider submitting to F(r)iction. We’re always looking for new voices to feature.
It’s spooky season! You know what that means. Besides all the Halloween decorations in stores that have been there since August, and perhaps even some leaves changing colors on the trees, it’s the season of scary stories. The allure of such stories lies in how they evoke chills and keep the audience on edge. But what makes a story spooky? Does it have to be about ghosts or ghouls or other creepy things? Should it always take place somewhere scary—like an empty gas station at night?
If you like all things Halloween or horror, this is the blog for you. But even if you don’t, you can still learn from how writers build suspense and tension—the key ingredients to all things frightening and dramatic—in their work.
Mood, pacing, and tension building all contribute to a story’s overall spookiness. Horror and suspense come from the balance of all these elements. The longer you can keep an audience in suspense through these techniques, the more engaged they’ll feel in the story.
Mood is a literary device that describes the feeling the audience gets while experiencing a story. In written work, it is carefully crafted through the words used in each sentence. In visual work, it is created through visual elements, like colors, lighting, and physical reactions. Moods can be anything—a poem about a lover may be praiseful and romantic, making the reader feel warm and loved; an action-packed blockbuster may be fast-paced and thrilling, making the viewer’s heart race. With spooky stories, mood is a key part of building suspense and making the audience feel fearful and uncertain.
Pacing describes the speed at which the audience experiences the story—which may differ from the speed at which it takes place. For example, a part of a story that takes place over several years may be expressed in a paragraph or even a sentence. Getting pacing right can make or break how a story feels to its audience—or even if they finish it. Go too slow, and the audience may lose interest. Move too fast, and they may miss key details or feel overwhelmed. In scary stories, pacing can be used to build suspense by slowing things down and then speeding them back up at just the right moment.
Tension boils down to the feelings of suspense and anxiety the audience experiences during a story. And it isn’t only used in spooky stories—everything from literary fiction to nonfiction and more benefits from and utilizes tension to keep readers engaged. Without it, the audience may get bored and stop engaging with the story. It is especially essential, however, in moments that seek to scare the audience. Without tension, the story will lack stakes to feel nervous about and look forward to ending. Tension asks the question, “What’s going to happen next?”
None of these elements are unique to spooky stories; they appear in all kinds of storytelling. But getting them right in a piece meant to thrill and terrify is the difference between success and failure.
Suspense boils down to isolation, fear of the unknown, and uncertainty. Let’s take a look at Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” a famous poem that builds suspense masterfully using all of the techniques outlined above. It starts:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,
weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of
forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there
came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my
chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my
chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
The first stanza of this poem invokes the image of a dark, late night, and a person almost asleep over their books, only to be abruptly jolted awake by a knocking sound. Poe’s language, in particular his use of repetition—”rapping, rapping,”—slows down the pace of the poem, leading to a building of suspense as the reader imagines who—or what—might be at his door. The mood is already set through the description of the night and the sleepiness of the narrator. And the tension comes from that word, “suddenly,” which seems to come out of nowhere and surprise the reader.
The poem goes on at this slow pace, the narrator considering who it could be and even talking to them, only to discover it’s been a raven all along. This, however, does not comfort the narrator; having been wound up by the tension built within their mind, they see the raven as a beast and omen, watching them, without blinking, endlessly.
Brevity can be a major factor in keeping tension high and focus sharp. Think about a spooky story told over a flickering campfire. If it goes on for too long, you lose interest. But kept quite brief, it will cause unease and fear even among the most stalwart of campers.
Building suspense quickly relies on careful pacing—a gradual build-up followed by a sharp twist—and balancing the “Unsaid”—what you purposefully leave out versus what you put in. After all, sometimes the scariest things are those we can only imagine.
In “The Fall of the House of Usher,” for example, Poe takes time unfolding the events that take place, allowing tension to simmer beneath the surface. The narrator arrives at the house and observes its unsettling environment, but nothing dramatic happens immediately. Instead, a sense of foreboding grows through small details—the gloomy weather, the oppressive atmosphere, Roderick’s strange behavior, and Madeline’s mysterious illness.
As the story unfolds, Poe builds suspense through a combination of atmospheric details, psychological tension, and narrative techniques. The eerie mood he creates through careful use of language keeps readers on edge from the beginning, and the sense of dread only escalates. Setting is a big part of this. The gothic language used to describe the Usher mansion and its surroundings play a part in setting the stage for something truly creepy to happen. Also, the personification of the house as a character in its own right enhances the malevolent presence as its physical deterioration mirrors the psychological decay of its inhabitants.
Read the full story here to learn more from the master of suspense and horror.
In longer formats like novels or TV shows, it’s a challenge to maintain tension over hundreds of pages or minutes on screen. Some ways to tackle this challenge include:
Mood, pacing, and tension building will also play a large part in any long-form suspenseful works, of course. Check out our Study in Classics series covering Dracula for an in-depth analysis of successfully built suspense in longer form fiction. Shows like “The Haunting of Hill House” and “American Horror Story” also do this successfully.
Atmosphere is a literary device that refers to the mood or emotional tone of a story. Unlike mood, however, it’s not the feelings evoked by that work but rather what is actually on the page. Atmosphere contributes to mood, but mood can change from scene to scene whereas atmosphere permeates a work entirely.
