Category: Characterization

Fixing “Summarization Style” Prose

May 13th, 2026
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I recently grabbed a book that should have been my exact wheelhouse. It was medieval fantasy with an orphaned survivor of a Viking raid abandoning his homeland and going on fascinating quests with these toughened warriors.

Well, I gave it up after a chapter, and there’s a simple reason for it: the whole thing was basically a summary of a book that didn’t exist.

This is a different problem than the “TV brain prose” I discussed in another post, more to do with how the text tackles plot points than how it frames scenes. Essentially, summarization style just tells you what happens like one would tell a story to a friend.

And this is boring. And readers do not like it for the most part. So we don’t want to do that.

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A caveat: summarization vs. summarization style

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“Oh no,” I hear you saying. “I summarized this time skip on page 345 and then went back to the regular scene. Do I need to change that?”

No. Doing so would tip you into the other annoying not-quite-novel style, which is novelization style.

It is perfectly fine to summarize a time skip as long as it is clear you are catching readers up to speed, then you’ll go back to your typical style. I do it all the time; most writers do. Sometimes you have something you need to clarify but it happens off-page, or you need to give a sense of time passing. This is fine. It is not fine if your entire book feels like a long time skip to something important.

So let’s go through some of the hallmarks of summarization style really quick, then workshop some solutions.

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Symptoms of summarization style

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If you have summarization style, you probably have the sinking feeling that something is wrong but can’t quite put your finger on it. The writing feels flat and bland, even though it sounds amazing in your head. You’re not translating your great ideas to the page, and I’ll explain why.

Actions are not elaborated upon. Plot points happen in a predictable sequence, and everything takes the same amount of time to describe.

Everything happens very quickly. You might have a battle on page 1, and then by page 5 we are in a different country. Nothing lingers because you feel like you have so much to go through and cannot sit with anything.

Descriptions are minimal or absent. Summarization writers don’t want to expound upon the environment because they need to get to the next plot point. Items are just whatever they happen to be. Nothing is shattered, ugly, mossy, etc.

Environments are written like schematics. The fireplace is on the north wall and the door is on the east wall. The window is next to the door. Etc. We’re forced to build a mental map of the area like an architect, and this takes up mental space we could use to feel the plot.

There is no sense of interiority. We only see what the characters are doing – similar to TV prose – but not how they feel about anything or what they are thinking of.

Character emotions are blunted or absent. A character could have their mother die a page ago and then is like, “Oh, okay, well, guess she’s dead.” We don’t feel their pain, anger, disappointment, or delight.

The POV character does not opine on anything. This is a little different from interiority. What I mean is that any descriptions of landscapes, characters, or objects are neutral and factual; they don’t seem to come from the POV character. There’s no “ugly, brutish sword” or “sour-faced woman.” Things are what they are.

Characters infodump in dialogue. Instead of the narrator infodumping, the character goes on for three pages without stopping, and we have to assume the listener is sitting there in total silence. The character explains their whole backstory, the situation in the world, etc.

Here’s a quick litmus test for you.

Imagine one of the chapters of your book, and imagine summarizing it for a listener who allows you to go on for as long as you need to.

Would you be able to recite it basically unchanged? Does everything follow along piece by piece like meeting minutes or a to-do list? Is there no point you’d struggle to describe and have to summarize?

If you could pretty easily list out everything that happens in a chapter without having to summarize that part or translate it into normal language, then you probably have a summary of a book you haven’t yet written.

And, fortunately, this is fixable! So let’s get into it.

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Use the Double Outline method.

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The Double Outline method is, hands down, the best way to fix summarization style, along with other problems like getting overwhelmed by your notes and losing motivation.

Summarization style often happens because the writer has put down every single thing they want in their book, and then (intentionally or not) they start using the outline as a plug-and-play guide. Instead of writing down the scenes as living, breathing artifacts of a story, they summarize them as dictated by the outline.

Here’s the basic premise of the Double Outline method, at least in the way I do it:
1. Write out everything you can think of about your book in a massive thought dump.
2. Arrange this into another document, with scenes as the headers (not chapters, because chapter breaks may change).
3. Use as many bullet points as you feel you need per scene, with as much detail as you feel necessary.
4. Let the long outline sit for a little bit.
5. Make a copy of the long outline and cut it down into only the barest necessities; maybe four bullet points per scene.
6. Only work off the short outline, with the long outline there if you need more help or forgot something.
This reduces anxiety for over-plotters but helps you avoid summarization style because your short outline doesn’t give you enough to summarize. It only explains the basic shape of a scene and the highlights, not the meticulous details.

Personally, I use Google Docs for my planning and Microsoft Word for my actual writing for several reasons:
- The outline and the draft are in different programs, forcing mental separation.
- Google Docs lets you use Tabs so that you can keep the thought dump, long outline, and shortline together but separated.
- Placing the shortline first makes me forget about the long outline because I have to click on it.
- Kindle Create only lets you import Word documents from your C:// drive. I’d have to download everything, put it on my hard drive, and then put it in Kindle Create. Too many extra steps, annoying.
If you still find yourself tempted even with different tabs on your Google Doc, then make your long outline harder to access; put it in a different document, or a different folder, or even on Notepad so it’s really annoying to read through.

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Get to know the MC before you start writing.

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Just like every human has a different voice, every character has a different voice. This is more noticeable if you are using first-person POV, but it happens in third-person and even omniscient POV too. (Check here to learn more about how to pick the right POV for your needs.)

Simply put, a realistic character will feel differently, even when in the same plot and performing the same actions. They do not feel like they’re summarizing things, but experiencing things in real time.

I have quite a few articles discussing characterization you can use to get familiar with your main character, but the best ones would be my discussions of a character’s Jenga Block and using human failures to make relatable characters.

If you’re still having problems, check out my guide on troubleshooting common character issues.

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Find the key moments and intentionally slow down.

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An issue with summarization style, as mentioned above, is that everything happens at the same speed – almost surgically so. There’s some dressing in between, but each little moment in time is given the same weight, the same intonation, the same pacing.

I think this happens because the writer isn’t necessarily thinking about how time is perceived by the POV character. And time perception is part of the strengths of a POV.

Downer moment incoming. My dog Luke passed away in August 2017. The euthanasia process took less than half an hour, from setup to him going limp in my arms. But it seemed much, much, much longer than that because my brain was processing everything in hyper-granular detail.

If I were to write that time in fiction just as I experienced things, it would probably take up five pages or more because it was so rich in sensory detail, emotion, and interiority. It would also break my heart all over again, so I’m not going to.

The time you take to describe something impresses its importance upon the reader. By slowing down at the big moments and giving them more detail, you’ll start to embody the moment and stop summarizing.

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Cut dialogue to four lines or less.

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Summarization-style writers have recognized that they don’t want to infodump because it’s annoying; in fact, they’ve pulled back from that so hard that nothing gets described in detail.

However, many simply move all this infodumping to dialogue instead. Characters will go on for pages explaining everything: their entire life story, the current situation, their plans for the future, etc. Meanwhile, the rest of the world seems to disappear, and we forget that someone else is listening to them say all this.

Remember: characters are not real people, but they should feel like real people. This means there should be some give and take in conversation. We shouldn’t forget that other characters are there because one character has been talking for two pages straight.

Most importantly, let the characters do something in between repartees. They could fiddle with an item, turn away, pace. If they are the POV character, they may note something in the environment or have a stray thought.

Here’s a short example from my upcoming book, Absent All Light:

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Priestess.” After a pause, Tshumanu turned to Uileac and spoke more quietly. “And sorry I have to do this at all.”

“They could have sent anyone else. Anyone but you.”

Tshumanu flinched and turned his head away. One of the soldiers behind him cleared his throat.

“At least you know I won’t torture you on the way there,” Tshumanu finally said in a feeble facsimile of a joke. No one laughed, least of all Uileac.

“Look, I’ll … I’ll give you time. We’ll let the horses rest. You can ride Hywel. I’ll rent another.”

Uileac gave a huff of disgust; even Priestess Daimhnait seemed unimpressed. Beside his husband, Orrinir curled up a bit tighter until his legs brushed the cavalryman’s side.

“I’ll give you time,” Tshumanu said again, more pleadingly. “An hour. Two hours. Don’t do anything rash.”

“Go to hell,” Uileac muttered as Priestess Daimhnait chased the men from the room. Behind the closed door, Cerie tried to discern the whispered argument’s content but couldn’t catch most. After a few moments, the front door of the meronym groaned open, then clanked shut.

No one speaks for more than four lines in a go. Even if they do speak for four lines, it’s typically broken up by something else: an action, a pause, a change in tone. There is a clear back and forth, and no one is dominating the conversation. We’re able to remember that others are there because they make small movements throughout.

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Insinuate rather than explain everything.

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Summarization prose often falls into the trap of laying out everything for the reader, like a history book. However, readers aren’t coming to your story to gather details about the characters or the world; they want to envision a story and flavor it with their own understanding.

Give readers the basics they need to create their own headcanons, scenes, and imagery. Often, this involves drip-feeding the information – and sometimes letting characters be wrong in their assumptions. This keeps a character from feeling omniscient and also allows the reader to feel a little sly when they realize something the character doesn’t.

Unless something is critical information, you can gloss over it, or remove it entirely. I talk about how I trimmed thousands of words from my next book, Poesy, including some random worldbuilding I hadn’t connected to anything else.

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Flavor descriptions with the character’s feelings.

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When you know your MC on a deep, instinctual level, you also know how they would describe things and approach the world. You understand that they would notice different parts of their environment, process things in a certain order, and have strong feelings about things that other people might not even care about.

The way I would describe a purse is much different than how someone who actually likes purses would describe it. I would think about its storage capacity, whether it can handle rough wear, if the fabric is finicky and will need to be cleaned.

Similarly, I’d have much stronger opinions about a horse than someone who doesn’t like horses. I’d look at its weight, color, breed, conformation, gait, and overall demeanor, whereas someone else would say, “yep, that’s a brown horse.”

(The proper term for a “brown” horse is chestnut, btw.)