Atmosphere is primarily conveyed to the audience through the setting. For scary stories, this might mean gothic influences like those seen in Poe’s work or in Dracula. Dark nights, decaying, ominous mansions, and isolated locations make for a scary setting. Think about almost every horror film you’ve seen—how did the setting affect the atmosphere?
In the famous spooky tale “The Legend of the Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving, the setting of a foggy, haunted town enhances the mystery. Everything, including plot elements, seem shrouded in that thick fog, keeping readers guessing until the very end. While the tone of the story remains light and almost whimsical for much of its length, over time, the supernatural elements coupled with superstition and fear culminate in the famous, suspenseful scene with the Headless Horseman.
Another major way to convey the atmosphere of a work is through sensory details. The way that characters react to and feel in the world you’ve created will give your audience a sense of how they should be feeling as well. For example, if you’re trying to create a light, magical atmosphere, you might describe golden sunlight glittering over the ground, or a breeze fluttering playfully through the air.
There are faux pas when it comes to suspense and tension. Bad horror movies come out every year, and the techniques we’ve discussed have even been parodied in films like Scream. To avoid an overwrought or clichéd work, keep these tips in mind:
Crafting suspense is about pacing, atmosphere, and withholding information. Balancing elements of mood and tension are key to ensuring your story feels surprising, intense, and unexpected. With the techniques outlined in this work, you can create your very own spine-tingling story for Halloween or any time of year. Put your pen to the test and try writing a suspenseful scene or two—you may be surprised where you end up!
Hey, writers, guess what? November is National Novel Writing Month, aka NaNoWriMo, a time dedicated to challenging writers to complete 50,000 words—about the length of a short novel—in one month. The goal of the challenge is to get writers to write without thinking too much and just go for it without worrying about perfection. After all, the first step to getting any writing done is by writing!
Typically during the month of October, writers who intend to take on the NaNoWriMo challenge complete an outline of some kind to make the writing process smoother and easier. Of course, not everyone does this—some people are “pantsers” who prefer to write stories “by the seat of their pants.” But whether you intend to participate in NaNoWriMo, or you just want some tips on getting started on your own outline for any kind of story, read on to discover different types of outlines and how to use them in this blog.
*Warning: This blog contains major spoilers for The Hobbit by J R.R. Tolkien, as it is used for several examples!
Outlines help create cohesive, thematic narratives that make an impact with audiences. They are crucial to all kinds of storytelling. Although I have been resistant to utilizing outlines for years, I’ve come to realize just how many benefits they provide, including:
Outlines can be adapted for various types of writing, from short to long form pieces. Even poems can benefit from a short outline and, the longer the piece, the more likely you are to need an outline for it. But not all outlines have to look the same. Some people will benefit from extremely structured, detailed, and well-planned outlines. Others may even start writing first, without one, and then craft a loose outline based on what’s already on the page and adapt it from there. Others still will revise their outline as they go, adapting it to the turns the story makes as it unfolds. All kinds of outlines exist, so let’s explore a few and how to create them.
There are many types of outlines out there which can be adapted for many different kinds of storytelling. You can choose one of the below and work with it as is, or you can utilize a template and adapt it over time to fit your needs. Either way, here are a few standout storytelling outlines:
This loose outline form divides a story into three parts, each anchored around one or more plot points that drive the overall action. It’s often used for longer-form content, such as novels. Note that the below examples contain spoilers for The Hobbit by J. R.R. Tolkien.
The Three-Act Structure provides a simple framework to follow while maintaining focus on the main character, conflict, and major events of the story. Most stories following this format also include subplots—side storylines that don’t necessarily fit into the major conflict. Here’s a general outline for a Three-Act Structure that you can copy and paste into a document to fill out. To complete it, write a brief description or sentence for each section. Feel free to add more or eliminate as needed and remember that pretty much any kind of story, whether it’s a script, poem, or novel, can utilize this kind of outline.
American screenwriter Blake Snyder initially created this story structure for movies. However, it can easily be adapted for novels and other forms of storytelling. It applies the same idea as the Three-Act Structure while including fifteen plot beats that appear in many American Hollywood films. It is the standard for a sellable movie script in Hollywood.
The Save the Cat structure emphasizes character development and plot progression, ensuring that you hit key story beats and create an engaging story. Tip: Watch a movie—any American Hollywood movie—and see if you can apply the Save the Cat structure to the movie’s plot points.
We’ve already discussed this story structure at length, but it remains an essential and oft-used storytelling tool for all kinds of writers. It is a surefire way to capture the attention of your audience and create a transformative journey for your main character. Go back and read our blog all about it for a refresher, and use this template to create a hero’s journey of your own:
Act I
Act II
Act III
The Hero’s Journey as a structure provides a strong framework for character arcs and conflict resolution. It’s a great outlining technique to use for epic stories that span a lot of time.
Created by novelist Randy Ingermanson, the Snowflake Method involves starting with a brief story summary and then building on it, sort of like how snowflakes start small and build up on the ground. It is markedly different from other outline styles in that it’s as much a map for writing a book as it is for creating an outline. In the Snowflake Method, you start with a simple one-sentence summary of your story or novel, and then you expand on it, adding details in each successive round until you have an intricately detailed beat-by-beat plan for your characters, their myriad of interlocking conflicts, and the core are of the story.
The Snowflake Method definitely isn’t for every writer, but it might help crack the code of writing a great novel if it works for you. Here’s how you can get started:
The Five Steps of the Snowflake Method:
The Snowflake Method focuses on building complexity and gradually ensuring all elements work together coherently. It’s a great method to use if you have a concept in mind but aren’t sure where to take it.
You probably saw this plot structure outlined in chalk on your English teacher’s blackboard, if you’re as old as I am. Also known as Freytag’s Pyramid, as it was developed by novelist Gustav Freytag, this simple, five-stage structure helps ensure a strong narrative arc. You’ll recognize some of the language used in other structures here as well. It’s a foundational structure type which can be used for all kinds of storytelling, from poems to short stories to novels and more.
The Five Stages:
The benefit of the Plot Pyramid is that it’s less character-focused, and more plot-driven. It’s a good, simple template to follow when you just need to get the major events of a story down on the page without overthinking them too much.
This method is a great one to get at the minutiae of what makes compelling scenes within larger stories. It helps the writer think of scenes as action units within the story, and each unit must do something that moves the story forward and adds to its drama. Here’s how to use the Scene and Sequel Method:
This method of outlining really focuses on the smaller moments. It helps maintain tension and pacing by balancing the goals and outcomes of the characters in your story. It’s a particularly great method to use for something like a TV show.
Different kinds of stories require different kinds of outlines. Longer form work will need more in-depth, detailed outlining in order to ensure all the plot threads are connected, the characters have transformative arcs, and the storytelling remains cohesive. Shorter work on the other hand may just utilize a brief outline stating the purpose of the story to ensure it doesn’t get off track. Let’s consider what kinds of outlines might benefit what kinds of storytelling:
Novels — Longer form works tend to require more detailed outlines that can really develop their complex narratives. The Hero’s Journey template is always a great place to start for a novel outline, but structures like Save the Cat, the Three-Act, or the Hero’s Journey may be the best way to go here.
Short Stories — While these tend to be less complex than novels, in-depth outlines can still be a huge help with drafting short stories. The Three-Act Structure could help provide a framework to follow and beats to hit, or you could go for the Plot Pyramid to ensure you have all the major elements needed for an engaging work.
Flash Fiction — Not all flash fiction pieces will require an outline, but a condensed framework to follow, maybe a sentence each for the beginning, middle, and end could help get the words on the page.
Poetry — Not all poems require an outline, and not all poets use them. But for structured poems like a sonnet or villanelle, they can be really useful to help you hit the formula requirements while still telling a story.
Movies — For American Hollywood blockbusters and other films, the Save the Cat structure is the perfect outlining tool. You can use whichever outlining template you like, though, just remember that a movie needs a detailed, complex outline that considers its visual medium.
TV Shows — TV shows tend to cover even more breadth than novels do, so they may require an extreme level of outlining. Generally speaking, however, each TV episode is first approached with a short two to three sentence paragraph covering the general gist of the episode. That is then taken and spread out into a beat sheet, which covers the general beats that should occur throughout the episode. This serves as the structure for the plot of the episode and ensures you’re creating compelling and cohesive storylines. Finally, you would take this into a step outline, which expands on the beats by fleshing them out into a paragraph or so for each scene that you imagine taking place in the episode. This is then taken a step further and fleshed out into a script.
Essays — Every good essay starts with a good outline. When it comes to writing them for school projects, it’s good to stay formulaic. You don’t need to reinvent the wheel with the structure since your argument should be unique. Every sentence of your essay should be dedicated to proving your argument. An essay outline might look like:
Blogs — Similar to essays, online blogs are all about making an argument or relaying information. Think about this blog. How do you think I created the outline for it? Well, each blog generally starts with an introductory paragraph that lays out the “thesis” of that blog. In this case, it’s that outlining is crucial for storytelling. With blog writing, you can be less formal than a traditional essay but the general idea remains the same. Figure out what’s needed to prove your argument in your blog and then add as needed to provide additional resources and information for your argument. Sometimes, the best place to start is with ideas for the headlines of each blog section as such:
On a blank piece of paper, poster board, or notecard, create an outline for a story using one of the structures/templates shared above. Try out different ones for different kinds of stories and see what works best for you.
All writers work differently, but finding the right outlining technique for you to write the best story you can is an important part of the writing process. Whether you’re the kind of writer who starts with a vague idea and forms that into your own sculpture of work, or the kind of writer who has a very specific image in mind from the get go, outlines can be used to give your story structure, form, balance, and life.
Try out some of the outlines outlined in this blog to find out what works best for you!
In the previous installment of this series, we revealed how dialogue is one of a writer’s most useful storytelling tools. But it’s tricky to get right. One way to practice writing dialogue is by listening to, and writing down, real conversations in real life. This can mean going to a café on a busy day and casually eavesdropping on others’ conversations (just make sure to keep everything anonymous if you do end up writing about them) or watching YouTube or TikTok videos and transcribing them—as long as you’re not plagiarizing. The point is to see what it looks like on paper and use that as inspiration and practice, not to copy others’ work. It can mean having a conversation with someone else, recording it, and then going back to write it down to see what the cadence is like, how you and your conversation partner interact, and the words you say—and don’t say.