Think about what your character knows, thinks, and values. Additionally, the way we describe things will be different depending on our mood and current needs. I’m not going to be rhapsodizing about a gorgeous Ohio sunset when I’m fleeing to the bathroom after some bad gas station sushi.

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Summarization style is not a catastrophic failure, nor does it mean you are a bad writer. In fact, I’d say it’s one of the easiest style issues to fix. You just have to slow down, elongate, and consider a character’s POV more. While that takes time, you’ve already built the story’s bones and only need to flesh them out.

Remember: if you can summarize the entire chapter just as it is written, there might be some fixing to do. But you’ve got it started. Dig a bit deeper, and see how much richer your work can be.
Fixing “TV Brain Prose”

May 2nd, 2026

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In this article, I am standing on the shoulders of giants. Lincoln Michel wrote two exceptional posts about this, called “Turning Off the TV In Your Mind” and “What Not Reading Does to Your Writing.” Recurring Bafflement also did a small series on the concept, though she called it “novelization style.” So, I am by no means the progenitor of this idea and won’t take credit for the thought.

I love these posts because they get at something that has aggravated me for a long time: the emerging trend of writers treating books like novelizations of a nonexistent TV show, movie, or anime. These writers really wanted to have a TV show of their grand idea, but they saw writing a book as a consolation prize.

The thing is that, as Lincoln Michel points out, TV and prose are completely different mediums with unique strengths. Would-be authors who write like they removed the line breaks in a screenplay are not harnessing the true strengths of prose because, frankly, they don’t want to. They’re hoping that someone will pick up their book and turn it into their preferred format. Which, as someone who has wanted to be an author (of a book) since age seven, kinda hurts my feels.

I’m not going to rehash everything that Michel and Recurring Bafflement said because then there’s no point to my article. Rather, I’m going to consider ways to shift your mentality away from the TV world and into prose through things that don’t necessarily have to anything to do with your prose itself.

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Do not rely on audiobooks to teach you writing.

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Yes, you do have to read in order to write (we’ll talk about this in a minute). There is no way around this. But I understand that if you’ve spent your whole life watching a lot of TV, then reading can be challenging. Your brain is more focused on processing visual stimuli than decoding written language.

Some TV brain writers tell themselves they are compromising by listening to audiobooks. Bzzt. Audiobooks are a fine way to entertain yourself, but here’s the problem. Just like the human brain uses different neural circuits to process visual stimuli, it also uses different neural circuits to process auditory language (with some overlap).

In fact, researchers from Johns Hopkins University have found that all three of these inputs – auditory, visual, and written – hit different wiring.

The circuits you use in reading books are similar (but not identical) to the ones you need to produce them. But, again, not the same circuits as those to process visual or auditory stimuli. This is all well and good for readers/listeners; they don’t need to process the written word to enjoy the story. But not so good for writers.

In other words, listening to an audiobook does not teach you how to write. It would be more akin to learning how to become a good old-timey storyteller around a campfire. Let me reiterate: spoken language hits different parts of the brain than written language. And visual formats also use alternative wiring, even though you need your eyeballs to read.

This is not a bad thing … if you want to be a film director, voice actor, or TV producer. But you need to study the art form you actually want to produce. You can only do that by putting words in front of your eyes and reading them.

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Read short stories every week.

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Reading a book when you have spent your whole life watching TV and movies is challenging. Your processing centers for written communication are weaker and must be stimulated through, well … written communication.

But we don’t need to dive in to War and Peace right away. After all, you likely aren’t going to be diving into writing a book like War and Peace on your first try. Books require strong attention to detail, juggling thousands of data points, and balancing a range of difficult skills, like characterization, themes, and dialogue. We can start small.

Challenge yourself to read one short story a week, or two if you’re ambitious. You can Google lists of “best short stories” and pick whichever one interests you. Take your time with it; don’t skim and let your eyes cross. Tell yourself you’ll give this just as much time as you would a full length novel.

The goal here is to get comfortable decoding written language, considering how word choice impacts the experience, the flow of words.

I’m a busy woman, so most of my reading recommendations in my weekly newsletter are short stories or articles I happened to like. Of course I read books, too, but it sometimes takes me longer than a week to read them because I’ve got so many other things going on.

Or they’re books I read for personal enjoyment that might not be, ah … most appropriate for my readership. Danmei novels are my poison.

Anyway, I also share a different poem every week, which is another great way to start thinking about the flow of language. They’re short, easy to digest, and infinitely rereadable.

If you’re struggling to develop a reading and writing habit, I encourage you to check out my newsletter. It only takes about five minutes a week to read and is full of good advice.

Plus, it’s completely free. No paywall whatsoever.

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Stop watching scripted visual media and start watching bodycam or interrogation footage.

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I do not watch live-action movies or TV shows. The last TV show I watched was The Untamed back in 2024; before that, the last one was The Expanse in 2018.

My primary visual media was the Touken Ranbu anime between 2021 and 2023, for which I wrote 1.6 million words of fanfic. Once I started writing the Eirenic Verses, I lost interest in anime entirely.

Yes. I know how that insane that sounds. But you must understand that I didn’t grow up watching TV or movies. I watched maybe three cartoon series my entire life, and a tiny handful of movies.

However, I am not a Luddite. I watch a lot of visual media; it’s just unscripted.

I credit my good dialogue skills with the fact that I watch a metric ass ton of interrogation videos and bodycam footage, in addition to being a nosy eavesdropper.

People speak differently in real life than they do in scripted shows because, well, scripted shows are not real. Someone getting arrested doesn’t have time to carefully choose every word, nor are they being told what to say by someone who had a lot of time to carefully choose every word.

As such, you get to see and hear how people act when they are confronted with unusual situations, processing conversation in real time, and in a heightened emotional state.

With the exception of some very unusual individuals (the creepy would-be movie villain from this video comes to mind), people don’t speak in long monologues in real life. They will generally say two sentences, maybe three, or less. You start to see that when you listen to the casual back-and-forth scene in bodycam footage.

You see me use these principles in the first chapter I showed from Absent All Light (coming June 23, 2026).

“Then tell me, dear one, what makes you accept these marks.” Rubbing her sigil-adorned thumb across Cerie’s knuckle, Irith waited. Her blue eyes seemed vacuous pools in the fire-shade, too hard to regard for more than a few seconds.

Cerie lowered her gaze to the slab floor. The answer burned in her chest: acrid smoke. Razed fields throwing up their ghostly alarm calls, long after the farmers had been killed. Glazed eyes of her dead parents staring sightless at the sun. Murdered by marauding Sinans drunk on victory.

“Because this is how we win the war,” she said, her low voice rough and slow. “Because High Poetry prevents others from losing their parents, too.”

Irith patted her hand again before letting go. Keeping her head down, Cerie listened to the shuffling in the cedar chest, the clink of different implements.

Cerie doesn’t give us some grand, melodramatic speech. She says it plainly, even though we can see from her point of view that she’s an intelligent and eloquent woman.

So, if you like visual media, you don’t have to surrender it entirely. Just change what you watch and get comfortable watching real people. After all, if you want your characters to feel realistic, then they must act realistic.

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Imagine your character’s eyes as cameras.

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If you have TV brain prose, then you are thinking of your POV as a camera. However, you’re doing it in a way that better suits film: an omniscient POV without access to the character’s thoughts.

We do not need to eradicate your cognition style, and I don’t think it’d be possible if you were raised on a steady diet of visual storytelling. After all, our early experiences in life do change the way we think and process the world around us.

Instead, we need to limit the perspective, narrow it down. Think of it like having one stationary camera rather than cutting between different camera angles. You can only see what is in front of that one single camera.

Just like you, as a real-life person, cannot look directly behind you, your character also cannot. They may be able to hear things behind them, or sense someone coming up behind them, but they can’t see another person’s expression unless that character is right in front of them.

Here’s an example of what I mean by a fixed camera. In this scene from What Is Cannot Be Unwritten, Mordrek is getting flogged.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Mordrek flinched when the flog came down hard on his exposed back. A spicy shock fired down his spine. As Paint pulled back the flog, he felt the agonizing scrape of the tiny barbs tearing his flesh.

“I don’t know!”

“Of course you don’t.”

The flog slammed into him again, and he clenched his teeth. Agonized distraction: analyzing the pain-pattern across his shoulder blades. That was better than hearing the fire whining as it heated up the branding rake. He doubted it was for show.

“A name or two, please.”

Smack. The blood itched as it oozed down the skin not yet brutalized by the flog. Mordrek rocked violently, sawing at his own knees and wrists to dull the burning.

Mordrek has his eyes closed here, so we don’t get to see anything, only feel or hear things. This immediately draws us into his body; we know we are embodying his perspective, no one else’s.

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Provide physical sensations.

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This brings up another unique aspect of prose, which is that we get to feel things through the character. TV brain often has everyone visually express pain rather than actually tell us how it feels because visual formats don’t allow you to embody the character.

As such, you’ll see sentences from the character’s POV where they grimace or move instead of truly experience the physical sensations. The writer has never had to consider what something feels like in someone’s body, so they don’t know how to explain it.

Physical feelings are hard to do in prose and are often best captured by simile or metaphor because otherwise you’re just talking about “his arm broke” or whatever.

Here’s an example from the upcoming Absent All Light, where Cerie has almost drowned:

Then, she was thrown onto her back, two fists pounding her chest in rhythm. Chapped lips sealed around her mouth, and hot air flew down her throat so fast she choked.

Of everything that had happened, this was the worst.

She shoved Uileac away, rolling onto her hands and knees. “I’m breathing, godsdamnit!”

A column of blood-tinged water spattered the dark grass. Now the fists had relocated to her back, where they beat unkindly against her spine.

“You’re a disgrace. A moron.” Uileac continued agitating the fluid in her lungs as she retched. “I’m so ashamed of you.”

Ignoring the comments, Cerie gulped air that burned like liquor in her chest. She wheezed; the hands slowed, then turned to gentle patting.

Icky. I’d be revolted by Uileac putting his nasty mouth on me too.