That last one is what we’ve done in this blog. I interviewed Brink’s Communications & Marketing Director and Senior Editor, Nate Ragolia, about how he tackles dialogue. Here’s how our conversation unfolded.
The two writers sit in their respective homes with Zoom pulled up on the screens between them. As Nate flickers onto the screen, Maribel unfolds her hands and smiles.
“Nate, hello! Thank you for joining me,” she says.
After some small talk about Nate’s dogs and the weather, Maribel jumps into the interview.
“So here we are, two writers, talking to each other as an example for our readers—to show them what dialogue can look like when taken from real life.” She clears her throat and continues. “What are some memorable examples of dialogue in any kind of media, whether novels, short stories, video games, movies, TV shows, or anything else that comes to mind for you?”
“In the most recent episode of my podcast we talk about the first Quentin Tarantino movie Reservoir Dogs,” Nate says. “It’s a movie that, despite being a violent crime thriller, hinges almost entirely on dialogue because of its low budget. Tarantino is known for his snappy, plot-driving, character-revealing dialogue that’s ultimately just compelling. The way he approaches it, you get all the information you need for the story, but you also get more than that. It’s in conversation with previous exploitation films, the themes of the movie, and all of movie history. It’s like the dialogue is weaving small stories within the story of the film at large.”
Let’s analyze this spiel from Nate from a storytelling perspective. As a piece of dialogue in a novel, what he says would perhaps feel a little long and rambling. The reader might lose interest along the way, even though what he’s saying is important and true. So how can we fix it?
“Quentin Tarantino’s first film Reservoir Dogs has some of the best dialogue I’ve ever seen,” says Nate. “It’s snappy, drives the plot forward, and shows you what the characters are like. It’s compelling.”
“I’ve never seen it. All that violence,” Maribel shakes her head with a shudder, “not for me.”
“Even though he’s controversial, I think Quentin Tarantino does some of the best dialogue I’ve seen,” says Nate.
Maribel raises her eyebrows. “Really? How so?”
“It’s snappy, drives the plot forward, shows you what the characters are like… it’s compelling, especially compared to so many other movies.”
“I feel like you’re slamming other movies,” Maribel says.
Nate shrugs. “If the shoe fits…”
“Good movie dialogue is compelling, only a few get it right,” says Nate.
Maribel raises her eyebrows. “Like who?”
“Ever seen Reservoir Dogs?”
Now, obviously this subject matter very likely wouldn’t appear in a novel, unless that novel was trying to give you tips on writing dialogue. The point is that each take shares slightly different information and has a different vibe. Rewriting dialogue that has inspired you to express different feelings is one of many ways to practice doing it.
Maribel and Nate continue the conversation, adding more examples of great dialogue in media and starting with the iconic 90s TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
“It was one of my favorite shows as a kid—well, ages 17 to 24 or whenever it came out.” Nate laughs. “It was funny and smart, and the characters felt real. It grounded outlandish concepts—like vampires and a Hellmouth—in a teenage experience. It also utilizes slang that feels both real and unique to the show itself.”
Maribel nods, reflecting. She’s seen every episode of Buffy at least three times, though she watched it after all the episodes had already come out on DVD.
“So true, like ‘wig out’ and, I don’t know, ‘vampy,’” says Maribel.
Nate nods. “Exactly.”
In the interaction above, both Nate and Maribel’s dialogue gives us more insight into their characters—who they are. Nate, for example, is older than 24, and was about at that age when Buffy first aired. Maribel, on the other hand, we know is younger than that due to her reflecting on when she watched it. Thus, we discover more about the dynamics between these two people. We also know that they’re both huge geeks—we’ll learn more about that next.
Maribel moves the conversation forward. “What about literature? Who can we go to for great examples of dialogue there?”
“Obviously, Shakespeare is a big one,” says Nate. “When you read it for the first time, you struggle just to understand what’s going on because it’s written in a cadence and way we’re just not used to anymore. But once you move beyond that, it’s so rewarding. Nearly everything has an additional meaning of some kind—a double entendre, a hilarious pun, a disguised joke.”
Maribel nods along, smiling and thinking of her days performing Shakespeare in high school. How many disguised dick jokes had she accidentally said?
He continues, “Almost all of Shakespeare’s dialogue, even in the tragedies, has this comedic underpinning where people are often saying one thing and meaning another. And you only really get that when you see it performed on stage.”
Further examples that Nate and Maribel agree on include:
One thing Maribel wants to know is, “If you were a character in a novel, what would be your monologue moment?”
Nate ponders this for a moment. “I think my monologues would be deeply existential. I would be talking about the insignificance of being an individual person in a point in time in an infinite universe, and how odd that is, how remarkably strange it is.
“And then I also love to monologue about our shared social notions about what is established fact. For example, maybe we shouldn’t have to pay for necessities like housing or food. Maybe everyone deserves to survive.”
“I love those,” says Maribel, smiling. “But my topic of choice would be about bad writing—particularly those in TV shows, like the last season of Game of Thrones. My sister has to listen to it all the time.”
They both laugh.