If you’ve ever almost drowned or gotten water in your lungs, you know that feeling of burning fire in your chest. This makes it easier to remember that we are in Cerie’s POV, not some omniscient camera.

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Include interiority.

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Your character is a camera, but they are a camera with a brain. This is the most remarkable aspect of prose that TV or movies cannot replicate, and it is the number one way to fix TV brain. Which is why I have left it for last. What a tease I am.

Now, we don’t want excessive interiority. This is a problem that fanfic writers often have when they are transitioning to original fiction, because one of the charms of fanfiction is being able to reinterpret characters.

A sentence or two between interaction is plenty enough. If you’ve got a full half-page of a character musing to themselves, you need to chunk it up with actions or dialogue.

Let your characters think and mentally react to things during a scene. This keeps them feeling like fully fleshed-out individuals instead of cardboard cutouts.

If you have them doing a bunch of actions, slip in a thought or two. Consider how you often have random stray thoughts even in tense moments, like noticing the color of the sky outside the window or remembering something you have to do tomorrow. These digressions let us know what the character values and reminds us that they are a fallible human being, with the intrusive thoughts we are all known to suffer from at times.

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If you have multiple POVs, ensure each of them has a different thinking style.

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This is a bit more challenging and only applies if you have multiple POV characters, either in different books or within the same one. Doing this means understanding how your character thinks (because good characters think). Some people have a snarky inner voice, others are softer and gentler.

In Funeral of Hopes, we get to see Uileac’s inner monologue while he and Orrinir perform a training exposition for a bunch of first-year students:

Orrinir was still recovering from the failed downswing, shoulders rounded as if in pain. But Uileac hadn’t struck true—not even close. Maybe his husband was running out of energy this soon into the fight.

He had one chance to end this, hopefully without disemboweling the love of his life. Rushing Orrinir gave the man an opportunity to sidestep, and he’d be propelled right into the wall. Stupid as he’d look, it’d be better than keeping this up. The kids would learn something, anyway, though he wasn’t sure what.

Eking out a weak scream, Uileac charged toward Orrinir with his blade in front of him for a strong forward thrust.

But his partner did not move.

Orrinir had perhaps six seconds to change the outcome. Uileac had always been faster than his taller, heftier husband. With a running start and a big target, there would be little chance of missing. This dim horror dawned on him after he’d already committed to the strike.

Uileac is always thinking ahead: calculating, assessing weak spots, estimating how much time Orrinir has to sidestep.

We also see he’s a pretty prideful person, worried about looking stupid in front of a bunch of children. Even though he’s been getting his ass beat this whole fight because he’s a dumbass cavalryman and not skilled in swordplay.

Contrast this with Mordrek from What Is Cannot Be Unwritten, who is renowned for his gallows humor and constant mockery of pretty much everything – including himself.

Rock bottom. How appropriate.

He pushed against the ground with a burst of dying energy; his head exploded from the surface, and he gasped, reaching out for some ledge he wasn’t sure was there. Only a small spot of light trickled down from behind him, where a veil of rain replenished the pool from the cliffs above. Not enough to see the ends of this infernal cesspit that had lain dormant for centuries.

Like floating in the Melinun Sea, he told himself. Just lay on the water’s surface until he gathered more information or bumped into an edge. Spreading his arms and legs out, Mordrek reoriented himself to face the hole he’d fallen from, trying to identify how tall this cavern was. Perhaps half a story in height. The pool itself was maybe the depth of two average men. So about two-and-a-half Mordreks.

While Mordrek is also tactical, it’s not quite so cold and dispassionate as Uileac. He’s more self-deprecating with a sardonic twist that shows up even when he’s in serious peril.

That’s why it’s going to be so fun when these two idiots are forced to go on an adventure in the seventh book, Shadow and Sword. Fighting like cats and dogs! I can’t wait for their reluctant buddy-cop moment.

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If you really want to have a TV series, please do not think of books as some inferior stepping stone. They are completely separate art forms that require different approaches.

The best screen adaptations were from books that were originally meant as books. Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, Outlander, Dune, and the Hunger Games series were all books that were never intended to be transferred to a visual format.

These beloved series may have beautiful storylines and settings, but turning them into movies or TV shows took expertise and planning. It was not a ready-made transition, and their richness came from the fact that they were perfectly suited to their original form. They became popular enough for film because the stories resonated emotionally, not visually.

TV brain books aren’t memorable because they don’t have the very things that make people want to adapt them. They don’t make anyone feel anything; they are too overwhelming because, as Lincoln Michel noted, they focus on mechanical descriptions and stacking visuals rather than interiority or beautiful prose.

Simply put, you are not going to get your book to the silver screen by mimicking the screen itself. There’s nothing wrong with dreaming about your books being turned into a movie series – I occasionally muse about that myself – but that should not be the primary focus. The focus should be on making a good book, not a knock-off of a nonexistent movie.
How to Avoid Plot Armor

April 22nd, 2026

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If you’ve never heard this term, it basically means that the character is always magically saved from consequences through wildly unrealistic and strange means. Whether that’s suddenly meeting a wise guru who gives them a solution, an enemy changing their mind and sparing the MC, or a freak accident that turns out as a blessing in disguise, too much plot armor and characters start to feel like little dolls rather than real people.

Now, I will admit that I enjoy some books with impenetrable plot armor. Danmei is notorious for this shtick, and I like danmei novels because I get to shut my brain off and be merrily led along.

Do these books have reread value? Not really. I enjoy them, but I don’t feel the need to luxuriate in them again. I don’t think much about these books when I’m done with them, other than perhaps envisioning non-plot-armored scenarios for the characters.

Plot armor often goes along with Mary Sues. The MC is the strongest and greatest and bestest ever who everyone loves and wants to save even after trying to kill them in the last chapter. Childish writing, fun for a little bit, but exhausting eventually.

You can write a book with plot armor if you want; it can, indeed, be fun. I can’t tell you what to do. But I can warn you that in certain genres, like literary fantasy (my specialty), it’s heavily frowned upon and you’ll be ripped apart.

So let’s see how to untangle that plot armor and create exciting consequences.

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Ensure that danger is survivable based on the realities of the world.

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Anyone who is on ground level within a 1-mile radius of a nuclear bomb detonation is going to die. There is no ifs, ands, or buts about that. They will be instantly vaporized due to the extreme heat and force unless they are in extremely, extremely specific circumstances, such as locked in a very deep bank vault that is reinforced with heavy metals.

Those within a five-mile radius will almost certainly die of radiation sickness, with only a scant few survivors who will be crippled for life. It is a gruesome, horrific death that is possibly one of the most painful things a person can suffer. And everyone within a 10-mile radius will suffer some sort of damage, whether that is broken bones from flying debris or third-degree burns over the majority of their body.

Having a character walk away unscathed from an air burst right above their heads is physically impossible. Readers will think you are stupid if you have a character crouch under a desk and then get up like nothing happened.

There are subtler versions of this, though, like having a character get pressed half to death and not suffer any long-term effects, or managing to talk their way out of a hostage situation with a world-renowned assassin.

Am I saying you can never ever have these kinds of miracles? I’m not. I can’t tell you what to do with your writing; you can have a million of them if you want. But readers will lose trust in you pretty fast, especially if several miracles occur in rapid succession.

To avoid accusations of plot armor, consider whether an injury or circumstance is survivable for the average person. People survive getting shot all the time, depending on how trained the shooter was and where the bullets penetrated. People have survived strokes, or heart attacks, or poisonings. They will have consequences (more on that later), but they can function.

This goes for fantasy settings as well. If you have insisted that one spell will absolutely, positively, certainly kill someone if it is cast correctly, then welp, that person has to die when they’re faced with a highly skilled spellcaster. Irreversible poisons are irreversible. Being in direct fire of a dragon is fatal. And so on and so on.

Since you are the one who created the rules for your world, your readers must trust that you will follow them. Constantly reversing course and hunting down loopholes makes readers lose interest. They may keep reading just because they want to see how many more of your own rules you break and roll their eyes at their ridiculousness. But they likely won’t want to read more of your work because they already know the jist: the character will survive anything and end up in a happily ever after.

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Give the character a real flaw, not just a pratfall.

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Don’t get me wrong: pratfalls are fun. These are little annoying habits or minor deficiencies, like not being able to cook or always having to make a bad joke. But if your character only has pratfalls, they may very well be a Mary Sue.

Realistic characters have fatal flaws. This could be laziness, a bad attitude, or excessive pride (looking at you, Mr. Uileac Korviridi). The fatal flaw gets them into trouble that other characters would easily bypass, but that they simply can’t because of who they are.

The interesting thing is that a character deficiency can become a strength in another circumstance. For example, a stubborn character can beat their head against the wall trying to solve a problem themselves. They could also be persistent in a circumstance where everyone else gave up, resulting in a well-earned victory. It’s the same trait but framed differently depending on the context.

Whatever conflict you choose, make sure it will grind against the character’s Jenga Block: their essential personality trait that determines how they move in the world. This molds the plot around the character rather than dragging them along without agency.

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Demonstrate – and utilize – a character’s primary skill.

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There are few things more annoying to me than when an author says a character is really good at something and then never shows them doing that thing. Every problem gets solved through some other means, possibly because the writer doesn’t know much about that particular topic.

If you are not intimately familiar with your subject matter, then read up on it more. You should not make up everything even if you are in fantasy or scifi. Keep things a little vague so you don’t constantly get called out for being stupid, but show us the character using the tools you already gave them.

Cerie Korviridi is a High Poet. Once she undergoes the Sigillum ritual, we see her using High Poetry to solve things. Not every problem that comes her way – otherwise High Poetry becomes a Mary Sue skill – but enough to keep peoples’ interest (I hope).

I, unlike some people who use poetry magic (cough cough), am a poet. I know poetry very well because I’ve been writing it for over 20 years. Writing the poems throughout the series – there will be over 100! – is a genuine pleasure for me, so I have no problem sharing them.

So whatever important skill that your character has, use it. This reduces plot armor because we can see that the character is equipped for the challenges they face.

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Spread competency amongst multiple characters.

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As I said before, plot armor is often closely associated with Mary Sues because the main character is somehow able to do everything they could possibly need to survive. They’re a healer, a fighter, a scholar, a schemer, and incredibly charismatic. Everyone wants to help them, so any issues they face are easily solved because they’re so special.

When we always know that a character will pull through mostly unscathed, then we lose interest. It’s impossible for them to fail because they just need to use one of their seven thousand skills.

But the story gets more interesting when someone else has the skills they need. Now the main character must build alliances, negotiate, and compromise. The other character could refuse to help at a pivotal moment, or be unavailable, or simply not have quite the level of skill required. We don’t know how they will react, but we do know that there will be conflict involved in extracting this utility.

My Plot Mountain method, which is mostly geared toward quest-type narratives, emphasizes that each member of the main cast should have a competency and a reason for being there. They may be a healer, a mystic, a badass knight, whatever. These strengths should be explained early on, before there is any danger, so that we’re familiar with what each character can do.

By highlighting their competencies, we are not surprised when they come up with a solution for a problem. This also prevents the issue of when characters randomly are able to save the day when no one ever suggested they were capable of that.

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Ensure proper foreshadowing to avoid lucky breaks.

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One common issue with plot armor is that lucky breaks come out of nowhere. There’s no logical reason for the protagonist to receive this reward; it was never hinted at or discussed.

For example, someone will magically hear a rumor that something works in a highly specific way that readers never would have guessed, and it just so happens to work that way several pages later. Or when a character is on the brink of death, someone just so happens to have a magical elixer that solves everything.

You can have these sudden reversals without being accused of plot armor – as long as the solution to the problem was hinted at earlier, and the character only needs to act on the information they already have.

In my next book, Absent All Light (coming June 23, 2026), Cerie gets into a sticky spot and needs healing from another High Poet. She does not randomly stumble onto a High Poet while in the wilderness; her mentor, Irith, mentioned an ally in the general area where Cerie was headed.

This way, Cerie goes, “Hey, Irith said something about a High Poet around here,” and they set off to find her. While it does end up fortuitous, Cerie knew that poet was nearby, so finding her was the logical choice.

If your character ends up being saved by a mysterious character, mention them earlier. If there’s a magical tool that fixes things, have it discussed in passing but dismissed. Readers will logically assume the Chekov’s Gun principle and guess that the info will be useful later. They’re then satisfied by the solution, even though they weren’t sure when it would become relevant.

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Ensure several coincidences lead to terrible outcomes.

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Plot armor characters are notorious for their interesting coincidences that always help them out. These happenstance encounters never have bad repercussions and neatly solve whatever the problem was so they don’t have to think about it again.

But coincidences become more interesting when we don’t know whether they will be helpful or harmful.

Let me give you an example of an awkward coincidence. I had a pretty weird and uncomfortable breakup with an ex who attended a university halfway across the state. By unfortunate chance, I ran into this ex at a restaurant while I was in town for a conference.

Neither of us expected to see one another; it’s a relatively large city, and we had not been in contact for months. Being the big coward I am, I had my friends pack up my food, ran back to the conference site, and ate my greasy noodles in stoic silence while everyone stared at me.

You could have your character run into an enemy while they’re out shopping, or they miss a bus and end up getting caught in a massive firefight. Wrong place and wrong time situations are far more interesting than right place, right time.

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Victories should include both benefits and consequences.

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High-stakes stories are interesting not because we think the protagonist is going to die if they don’t succeed, but because we suspect that there will be other issues that arise from the resolution. Things aren’t tied up with a neat bow, and there are tragic losses that can’t be reversed.

The hero may live, but the love interest dies. The world is saved, but thousands lost everything during the war. The dragon is dead, but it was so aggressive because it was guarding a clutch of eggs, and now everyone’s fighting about whether to kill the eggs too.

We typically expect that the protagonist is going to limp through the end because that is who we are following throughout the story. The story ends if the MC dies, unless there are multiple POVs. But everyone else is fair game, and the protagonist’s actions can have consequences we would not have expected.

And sometimes what we thought was a happy ending was actually a Phyrric victory. The protagonist loses so much of what is dear to them that, while the campaign was a success on paper, it feels more like a defeat. They may lose their agency, their sanity, their relationships and loved ones; everything they truly cared about is gone because they chose to pursue this endeavor.

My seventh book, Shadow and Sword, is very much what I am calling a consequences book. It is all about the fallout from the sixth book, which had a world-changing climax (yes really). Because the climax was so intense, I needed a whole other book to untangle all those threads.

As I am coming to learn, consequence books are extremely hard to write, which is likely why so many people refuse to do them. Building a new conflict on top of the old one requires some ingenuity, and I can’t constantly rehash the old plot or people will get bored. Still, I love being challenged, so I’m excited to dive in and explore all the loose threads from the sixth book, Poesy.

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Avoid “damsel in distress” syndrome by letting the character save themselves sometimes.

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Contary to the name, both male and female characters can be damsels in distress. Danmei novels, being primarily focused on gay relationships, typically have a damsel and a savior, though sometimes the situations reverse throughout the book.

This endless loop of saving and being saved gets annoying after a bit. Yes, sometimes a character will be utterly helpless and need someone else to swoop in – Orrinir’s sort of a damsel in the next book – but they should at least try to self-rescue.

Not only does this make it more interesting, but it also demonstrates agency and assures us that this MC was a good choice as a protagonist. A completely passive character doesn’t inspire sympathy, nor do we feel particularly bonded to them. If we wanted to see a lazy louch, we’d just open Facebook and watch people bitch about the problems they created.

If their self-rescue fails, then we see they don’t have plot armor. This is then a good opportunity to use the rest of your main cast to fix the problem, showing that the MC doesn’t have everything they need to succeed and must rely on others.

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Again, I’m not saying you can’t write a book with zero plot armor. In fact, I’m not saying you have to do anything at all. I’m not the ultimate truth in writing. Armored protagonists can be useful if that is something readers want; maybe they, like me, sometimes just want to be led along by the nose.

But other readerships are much more resistant to plot armor. They will complain if your characters never have problems, never suffer consequences, and always have the perfect solution. Knowing who you’re writing for and what kind of story you want to tell will ensure you satisfy your ideal audience while also building a more complex narrative.
Commitment and Execution: Avoiding Reader Frustration Through Expertise

April 18th, 2026
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This article comes to you from a personal complaint. A deeply frustrating, deeply personal complaint.

For over a year, I was waiting for the release of The Poet Empress, which is one of the few books I have found that uses poetry magic. The other one I have found is A Shadow In Summer, which I found unbearable.

I was hoping The Poet Empress avoided the mistakes of A Shadow In Summer. It did not. I kept pushing through to see whether the mistake was ever fixed. And it was not.

What was the mistake?

There were barely any poems. In a book about poetry magic.

Both of these books/series are framed around magical poetry … but the authors do everything possible to dance around actually having to do the poetry magic.

As of now, I have written over 100 original poems for The Eirenic Verses. While the first and second books don’t have that many, there are enough to ensure readers that no, the series doesn’t avoid poetry, and yes, there are likely to be more in the future. As the series continues, there are more and more poems included in each book, carefully integrated into the text so as to feel natural.

This is simple for me because I have been writing poetry for over 20 years at this point. And it deeply frustrates me that others won’t commit to their book’s premise but still expect a readership.

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There will be people who like the work, but they likely aren’t the ones you wanted.

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Now, I will note that The Poet Empress does have a good rating on Goodreads. But I also know that big publishers make this possible through nefarious means, and frankly, I don’t really trust star ratings much anymore. There have been far too many books that everyone screams about but that I find atrocious for me not to consider that, just maybe, publishers ensure their books never get poor ratings.

Still, people seemed to love it because it was, well, shallow, as I noted in my post about tradpub being cooked. It contains extremely graphic content but is written in an annoying YA style that is both very slow and very fast at the same time (strange, I know). And I suspect that many of them gave it such a high review because they liked how the book looked.

And they didn’t care that the book doesn’t have any poetry because they didn’t give a shit about that aspect anyway: they wanted the doomed romance and the evil MMC.

But more discerning readers clocked the exact same thing I did: there’s nothing about the power of writing itself. At all.

Others, while still glowing and squealing about it, did acknowledge that there’s almost no poetry magic at all.

And I am not glad about that. It’s a structural issue that the protagonist cannot do poetry magic: a convenient way to sidestep doing the very thing that the book is supposed to do.

Readers often seem to act as if a book’s structure was inevitable and there was no way to avoid its pitfalls, but that’s not true. The author here intentionally chose a structure that would avoid delivering on the premise, precisely so that she did not have to learn how to write poetry.

Which I have to ask, then: what’s the entire point of writing a book about poetry magic if you don’t like poetry?

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If you don’t like something enough to explore it, then you don’t like it enough to write about it.

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Simple as that. Do not write a book about a topic you don’t care about because you want dibs on a fresh idea.

People may like your book if they don’t know much about the topic. They’re not going to like if they do know a lot about the topic. The very people who could have become your champions are going to turn away in disappointment, never recommending your work to others in the field.

There’s a reason why certain books become cult classics and others don’t: because the author actually understood what they were talking about. Lewis Carroll was a mathematician who was fed up with weird math, so he wrote Alice in Wonderland to complain about it. Even though the story is allegorical, non-math people can still sense the logic behind it and feel there’s a greater theme, which builds intrigue.

Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi is iconic because he was a steamboat operator before writing the book. It feels grounded and real, a genuine travelogue by someone who understood each twist of the river.

You cannot fake that authenticity, and adept readers will feel that you don’t know what you’re talking about.

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You have to show the premise of the book, not simply describe it.

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Someone coming to a book about poetry magic is not going to expect poetry magic every single page, but they’re going to expect at least one example. Or at least some poetry.

I think I remember there being three singular poems in The Poet Empress, which is almost 400 pages. So one poem per 133 pages. And, most importantly, none of them were magical. We were simply told that poetry magic was happening but never allowed to see it.

Even in the climax, where the protagonist wields this supposedly incredible magic poem, we don’t get to see it. We’re told it has amazing effects and that it solves the problem, etc etc.