Monologues, while most commonly used in script writing—plays, movies, TV shows—can be a great way to get at character. Even if you don’t include it in your final draft, sometimes having a character go off on a tangent can be a way to learn more about them and really live in their voice.
For example, what do we learn about Maribel and Nate here?
Additionally, we also get some humorous moments in the interaction above. Bringing humor into your dialogue is an important way to keep it interesting for the reader. Try your hand at writing a monologue for one of your characters. What do they talk about?
Maribel checks her watch and moves on to the next question. “How do you think dialogue on its own can show how a character changes over the course of the story?”
“Did you see the movie Poor Things?”
Maribel shakes her head.
“In that movie, Emma Stone plays a woman from basically toddler age—in the mind—through her 20s or 30s,” Nate says. “And the dialogue in the movie does a great job of showing this. She evolves from speaking in a very childlike manner to speaking like an adult person. Her size and appearance doesn’t change, but you can tell how she’s evolving over time because of the way she speaks.”
He goes on to give two more examples:
Maribel and Nate’s conversation throughout this blog is meant to demonstrate how dialogue can be used while also highlighting that real-life conversations can spur creativity. The next time you hit writer’s block, or just need a bit of inspiration, head to a public area and give yourself time to listen and observe. Then, see what stories come from it!
Dialogue is one of a writer’s most useful tools in storytelling. It helps a storyteller show rather than tell, establish character dynamics, provide exposition actionably, and keep scenes moving forward. But getting dialogue right can be tough. How do you get characters to sound like real people while making what they say relevant to the story? Crafting good dialogue can be a tricky balance between sharing important information, keeping in mind characters’ back stories and relationships with each other, and making it fun and interesting for a reader to keep reading. Bad or poorly used dialogue will stick out like a sore thumb, whether it’s in a novel, short story, film, TV show, or other form of media.
Learn how to avoid writing bad dialogue and when to use it in a story. Plus, get some formatting tips and tricks to make your dialogue look clean and readable.
Firstly, what is dialogue? In storytelling, it is usually a conversation between two or more people. Sometimes it can be a single person expressing themselves. Monologues are also a form of dialogue. In general, dialogue has five major purposes in a story:
Unsurprisingly, not everyone feels the same about dialogue. Although of course there are some generally accepted rules, there’s also confusion out there about the proper use of certain aspects of dialogue. One of these aspects is dialogue tags.
Dialogue tags are a part of a line of dialogue, specifically in prose writing, that indicates who is speaking. For example:
“I went to the restaurant at seven, but you never showed up.” She said.
The “she said” part is the dialogue tag. Dialogue tags can generally be broken into two types:
When using an action tag over a character tag, it should be very clear which character is speaking. If it’s not clear, it’s best to add a character tag. But sometimes, using a character tag will feel redundant and weigh the narrative down. Best practice is to read back through any dialogue and search for places where character tags are missing. If it’s ever unclear who may be speaking a line of dialogue, you likely need a character tag to clear up any confusion. On the other hand, in areas where it’s very obvious who is speaking without a character tag, you can fall back on action tags or simply on nothing. This is the kind of writing that only gets better with practice, so make sure to check out our exercise below so you can try your hand at it!
One thing to keep in mind with dialogue, and specifically character, tags is what verb you use with the character name or pronoun. American novelist, short story writer, and screenwriter Elmore Leonard believed you should never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue. This is because the sole purpose of these character tags is to indicate who is speaking. Within prose, you generally want the dialogue itself to stand out, not the character tag next to it. By using words other than “said,” you could be calling too much attention to the dialogue tag.
Beyond this, there are usually better ways to express the kind of inflection a character may be using while speaking. Here are four ways to say the same sentence:
All of these are different ways to say the same thing, but each one has a distinct vibe. The first comes off as redundant. The exclamation point and the word shouted are both expressing the same thing. It’s clear, but it’s also unnecessary. The second is a bit better. It shows a physical expression of rage that colors the words the dialogue is expressing. The third utilizes the concept of showing rather than telling and figurative language to not only get across that he’s shouting, but also to show how it’s affecting the other character. This takes it beyond just speech and into the territory of character dynamics. The final one reverses the initial idea that he shouted.
None of these examples are necessarily wrong, and while reading you’ll likely come across versions of all of them. The best way to determine what you should do in a story is to understand exactly what is necessary to your storytelling. Let’s say it doesn’t really matter how this character expressed what they said, only the content of their words was important. In that case, a simple dialogue tag should do the trick. Let’s say the most important part is how these words affect the narrator or other character in the scene. Then, the third way that dialogue is expressed above would be the most effective.
In general, it’s best to lean on Elmore Leonard’s words as a good rule of thumb. Don’t stray too far from “said” when utilizing character tags. Mix up these tags with action tags to keep things interesting and flowing. Remember that punctuation can go a long way in expressing whatever it is you may be trying to express. For example, a question mark used at the end of a sentence is more effective and simpler than tacking on “she asked.”
Now that we’ve established what dialogue can be used for, let’s discuss how to write it effectively. Just like how real people have different ways of speaking, characters too should have distinct voices. What they say and how they say it should reflect their personality and background. It should also sound realistic, to an extent.