Then why can’t the author narrate it for us?

I’m assuming two possibilities. First, the author simply doesn’t feel comfortable writing poetry and so would rather say it happened. Second, the publisher asked for the poems to be removed. But I’m leaning toward the first, because I would assume a publisher would realize the significance of poetry – and had allowed several other poems.

This leads to an important lesson, obviously. The premise must be visible. You must show it happening, not just say it happens.

If your character loves horses, they have to interact with horses. If they are a physicist, then have them talk physics. Otherwise, it seems like you don’t know what you’re talking about, which automatically reduces trust.

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Authenticity matters in fantasy, too.

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Other reviewers complained that The Poet Empress also did not accurately depict the court dynamics it was based upon, leading to weak and confusing worldbuilding.

I’m sure that some will hand-wave this away by claiming that it’s fine because the book is fantasy. In fact, I suspect this is why so many younger writers want to pursue fantasy: they think it means less work since they don’t have to research anything.

But I do not ascribe to the idea that your worldbuilding can just be whatever you feel like, especially when you’re clearly working within a remix of a real-world place. This makes for chaotic, muddled settings that feel cobbled together rather than coherent places.

For example, if you have a setting that is meant to be a fantasy version of ancient China, why would you have corn? It’s indigenous to North and South America. Ancient Chinese people weren’t eating corn because they didn’t know what it was. Corn didn’t arrive to other continents until the 1500s at the very, very earliest.

Breme is based on Mongolia. It is not a perfect one-to-one depiction and I never claim it is. However, I work hard to imbue authenticity through the climate, the produce, the foods, and so on. There’s a little Easter egg in Funeral of Hopes where I reference a smoked herb from traditional Mongolian medicine that is meant to improve sexual stamina.

Did anyone else catch that or care? Probably not. I don’t think I have a big Mongolian readership. But these little details matter, if only to suggest a certain relationship to herbal medicine. People don’t need to know what exactly that is to feel authenticity; it creates a subconscious sense of, “Oh, okay, this is something unique to the world and the culture.”

You don’t have to be perfect and you don’t have to adhere one-to-one with whatever culture influenced the setting. But readers will sense something is off if you regularly introduce things that don’t quite fit into the atmosphere you want to portray.

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For best results, actually try everything you show in the books – or at least immerse yourself in the subject.

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I am not an expert in every single activity from the Eirenic Verses, but I’ve tried almost all of them, which includes:
- Archery
- Poetry (of course)
- Swordfighting (via Kendo)
- Horseback riding
- Rock climbing
- Rappelling
- Kayaking (briefly mentioned in later books)
- Caving
And, as I mentioned in my post about therapeutic writing, the mutilation and near-drowning scenes lean into my own past.

There are several sailing scenes in the eighth book, so I intend to take some sailing lessons this summer. Thankfully, I live right next to Lake Erie, so though sailing is expensive, the conduit for it is accessible.

Writers often complain about the whole “write what you know” mantra, claiming it’s classist or that people are assuming you have to spend two decades learning something. Not true. You just have to try it at least a few times. That’s all.

No one is expecting you to become a perfect expert in things you write about, especially if you keep it a little bit vague. Understanding the movements and the feeling of it is what really matters, and much of the more technical aspects can be glossed over. After all, if your readers wanted nonfiction on the subject, they would pick up a different book.

So just give it a shot. Find a cheap or free class in your area and commit to at least a few lessons.

If that’s completely impossible, then watch videos of people doing it and lurk on Reddits about the topic.

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On some topics, guided coursework can be valuable.

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I am not vain enough to claim that I’m a world-class expert in my themes, but I do have professional training in the things I discuss. I have a Master’s degree in International Relations and a Bachelor’s in English Literature. I’ve taken courses in gender studies, postcolonialism, political economy, and world religions.

I don’t use IR terms in my books because readers would not care and don’t want to have to look those up. It’s the setup and structure that matters here. The political systems are coherent but background figures. There is subtle tension between agrarian and nomadic communities. Spycraft is ubiquitous. People get eaten up by systems they don’t fully understand.

I’m not saying you need to get a PhD in whatever topic you’re writing about, but you need to be somewhat familiar with it. Write down a list of all your themes and come up with an action plan to learn more about them.

At least read some nonfiction books on the subject. Take a free course online. Consider how this can make your work deeper.

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Everyday life and relationships can provide valuable intel for your books.

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And lastly, here’s something accessible to everyone. The subtle sensory details you infuse in your books can provide incredible richness that can’t be faked.

For example, have you ever noticed how when it’s extremely cold, you can hear snowflakes falling? They tinkle a little bit. Having lived in the Midwest my whole life, I’m highly familiar with this. Or when leaves are turning and some of them are halfway green, halfway red.

Consider how people don’t say what they really mean most of the time. Half of conversations are just people sliding across one another, both trying not to share too much. There is plentiful shorthand we use to avoid talking about serious issues, as I discussed in my avoiding therapy speak post.

Or think about all the ways people say “I love you” without saying it, whether that’s making someone their favorite meal or promising to be back soon. These moments are far more impactful than simply saying “I love you” all the time, as that tends to lose its polish after a while.

Consider the ways you can tell someone has a crush on you but won’t say anything, and how you encourage or avoid the subject.

Again, these are things that sort of need to be experienced; textual knowledge can’t suffice. If you want someone to feel the feelings in your book, you need to feel them first.

This is another reason why I caution people from debuting too early – unless you’re leaning toward YA. I would argue it becomes more difficult to write YA the further you get into adulthood because it’s hard to embody that feeling unless you have a bunch of teens in your life. Things get foggy and confused with your adult feelings over time.

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There are few things I hate more than being burned by a book I was excited to read. It genuinely stings. Perhaps people have experienced that with my books, too, but I would hope not.

If you do not know what you are talking about on a deep level, you will burn some readers, and they won’t want to read anything else you produce. I will not be reading any further books by that above mentioned author because I recognize she isn’t willing to delve into her subject matter.

Writing is hard. I wouldn’t have over 140 blog posts on this website if writing were easy and anyone could do it. Mastering the craft doesn’t just take time writing and practicing, but also time learning and experiencing a plethora of other things that can inform your work.

At a certain level, writing is no longer a hobby or occupation but a lifestyle, one that requires consistent, sustained focus. I have dedicated my entire life to it. Maybe some don’t want to do that, and that’s reasonable, but the commitment is what creates high-quality products. Not something that will disappoint the very people you wanted to woo.
Writing Research Notes: Trauma Aftermath

April 11th, 2026

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Warning: obviously I’m talking about trauma here. It’s clear from the title. I don’t go into explicit or excruciating detail, but if you don’t like talking about these serious topics, then this is not the post for you. I’m not censoring myself on my own website. Carry on.

Anyway, trauma. We love to impose it on our characters. Many readers lap it up. And for some of us, writing about trauma is a form of therapy to soothe our own wounds.

But here’s the issue. Authors often reach for the most obvious forms of trauma, like sexual assault or murder, rather than digging deep and finding different elements to talk about. In doing so, they leave blind spots in the fiction space, losing opportunities to connect with readers who may not have ever seen their own experiences mirrored.

Today, I’m talking about the aftermath of these traumas here, not the experience “in the trenches,” so to speak. Too many focus only on the immediate suffering rather than the subtler reverberations througout a person’s life. Probably because showing bad things happening on the page is more exciting and obvious, while showing the long-term effects requires care and precision.

You can reverse-engineer the reality of these experiences from my suggestions, but I often find it most interesting to see how a person lives after the active suffering has ended and they have to go their own way. That’s where I am in my stage of life, and that’s what I want to discuss.

Today, I’m going to share some possibilities of different types of trauma you could represent in your work. This isn’t an exhaustive list; there are others I may not have considered. I’m also not the Arbiter of Trauma, so there may be unique experiences I haven’t encountered before. Consider this a tasting menu rather than a full deep dive.

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A quick recap/disclaimer

I did a full article into how to respectfully portray trauma, and all my caveats there still apply.

Do your research and speak to survivors. Balance the trauma you include rather than using every single type of trauma ever. Rely on trauma-informed beta readers who can ensure you’re not becoming melodramatic. Represent the person first and the trauma second.

If you’re unsure whether you’re doing it right, please feel free to review the above linked post.

I’m not explaining every nuance of these experiences here because that is beyond the scope of the post and is not necessarily about how to write them. You will need to do your own research.

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Self-Harm

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Self-harm is a form of control that is often seen in adolescent girls, similar to eating disorders. This isn’t to say that everyone who self-harms or suffers from anorexia/bulimia is a teen girl, but that’s the primary demographic. Women tend to turn their suffering inward rather than outward because that’s how we’re socialized to deal with our feelings.

When the environment is chaotic and painful, we seek forms of pain that we can control and thus metabolize our suffering into something we can understand. It also serves as a form of self-punishment, contextualizing the feeling of being “wrong” and “bad” into a physical sign.

This, of course, leaves lasting repercussions for our psyche, not to mention our bodies.

Potential topics to explore:

Feeling guilt or discomfort with one’s scars.

Constantly covering up to avoid showing anyone.

Embracing them as a part of your life history.

Intrusive questions about why you would do that to yourself; shock and horror from others that causes shame.

Being forced to educate others about the etiology of self-harm when you don’t want to.

“White knighting” from others who see you as “broken” or in need of care.

Perverse sadness when scars start to fade, perhaps causing urges to make new ones.

Sudden and overwhelming urges to self-harm again when you’re faced with extreme emotions.

Being forced to find new coping strategies.

Getting addicted to tattoos or piercings as a way to safely experience the same high.

Surprise when other things hurt because you thought you had a higher pain threshold.

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Emotional Incest

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Emotional incest occurs when an adult, typically a parent, relies heavily on a child for their emotional regulation and self-esteem. It may be associated with sexual incest, or it may not. Many “boy moms” are emotionally incestuous, and there are often weird romantic overtones.

A child should never be responsible for an adult’s emotional comfort; a parent should have the skills to self-soothe and the adult community necessary to process their feelings. Unfortunately, a lot of parents are basically children themselves and don’t bother developing their own self-esteem, instead sticking it on their kids. This then results in a vicious cycle of children parenting children unless the victim identifies the issue and treats it.

Potential topics to explore:

Trouble understanding the difference between healthy relationships and codependency.

Confusion when others have a healthy relationship with their parents, particularly the gender of the incestuous parent.

Difficulty with close, intimate friendships, perhaps crossing boundaries without meaning to.

Unease with others of the incestuous parent’s gender.

Intrusive thoughts about sexual or romantic activities with people who match the incestuous parent’s description.

Need to “reparent” and rebuild healthy boundaries.

Learned helplessness and a pattern of codependence in romantic relationships.

Shunning romantic relationships for fear of being hurt, consumed, or erased.

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Medical Neglect

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Whether it’s because your shitty parent didn’t take you to the doctor when you were growing up, or constant belittling from the medical industry, many people (especially women and people of color) do not get the high-quality medical care they deserve. This often leads to fear around medical treatment, delayed diagnosis, and shame from others who don’t understand why you won’t just go to the damn doctor.

Potential topics to explore:

Feeling the need to handle all pain without medical intervention because you haven’t been taught to go to the doctor.

“Toughing it out” as both a badge of pride and a constant frustration.

Fear, suspicion, and dislike of the medical industry.

Delayed reactions to pain; realizing years later that you’re in pain due to an old injury that never healed.

Being surprised when an old pain resurfaces and struggling to connect where it comes from.

Delayed diagnoses due to refusing treatment.

Treating primary care as a waste of time, resulting in severe consequences later.

Others being surprised and horrified when you admit that you underwent a serious illness without medical intervention.

Dismissive and judgmental comments from medical professionals who don’t understand why you didn’t come in sooner or get your needs met earlier.

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Delayed Mental Health Diagnoses

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Going along with the above, many (again, especially women and people of color) are not diagnosed with mental illnesses until much later in life. Prompt intervention would have saved them years of discomfort and feeling out of place, but now they’re forced to pick up the pieces and try to figure out how to move forward.

Potential topics to explore:

Retracing your life history and seeing how the signs were always there despite how everyone ignored them.

Constantly feeling out of place and like an alien among others.

Overpathologizing yourself and seeing everything as a symptom of your disorder.

Wanting to tell everyone about your diagnosis as a way to prove that you’re not “broken.”

Overidentifying with the diagnosis and making it your entire personality.

Conversely, not wanting to tell anyone for fear of being called a faker.

Being forced to relearn everything in light of new information.

Avoiding community because you want to be “not like other girls.”

Feeling helpless and overwhelmed by the amount of information available on the condition; wondering why you didn’t see it before.

Anger and resentment toward the medical industry and your loved ones for not intervening sooner.

Avoiding information about the disorder because it destabilizes your sense of self.

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Being Disowned/Ambiguous Loss

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According to Psychology Today, about half of LGBTQ people are estranged from at least one family member, which is markedly higher than the general population. Homophobia and transphobia are alive and well.

This creates something called ambiguous loss, where the person is alive but can’t be accessed, either by choice or for safety reasons. Ambiguous loss is something society simply doesn’t talk about; it’s another form of disenfranchised grief, as we’ll talk about in a minute. And it causes a remarkable sort of pain that is almost more excruciating than someone dying.

Potential topics to explore:

Pressure from others to “leave the past in the past” and reconcile before it’s “too late.”

Waves of resentment, anger, and sorrow about how you were treated.

Questioning your own life history and wondering whether it was really as bad as you thought.

Going back and forth between wanting to punish the perpetrator and wanting to be left alone.

Spiteful, petty commentary about the person; wanting to see them suffer.

Sense of loss that you didn’t get have the childhood you wanted.

Anger that you don’t see your experiences portrayed by others.

Resentment toward those who had a happy childhood or who don’t have experiences that you do.

Overidentifying as a victim; feeling like a martyr and uniquely persecuted.

Trying to compete with others who have trauma and proving you had it worse than them.

Dismissing others’ experiences or insisting that they can’t understand how you feel.

Ruminating on how much different you would have been if you had been treated well.

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Disenfranchised Grief/Parental Estrangement

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There are many forms of disenfranchised grief, such as miscarriages or pets dying, but I’m mostly talking about when an estranged or abusive parent passes away. You can likely universalize this with some tweaks, but I’m not going to overstep my bounds.

Disenfranchised grief was the topic of my book, Funeral of Hopes, wherein Orrinir struggles about whether to reconcile with his abusive, estranged father who is dying of alcoholism-related disease. So, if you’d like to see this advice in action, you can take a gander at my book.

Potential topics to explore:

Feeling like you don’t have the “right” to grieve because you didn’t want contact with the person before they died.

Wondering if reconciliation would have fixed anything or made you feel better.

Feeling like it was your fault or you weren’t good enough.

Feeling broken, wrong, alien, or unwanted.

Struggle to accept consolation or sympathy from other people.

Anger and grief at the person’s death.

Unspoken feelings that you don’t want to express to others.

If you’re still in contact with another relative, shame or embarrassment that they’re not “enough” for you.

Revisiting old memories and wondering if you overreacted.

Longing for praise from the person who is now gone (similar to ambiguous loss).

Vacillating between wanting to have the last word and wanting to move on.

Frustration that others offer sympathy without truly understanding how you feel.

Feeling you need to feel a certain way for your grief to be valid.

Feeling nothing, and feeling bad for feeling nothing.

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Survivor’s Guilt

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Survivor’s guilt doesn’t just come from surviving a car accident; it can arise from many circumstances. That could be living through a war, watching a loved one die of a disease, or fleeing from a school shooting.

The other person doesn’t even need to die from the issue; they could instead be horribly maimed or be left with lifelong disabilities. Regardless, when someone suffers and we don’t, it causes its own form of suffering.

Potential topics to explore:

Feeling like you live on borrowed time.

Thinking you must avenge the other or live in their stead.

Feeling bad that you feel bad because “nothing happened to you.”

A sense of responsibility for the other person’s memory or safeguarding their legacy.

Constant “what ifs” about how the incident occurred and what would have made you die instead.

Resentment that you’re left to pick up the pieces or care for the other person.

Sense of invincibility or magical thinking about being called to a higher purpose because you survived.

Anger at the unfairness or the caprice of fate.

Worrying about fate or wondering if your time will be “revoked” if you make a poor decision.

Anxiety about not being good enough to have survived.

Hypercompetency and obsession with doing more with your life.

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Childhood Bullying

Years of anti-bullying PSAs have made a big dent in childhood bullying, but what about those who didn’t have the luxury of parental or teacher oversight? These harmful comments end up living with us for years until we address them ourselves, impacting our self-esteem and how we engage with others.

Unfortunately, people often stop caring about the issue once the victim is all grown up, assuming we’ll get over it. But without dedicated treatment, these wounds fester.

Potential topics to explore:

Obsession with being liked and likable, often removing parts of one’s personality that would be undesirable.

Fawning behaviors and overagreeableness.

Placing yourself in uncomfortable positions because you’re afraid to speak up.

Fear that no one really likes you or that they’re always laughing about your behind your back.

Trouble accepting praise or assuming there’s going to be a hidden cost.

Difficulty making friends; feeling awkward and out of place.

Needing constant reassurance.

Shunning friendship because it feels fake.

Always waiting for people to turn on you; difficulty trusting anyone’s intentions.

Brushing past your own accomplishments or not wanting to talk about yourself with anyone.

Constant worries about being “too much,” whether that is talking too much or being needy.

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Limerence (from the Limerent Object’s Perspective)

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Essentially, limerence is a form of “romantic” obsession with a fantasy version of a human, called the Limerent Object (LO). It’s not love, but rather a type of delusion where the limerent makes up a perfect caricature of someone they know (or think they know).

Limerents are happy to tell you all about how badly they suffer and how miserable they are, as you can see over on the r/limerence subreddit. So we don’t really need to talk about them. I’m talking instead about how the Limerent Object (who may not even know they are an LO) feels.

Potential topics to explore:

Paranoia about other people watching you; always feeling surveilled.

Trouble setting boundaries with the limerent.

Discomfort with the situation, but fear of hurting their feelings.

Cognitive dissonance about how the person sees you versus how you really are.

Pressure from others to “play nice,” pursue a relationship, or accept their attention as positive.

Nagging feeling of something being off but not being sure how to address it.

Being gaslit into thinking that the situation is normal from those who don’t understand what limerence is.

Loneliness because you can’t put the experience into words or underscore its severity.

Anger with the person for being delusional and treating you like an object.

Avoiding any situation where you have to be into contact with the person.

Fawning and freezing behaviors when the limerent acts inappropriately, like touching you without consent or making sexual comments.

Damage to other relationships, including mutual friendships.

Sense of loss, especially if you had a friendship with the limerent before they turned on you.

Concern for the limerent’s mental health and helplessness because intervening would make it worse.

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Humans treat each other terribly, and many things are beyond our control. Trauma can manifest almost anywhere that bad things happen, whether that is fantasy fiction or books set in our world.

You don’t have to limit yourself to capital-t Trauma. As long as you address the issues with respect and care, you can open up a brand new world of interesting insights through your work.
How To Write Strong Female Characters

March 18th, 2026
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This post was originally posted on Tumblr on August 27, 2024.

Let’s get right into it without any preamble. Here are the main points we will be discussing:
- Trauma is not a stand-in for a personality.
- Strong does not always mean argumentative and/or stoic.
- Strong female characters do not necessarily have to be warriors or powerful leaders.
- Expertise can make strength.
- Even tough characters have moments of weakness.
- Being emotional does not negate strength.
- Give each strong female character a secret goal that gets in the way.
As usual, this is my opinion, I’m not the absolute source of writing information, you’re free to disagree, etc etc. Okay. Let’s go.

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What do I mean by “strong female character?”

When I say “strong female character,” I do not necessarily mean warrior badass. Instead, I’m talking about female characters who can hold a narrative on their own; who are not mere background pieces for a man, but who are fully-fledged and interesting people on their own.