For example, a character who is a child should probably not use words they wouldn’t know or express themselves in ways only an adult would, unless they’re some kind of child prodigy or genius like Artemis Fowl. Additionally, in real life, speech is often broken up with hesitations and wanderings—“uhm,” “you know,” “like”—and these should only be used sparingly in actual writing—unless you want to drive your reader crazy. While most people aren’t as clear and concise as most written dialogue is, in a story, you’re trying to get across as much information as possible in as few words as possible, so this should generally be avoided. There are exceptions, of course. For example, let’s say you’re writing a character who is a stereotypical valley girl. To get this across simply, you may write:
Vanessa flipped her hair over her shoulder and popped her gum. “Like, exactly. Why would I want a Dior when I could have an Hermés?”
In this case, the “like” at the beginning fits a certain personality trait you’re trying to get across. It’s a linguistic fingerprint, or speech habit specific to a character.
Linguistic fingerprints can appear in many forms. A character might constantly trail off on the ends of their sentences, a sign of them being indecisive or overly contemplative. Or maybe they specifically do not use contractions as a sign that they dislike taking shortcuts or strongly value proper grammar (or, in science fiction, to indicate they are an android or robot). It can also be an indication of their general age or education level.
On that note, one thing you absolutely don’t want to do is fall into stereotypes or be offensive. Be as respectful to your characters as you would be to people in real life. One much debated topic that can fall into this category is accents. In general, it’s okay to say something like, “She spoke with a posh British accent,” or, “He had that distinct Southern twang.” Readers will know what this means and can apply it to the text themselves. Some authors do dive into changing the way the words look on the page to match an accent. This is done either to good or very poor effect. Unless you truly understand an accent and can speak it, or are VERY confident in taking this approach, it’s generally best to avoid doing this. At the very least, make sure to do your research on accents and writing them before going down this route. For some good examples of authors successfully writing accents, check out this list.
Another essential aspect of writing good dialogue is employing subtlety, or subtext. Subtext is the implicit or metaphorical meaning found in writing or conversation. It’s what’s underneath the actual words on the page. In real life, people don’t always say what they mean or they say as little as necessary to convey their point because people also use body language to communicate things they don’t necessarily say out loud. They may exaggerate, hyperbolize, minimize, lie, embellish, or simply lack the words needed to express what they really mean. Societal and cultural norms can also sometimes prevent people from saying exactly what they mean to say. Mastering good dialogue will mean mastering imbuing the dialogue you write with subtext—the meaning underlying the words actually said. Here are some examples of what dialogue with subtext looks like in practice.
One of the first ways to identify a writer who is just starting out versus someone with more experience is how well they format dialogue. It can be tricky and difficult to remember all of the rules, but it’s essential to getting right for the sake of readability. Some readers may not even bother with work if the dialogue is improperly formatted. And, if you’re trying to get published, you must get formatting right to show publishers that you know what you’re doing.
So what are the rules for formatting dialogue? Please note that this is specific to American English and there may be other rules for other regions and languages.
“I miss you,” he said.
CORRECT
“I miss you”, he said.
INCORRECT
Additionally, dialogue tags following exclamation points and question marks (rather than a comma) should begin in lowercase.
“Why haven’t you called?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Em dashes, not to be confused with hyphens or en dashes, should be used to indicate interruptions and abrupt endings in dialogue. The dashes should also be placed within the quotation marks.
He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I miss you and I—”
I shook my head. “No offense, but I really don’t want to hear it.”
Finally, when dialogue ends with an ellipsis, you don’t need any additional punctuation. Ellipses should only be used when the speaker is trailing off.
“I miss you and I just thought…” he said, his voice trailing off.
I reached over to touch his hand.
He started to cry. “I miss you.”
He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at me.
“I miss you,” he said.
I scowled. “I haven’t missed you one bit.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said, shaking his head. “I think you’ve missed me more than you let on.”
As you can see, when the same speaker’s line of dialogue is broken with an action (as in the final sentence of the example above), you can continue in the same paragraph without entering and indenting.
“I always loved you, you know, he said, twirling his cigarette, “but you never loved me back.”
VERSUS
“I always loved you, you know.” He stood up, took a cigarette from the pack and pointed at her. “But you never loved me back.”
He told us the story of how it happened. “One day, I was walking along the East River when I saw him—the strangest man I’d ever seen! He wore a purple top hat and thick green coat, even though it was very warm and humid that day. He flagged me down, waving all crazy from the other side of the bank, and so I made my way towards him. Then, we had the strangest conversation I’d ever had.
“He told me that he knew my mother—my mother who’s been dead for over twenty years! And that he knew me when I was just a young boy. I didn’t believe him of course. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
When in doubt about how to format a piece of dialogue, always fall back on these rules. Tucking punctuation, utilizing action and character tags correctly, and remembering to close those quotation marks will go a long way in helping your dialogue appear professional and readable.
Let’s now make sure you know what to and not to do when it comes to even including dialogue in your text.
Working on improving your dialogue skills? Here are a few ways to tackle this:
Write a scene between two characters wherein all of the important information of the scene is said through spoken dialogue.
In all, we hope you feel more confident and ready to tackle dialogue writing. It’s an important way to have characters interact and communicate, showing off their personalities, providing information to the reader, and moving the plot forward. With dialogue writing, practice certainly makes perfect, so make sure to take on the exercise in this blog as a way to get started.