These are characters that we love and think about fondly, no matter what genre they come from. They are not simple walking tropes, but interesting individuals who we want to understand and explore across a series.

My own beloved female character, Cerie Korviridi, is a strong woman who only grows more powerful over the series. We watch her grow into her own, and it’s all due to these simple tips.

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Trauma is not a stand-in for personality.

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This happens with male characters too, but it seems to be an absolute curse when it comes to female characters. A lot of writers think that we’ll magically know a character is ~tough~ and ~resilient~ by telling us that they were abused as a child or having them be sexually assaulted on the page.

In all reality, trauma can blunt your personality. A lot (but not all) of people who were abused, especially as children, become numb and quiet and withdrawn. They lose personality, not gain it. There are so many people who just walk around in a daze because they haven’t processed their trauma, and it makes them less interesting as characters because … they’re not feeling or doing anything. (Again, not all, but some, or even many.)

I recently started a book that I gave up on because the author literally did a flashback just to show the female character being raped. Like, that was supposed to really do something for us. It was supposed to show us her character or something.

Well, it didn’t do anything but tell me that the author really wanted to write a rape scene. How am I supposed to take you, or the character, or the book seriously if you have to shove my face in it like “LOOK! There’s her personality!! Traumatized girl!! Feel bad for her!”

Some of the best books I have read with female characters who have gone through trauma don’t show it. Like at all. We feel their pain as aftershocks; we know it happened; but we’re seeing them for themselves, not for the horrible things that happened to them. This way, we understand how it informed their personality, but the trauma itself is not serving as the personality. It is serving as an explanation for why they are the way they are.

This takes more work, yes, but that’s the point: you can’t just lean on the trauma as a crutch. You have to create a personality and then twist it, or at least color it with what happened to them.

You’re totally free to give your character trauma. You’re free to discuss uncomfortable topics; in fact, if you’re comfortable with doing so, you should, in order to give better awareness to the topic. But you have to ask yourself if it’s actually necessary to show us the blood and guts on-page. Does it really do much for the character development to grab your reader by the face and make them watch?

My typical ethos (and again this is just my opinion) is that past character trauma does not need to be shown in flashbacks, but current character trauma can certainly happen on-page if you feel it’s necessary. This is especially true if we have already come to like the character; then we feel bad for them and we know they already have a personality.

If you’re going into flashbacks to show us fucked-up things that don’t necessarily have anything to do with the current plot, maybe you should ask yourself why you want to do that.

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Strong does not always mean argumentative and/or stoic.

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One of my very favorite female characters I have ever written, Asari, is the gentlest, sweetest lady ever. I don’t think I ever had her yell at anyone during the time that I wrote her, even in the worst situations.

She isn’t stoic, nor is she bold and brash; her strength comes from her calm. Asari exudes this commanding energy without raising her voice, nor does she hide her feelings.

In the same vein, one of my favorite female characters is Marta Cabrera from Knives Out. Why do I like her and consider her a strong female character? Because she’s nice but not a pushover. She’s excellent at her job (something I’ll discuss in a minute) and genuinely cares about people, and that’s why she prevails.

Marta does the right thing even when it would screw her over; yes, she fucks up and gets scared sometimes, but when it matters most, she follows her heart.

Kindness and softness can be its own kind of power, even if it’s not necessarily a cool and flashy kind. There are many different kinds of strength, even if we generally only see certain kinds depicted in media.

It takes strength to be kind in this cruel, fucked-up world. Stoic unemotional people are taking the easy way out by numbing their feelings and refusing to connect with others, and it makes them feel flat and uninteresting. The most interesting female characters are those that truly, deeply care about others.

You can make an interesting, complex, and enjoyable female character that people want to root for without making them loudmouth badasses.

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Strong female characters do not necessarily need to be warriors or powerful leaders.

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This should be a given but, for some reason, it does not always seem to be the case. Someone thinks “strong female character” and immediately goes “give that lady a sword!”

Sure, you can give the lady a sword. I’m always for beautiful women with swords. But this doesn’t automatically make them a strong female character.

In fact, a lot of the time, Girl With Sword just comes across as a different type of substitution: brute force replaces personality rather than trauma. Someone assumes that just because the girl is hacking through monsters, she’s automatically a good, strong, powerful character, but that’s not true.

Another of my favorite female characters is Temperance Brennan (from the books, not the show). Honestly, they did her so dirty in the Bones: she’s not this cold, stoic badass in the books. In fact, she’s just a normal lady who is really good at her job and who really, really cares about getting answers for things, even when it’s not her job to do so.

In the grand scheme of things, Temperance Brennan isn’t some powerful leader who can change the whole world; she’s solving one crime at a time in different locations around the US and Canada. She’s brilliant in forensic anthropology and can notice clues that no one else does due to her experience and keen eye.

I’d like to challenge you to break the paradigm of the strong female character being the Chosen One, the ultimate badass, the most importantest lady there ever was. Think about how you can make a strong character without just “wow she’s so tough and she’s so fierce and she’s so special.”

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Expertise can make strength.

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This one is more challenging because it requires you to become an expert in what you’re talking about, and to balance that expertise with creating interesting characters.

The Temperance Brennan books are so great because Dr. Kathy Reichs herself is actually a forensic anthropologist. An incredible forensic anthropologist who testified before the United Nations International Criminal Tribunal about the Rwandan genocide and who helped identify victims at the World Trade Center. She’s a truly awe-inspiring woman and a damn good writer.

Dr. Reichs’ experience infuses the entire series with this sense of gravitas. You can feel that she knows what she’s doing, and that, by extension, Temperance Brennan knows what she’s doing. This, in addition to having a well-rounded personality, makes Temperance a great character because we understand that she worked very hard to get to where she is: she had to face a lot of challenges and setbacks to become such an expert.

One reason that this creates a strong female character is because to become good at anything, you need to believe in yourself, at least a little. You have to have persistence and not give up when shit gets hard; plus, you have to be very passionate about what you’re doing or, again, you’ll just give up.

Having authority in any field creates strength that you can lean on, and it also presupposes certain character traits that got your character to where they are right now.

A character that has an earned accomplishment, not just a Chosen One, is going to have some heft to them by dint of knowing shit. Of course, you need to give you some other traits, too; they could be shy but brilliant, and they had to overcome some of their shyness to get where they are. Or they could be really lazy but they were so curious about this one singular thing that it consumed them. That makes for interesting characters.

If you don’t have any special expertise, that’s okay: it just means that if you want to create a strong character based on their experience, you need to do some research and talk to people who know what they’re doing.

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Even tough characters have moments of weakness.

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A pitfall that many writers fall into is thinking that their characters have to be strong all the damn time and can never cry, get upset, yell, have a little freakout moment.

The strongest woman I know is my mother. She survived 20 years of domestic violence and went on to get two Master’s degrees in her 50s while working full-time, and she’s now doing a PhD program in Death Studies. In her work, she has helped some of the largest companies in the world implement enterprise resource planning (ERP) software, which I can’t even explain to you how it works frankly.

Truly a very accomplished woman, and my absolute inspiration. However, she certainly has her bad moments. Of course she does – she’s a human being! When our family dog died, she was an inconsolable wreck, as were all of us. I’ve seen her ranting about the dumbest things, and she’s a total baby about any form of physical pain.

This does not make her any less of a strong person, nor does it make me respect her less. In fact, it makes me remember that she is very accomplished and strong despite having all the same stupid human temptations that we all do.

Characters aren’t people, but we want them to feel like people. That means letting them have a little cry once in a while, or screw up, or say something stupid and regret it. It doesn’t make them weak; it makes them complex.

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Being emotional does not negate strength.

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Let us look at the ultimate magical girl: Sailor Moon. Usagi Tsukino is the archetype Cancerian who cries about fucking everything. She’s such a big disaster baby, but she’s also a very strong female character, and part of the reason she’s a strong female character is because she is a big disaster baby.

Usagi shows that you can feel deeply without it making you a lesser person; in fact, part of the reason that she’s so tough is because she channels her energy into her magical persona.

All of the Sailor Scouts are quite emotional in their own way, which makes sense because, you know, they’re teenagers. They get upset and cry, or yell at each other and have fights, but it doesn’t get in the way of what they need to do.

We like Usagi and root for her because she puts her whole heart out there and doesn’t pretend that she doesn’t have feelings. She just oozes emotion all the time, and part of her journey is learning how to make her emotions work for her rather than the other way around.

It’s not necessary to make your female characters stoic, empty, and unaffectionate. They can be loving and kind without it detracting from their power.

As I have said before in other posts, people read fiction to feel things. Even if we don’t necessarily admire or enjoy a certain character, we’re going to have strong feelings about them if they show emotions. This is because human beings have mirror neurons that become activated when we see emotions. Characters feeling things makes us feel things. That develops a bond with them and, when combined with other character elements, makes for memorable characters.

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Give each strong female character a secret goal that gets in the way.

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Typically, a character’s goal, especially if they are the MC, is obvious and straightforward. They want to save the world, or solve a mystery, or get the boy, or whatever. But strong characters often have a secret goal that is at odds with their ultimate quest, and it is this push-pull between their outward goal and their secret inner goal that creates complexity.

The secret inner goal may not even be necessarily known to the character; its mere existence will cause internal strife that leaks out into their actions.

For example, let’s say that we have a typical saving-the-world girl character. Perhaps their side quest is to find love. But what’s their secret goal? Maybe it’s finding a sense of belonging, having been a black sheep as a little girl.

Will saving the world fix that? Probably not, because now she stands alone; she may be loved and revered, but she’s also apart from other people by this brand-new status. She’s accepted yes, but she doesn’t necessarily belong.

Maybe her secret goal is to come to terms with her past. Will saving the world fix that? It could; perhaps it helps her accept that she can’t save everyone, but she can save as many as she can.

Or, perhaps, her secret goal is to feel normal. This is a nebulous term that means different things to different people. Saving the world will probably not make her feel normal, because now she’s a superhuman freak. So here we have her struggling to feel normal when she is decidedly even less normal than before.