Looking for more writing tips and tricks? Check out the rest of our Facts of Fiction series.
If you’ve ever tried to write a story, you may have encountered the writer’s eternal problem: how do I get all the information that I know about these characters, settings, themes, and plotlines onto the page so that the reader has the context they need to fully enjoy the story?
What you’re grappling with is exposition, a narrative device that provides background information to the audience and helps readers understand the context of the story. It can be delivered through dialogue, narration, flashbacks, or a character’s thoughts. Effective exposition feels seamlessly integrated into the story. Ineffective exposition may overwhelm or bore the audience before they can get to the meat of the story.
Despite it being so necessary for stories, storytellers often find delivering exposition effectively difficult because it’s the kind of information that is much easier to tell rather than show. That’s why one of the hallmarks of a good storyteller is how well they are able to get across expositional elements in their work. It’s all about balance: without the right amount of exposition, the audience will not have enough information to understand what is going on in the story and why. How much is too much depends on what kind of story it is.
The good news is that you can effectively deliver exposition without info dumping, by utilizing dramatization and making it feel necessary to the conflict. This can be done in a number of ways, including through dialogue, narration, internal monologue, and special devices. Continue reading to get a deep dive into these techniques and more tips on exposition!
Now that you know what exposition is, let’s explore more thoroughly what components make up expositional information. This will include:
All creators of stories should know these details of their work inside and out. After all, you created these characters, this world, and the events that take place within it. The trick is determining what your audience needs to know in order to understand the story.
Maribel’s Tip: One rule we know works here at Brink is EKT—Everybody (in the world of the story) Knows That. If you’re about to share something that everybody in the context of the story would already know, don’t. It takes away from the realism of the story. For example, an employee would never explain their own job to their boss (unless they were being really sassy or something), because the boss should reasonably know what they do. If you need to explain this information for some reason, it makes much more sense for the employee to explain it to a new hire who doesn’t have that same information.
Exposition can be broken down into two types, which can be used by a storyteller depending on what’s needed in the story. These two types are:
Both types of exposition can be dramatized and used effectively in a story. What’s important is determining which type best suits your story at any given moment. For example, although the general rule of thumb is to show rather than tell, sometimes doing so might slow a story down too much. Or, it may add to the suspense, tension, or dramatization of the story to actually have that information told. Whatever your choice is, the important thing is that you have a specific reason behind why you shared the information in that way.
Now that you know more about exposition, let’s get into how you can make it fun and relevant for your audience. In general, there are four major ways to do this. We’ll outline each one and utilize examples, both good and bad, to show exactly how each of these work.
By relaying exposition through dialogue, you can make it feel actionable, natural, and important. Conversations between characters offer more than just talk—it is a way to show characterization, move the plot along, and, in this case, provide background information. However, you still want to avoid blatant info dumping. For example, poor execution of exposition through dialogue can look like:
“Alaina! My dear sister, how are you doing? Ready to pop?” said Maria as soon as she entered the room.
Alaina gave her sister a brief hug. “I can’t believe you came all the way from Upstate New York just to see me go into labor.”
Maria whipped out her cellphone to begin recording. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, are you kidding me? We are sisters after all. I’m just so sad that Mom can’t be here.”
Alaina’s shoulder slumped. “I know, me too. Things haven’t been the same since the car accident.”
This is obviously an exaggerated example, but it does work to show you what NOT to do when utilizing dialogue to relay exposition. Let’s break down why:
Here’s the same scene done with a little more subtlety while still getting across the same context:
Maria flung open the hospital door so hard it bounced back and nearly hit her in the face. She rushed to her sister’s side.
“Wow, you got fatter,” she said.
Alaina rolled her eyes, wincing as she sat up against the pillows supporting her. She put a hand over her swollen belly. “Gee, thanks.” Her eyes darted back to the door. “It’s just you?”
Maria gave her a tight smile and sat down on the edge of her sister’s hospital bed. “Mom’s not feeling up to it.”
Alaina blinked rapidly to clear tears from her eyes but nodded. “I understand.”
Maria grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry. You have me! Who else could you possibly need?”
The side of Alaina’s mouth twitched up into a smile. Even if their mother couldn’t be there, at least she wasn’t alone.
In this version of the scene, the audience gets a lot less information about exactly why the mom cannot be there. Nonetheless, they can infer that there is a reason and that it will be revealed at a moment in the story later on. Meanwhile, the mystery adds tension, keeping the audience engaged and ready to learn more.
Narrators can be used to effectively express important exposition as well. It all depends on the narrative voice utilized in the story. For example, TV shows like Gossip Girl, Desperate Housewives, and Veronica Mars utilize voiceover to include narrative voice that exists somewhat outside of the story. Sort of like a third-person omniscient POV, although the voice isn’t always completely omniscient. This has the effect of providing important context and details for the story, such as giving us information the other characters don’t have yet, or allowing us to see inside their head.
Narration is also used in other forms of storytelling, of course, and the type of narration utilized to tell a story is one important overall piece of your story. A strong narrative voice is an excellent way to deliver exposition by weaving it seamlessly into the narrative flow. The important thing here is to balance showing and telling in order to keep the reader engaged. Take a look at this example from the pilot episode of Desperate Housewives (mild spoilers ahead!). You can also view the video version of this scene here—make sure to read along!
What did you notice while reading and watching this scene? How did the voiceover (and the narration happening through the actions on screen) deliver effective exposition? What did we learn about the character of Mary Alice, where she lives, who she is, and what she’s doing? This is how exposition can be delivered while also building conflict and tension, hooking the audience in without giving away too much—but preparing them with enough information for the context of the story.
Exposition through narration might also look like a typical fairytale opening: Once upon a time, there was a kingdom…—and then going on to describe the kingdom, who lives in it, and introducing our main character. This is a good way to start a story that has a lot of lore or background the audience must know to even get started. When done poorly, this kind of exposition through narration will really drag the narrative down and make the audience feel that they’re being spoon fed too much information. It’s best to use this technique with a specific purpose in mind, and sparingly.
Internal monologue can also be an effective way to relay background information while keeping things dramatic. A character can reveal how they’re really feeling, what they think of other characters, and what their plans are to the audience only, perhaps thinking of private information that adds to the conflict of the story. The main benefit of internal monologues are emotional stakes. While a character may not express what they’re actually feeling openly, if the audience knows, then they may prepare themselves for conflict based around the character’s true emotions further down the line. A great example of this is found in the opening of “The Pillars of Creation” by Walter Thompson:
No one’s told the bus driver about Dad, so we still get dropped off near the old house, at the corner of Myrtle and Patterson. We don’t mind. Nat and Ben get amped up on the drive out from school, squealing and shouting with their friends, bouncing on the worn leather benches. They need the walk, just shy of two miles, to settle into the cool dark side of their afternoon, so that Mom gets them when they’re at their lowest low, needing a hug and a Coke and two hours of ESPN. The whole way, they run circles around each other: pushing and yanking, pelting pinecones, kicking shins. Edward stays ten yards behind them, never looking up, as if the twins are tugging him along with an invisible string. He puts on his headphones and stares at the asphalt as he goes. The headphones aren’t hooked up to anything; he just tucks the end of the cord under his belt. He takes the “noise-canceling” thing more seriously than other people because his world is full of more noises than theirs.
Here, the narrator’s internal monologue sets off the story for us by hitting us with the most important information in the very first line: the father’s death. Then, we meet the narrator’s siblings, whose actions as described by the narrator tell us more about their ages and personalities. These little details will come back later on as plot points. The audience is engaged from the get-go because of the implied emotional circumstances and we’re looking for signs of grief and drama throughout the text.
Internal monologuing is perhaps one of the easier ways to get exposition across, but it can be difficult to get it right and not simply dump a load of information on the audience. The trick is to do exactly what the passage above does: dramatize the information and make it relevant and resonant later on in the story.
Aside from these narrative tactics, there are other ways to express exposition in a story. This could be through a letter that a character receives, a journal entry they write, or flashbacks to a previous event. You can use these devices to break up the narrative and present background information in a more creative way. Plus, these devices can serve the story and character development. For example, let’s say you use a journal entry written by a character to share expositional information. This tells us that, at the very least, the character is self-reflective. We also get the chance to take a peek directly inside their mind and voice through their journal entry.
The letters shared between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, and other characters, in Pride and Prejudice serve great expositional and character development purposes while also moving the story forward. For example, let’s take a close look at Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth after she (spoiler alert!) rejects his marriage proposal in Chapter 35. I won’t share the letter in its entirety here, as it’s very long, but will focus instead on a few choice moments. Firstly, Darcy writes:
“At that ball, while I had the honor of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to you sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s behavior attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard; and I remained convinced, from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probably. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.”
Here, he references Elizabeth’s accusation that Darcy was the one who stopped the romance between Mr. Bingley and Jane, Elizabeth’s older sister. We learn information that we did not know before: Darcy had a conversation with another character, who implied to him that Bingley and Jane would get married. This expositional information is important because it provides context for Darcy’s later actions, which he explains. We also learn several important things about Darcy’s character that Elizabeth and the audience didn’t necessarily know before: he is a loyal friend in trying to protect Bingley’s feelings and he is not afraid to admit fault.
The letter goes on to explain what actually happened between Darcy and Mr. Wickham, which is also expositional information. The delivery of this information is simple but telling. While it could be considered an info dump under normal circumstances, Jane Austen has set it up so that it doesn’t feel as such. Here’s why it works:
Now that you know different ways to dramatize exposition, here are a few general tips for tackling it in your story:
Keep these tips in mind as you approach writing exposition to help your story stay afloat!
Write a scene in which you share crucial background information about a character only through one of the above tactics: dialogue, narration, internal monologue, or special devices.
With these techniques to express exposition in your story under your belt, take a stab at each one when writing your next story. Remember, exposition is best delivered through dramatization and techniques that serve more than one purpose in the story. Of course, there will always be times when it is more efficient to share background information directly, but these are generally far and few inbetween. Don’t let exposition scare you away from writing your best story. In your first draft, let all the information you know flow free and then go back to see how you can better express it on the page.
Looking for more writing tips and advice? Check out the rest of the Facts of Fiction series to learn about the storyteller’s journey from beginning to end.