Perhaps we see her trying to shape this newly-saved world into something that will make her feel that normalcy, and in doing so, she becomes a tyrant. That’s a fascinating problem to have!

The most satisfying triumphs are the ones where, against all odds, the character manages to get both. In a bittersweet ending, they may achieve the secret goal but fail at the outward goal. It may also be a tragedy if they achieve their outward goal but, in doing so, have to sacrifice the secret goal.

Most importantly, the secret goal needs to be secret. It can’t be outwardly stated because then it’s not a secret goal anymore. By holding it close, you perfume this story with a longing and tugging; you develop internal contradictions that make us wonder what the character is thinking or why they do things that may seem contraindicative to their ultimate goal.

Some possible secret goals include:
- Having a family (whatever that means to the character)
- Feeling wanted
- Feeling normal
- Feeling adequate
- Developing self-love
- Overcoming imposter syndrome
- Getting revenge for a past slight
- Living up to expectations
- Forgiving themselves for past mistakes
- Honoring someone’s memory
- Paying back a previous kindness
- Healing old wounds
That’s about it. Again, these are all my opinions based on my experience. I’m not telling you how to write your book or saying you can’t do anything.
Was I Guilty of Fridging a Character?

February 4th, 2026

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I got one of my very favorite reviews ever for What Is Cannot Be Unwritten. The reviewer gave it four stars and brought up some incredibly valid points.

This review is precious, worth its weight in gold. I didn’t reach out to the reviewer personally because that seems weird, but if you are reading this: thank you.

No, it’s not because of the compliments. I don’t care about those. That’s marketing stuff.

But there was a beautiful treat for me, personally, in there. See, the reader expressed some dissatisfaction with a character being, as they put it, “fridged.”

Which one? You’ll have to read the book and see.

Let’s get on the same page first: I am not here to defend myself. People can disagree with my plot decisions or give critique – fair and unfair. I’m not entitled to your unwavering praise, nor do I really want it. I write books to spark conversation and provide entertainment, not to stoke my ego.

It’s entirely possible that I was guilty of this sin – or maybe even multiple sins. There are three named characters who die either before or after the story begins, all of whom are women.

Like anyone else, I am a product of my culture. Unfortunately, that culture is misognyistic.

So the review sparked some intense curiosity in me. Did I fridge a character (or multiple)? Why wouldn’t I have recognized this during the writing process? Did the necessity of those deaths not come across well enough? Is there something I can do better?

I have been thinking about this review for a long time, turning it over in my head. Each time I come back, I get more intrigued.

Let’s do a magical deep dive into fridging: what it is, some important caveats, and how to avoid it from what I have learned.

I will primarily use the book in question – What Is Cannot Be Unwritten – to explore the concept and consider whether my reasoning aligns with best practices of avoiding fridging.

Of course, this blog post will contain some spoilers, much as I try to keep it vague.

If you haven’t read the book and don’t want to know, then you may want to skip this article and go check it out first.

By the end, you can decide for yourself whether I did indeed fridge a certain someone or what I could have done instead.

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What is fridging?

Fridging, in short terms, is when a character is killed off entirely to motivate the main character (usually a man). It was coined by Gail Simone on the website “Women in Refrigerators” and inspired by a 1994 Green Lantern comic.

In the comic, Green Lantern comes back to his apartment to find that his nemesis, Major Force, has killed his girlfriend, Alexandra DeWitt. Major Force then followed the Standard Operating Procedure one does after killing a lady: he stuffed Alexandra’s body into the apartment’s refrigerator and peaced out.

This, predictably, enrages Green Lantern, giving him the Super Testerone necessary to finally defeat Major Force.

The problem here is that Alexandra’s death was only to motivate Green Lantern. It had no further implications and came out of nowhere. Readers were angry that a sympathetic character didn’t even get the decency of being killed on-screen.

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Why is fridging bad?

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I hope it is obvious why fridging is lazy and dumb writing, but we’ll unpack it a little further.

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The dead character has no agency.

Death is the ultimate loss of agency, of course. We release all our values, motives, and desires at death; we’re no longer in control of our narratives because we don’t have one anymore. Our lives and actions can be reinterpreted by whoever wants to.

But, in fiction, we are able to give our characters agency until that very last moment.

Think about the triumphant death scene of Boromir walking into the arrows, taking hit after hit, in Lord of The Rings. He was fully empowered, sacrificing himself to save the rest of the Fellowship. It’s such a touching moment because we understand why he would do this, what it means for him as a character, and what it represents about the world’s values.

It was a noble death. Fridging deaths are ignoble deaths.

In the Green Lantern comic, Alexandra is just … found stuffed into a fridge. She didn’t choose her death; it was chosen for her by outside forces. We don’t know whether she fought but assume she didn’t.

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The specific person’s death doesn’t seem to matter for the overall plot.

Part of the reason fridging is so annoying is because the dead character themselves is interchangable with any other character. You could have killed the family pet, and the MC would have the same impetus.

(Please don’t kill the family pet. I don’t like that.)

We see this in the fact that the character is often forgotten quite quickly; they don’t haunt the narrative. Once they have served their plot purpose, they are discarded and never brought up again.

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It is primarily written for shock value.

Fridging is as such because it seems to come out of nowhere. There isn’t setup or foreshadowing. The thing just happens to startle readers and upset them so they stay invested.

In my post about writing high-stakes stories, I discussed how important it is not to have random plot twists because you couldn’t think of another way to build tension. As I said there, it’s the literary equivalent of jingling keys at a baby. You’re distracting readers from a slow pace or stagnant plot by injecting adrenaline rather than deeping the conflict.

This makes your book far more vulnerable to melodrama that turns readers off.

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Fridging reveals the invisible hand.

Another problem with fridging is that it is entirely done as a plot device. We get the sense that the author ran out of ideas and threw a death in there to spice things up.

Readers don’t want to think about the author while reading fiction. That might come later, after the book is done, or it might not. However, when they’re in the thick of it, they should be wholly immersed, oblivious to the reality that this isn’t real life.

Doing something dumb snaps us out of the reading trance and makes us wonder if you were on drugs while drafting that part. Boo. Bad. No like.

Hopefully we’re caught up now, so let’s go further.

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Not all character deaths are fridging.

Alright, I’ve got to say this part, too.

In Ye Olden Writing Times, it was perfectly acceptable to kill off female characters just ’cause. Who cares? They’re a simple, inert extension of the big manly main male character, and their feelings don’t matter.

One major example, written by a woman no less, is Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre. This poor woman is locked in an attic, called insane for going mad from being locked in an attic, and then vilified for burning the house down to escape said attic. She has no agency, and her death is actually seen as annoying to the MC. There’s no concern for her or consideration of why she would do that, nor what might that suggest about Eyre’s beau.

There are plenty of other examples from both classic and contemporary media. Women die in childbirth to make MC sad. They get killed by villains to make MC seek revenge. And so on and so on.

In modern feminism, this is seen, rightly so, as Bad and Misogynistic Writing. But alas. Black-and-white thinking, my old nemesis, comes up in literary critique, too.

Nowadays, someone sees a female character die and they go, “Fridging! You fridged her!”

The original meaning – a popular female character spontaneously dying for no reason beyond MC Angst – has been lost along the way.

(This is not saying my reviewer did that, by the way. Just a general observation.)

Like real live humans, female characters are not immune to death. To act otherwise is to turn women into Noble Savages: they are too magical, too special, too untouchable to suffer. Women are hence elevated beyond mere humanity – and, in a way, dehumanized.

It is entirely possible to write a touching or even disgusting female character death without fridging them. Doing so requires foresight, planning, and characterization.

And sometimes, despite our best intentions, we may still be accused of fridging. Which could be a completely fair critique; I don’t know what you’re writing or how you’re writing it.

But we can do our best to avoid this pillorying through some simple tips.

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The character has to mean something, both before and after death.

I don’t watch a lot of movies, but one of my favorite movie franchises – surprisingly enough – is John Wick.

Some could argue that Wick’s wife is fridged; it does match some of the patterns. She dies off-screen and is primarily defined by her relationship to the MC.

However, I would argue against that interpretation. Her death is deeply, irrevocably meaningful to the entire series. Wick’s assassin revival is motivated by some punks killing his beagle, Daisy, but Daisy is important because the puppo was a posthumous gift from his late wife.

Daisy’s murder is an abrupt and total severance from his wife. He essentially has to mourn her all over again, which he does through vengeance. We see Wick do a twisted version of grieving: denial, fury, acceptance, new meaning.

This is symbolized best by him picking up another dog (who I like better because he’s a pit bull). We can speculate that he took the dog because it offers him a new connection to his wife and Daisy; Wick doesn’t seem the nurturing type, after all. He comes full circle and finds a fragile peace through this reintepretation of the enduring romance.

In other words, the entire series would not have existed if his wife had lived. She is the thread that generates and haunts the entire narrative. That’s some of the most powerful meaning given to a dead female character; it’s beautiful. You can see why I like the series so much.

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This character must be differentiated beyond the MC.

Let’s look at Boromir again for a second. He was marked safe from fridging accusations for two main reasons: 1) he was generated decades before the term came into use; and 2) he’s a man.

Not to say that fridging never happens to men, but it’s rarer.

The other reason, though, is that Boromir didn’t really have a strong connection to Frodo, the MC. He was part of the Fellowship, sure, but he was also kind of a dick to Frodo and the two didn’t seem to have a powerful attachment. Not only were they of entirely different races, but they came from different backgrounds and had contrasting opinions about what to do with the ring.

In other words, his contrarian perspective meant he was obviously, demonstrably not just there to fluff up the MC.

Now, my book has a weaker defense to this, and I freely admit that. But the dead (perhaps fridged) character does have things beyond Mordrek: she’s Bremish, for one, and she stands as an obstacle to Mordrek’s ultimate goals. There is a bit of tension about their nationalities that both seek to overcome, but we get the sense that said character sees Mordrek as somewhat alien to her, impossible to fully understand.

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The character’s death doesn’t just reinvigorate the MC’s goal, but reinvents them.

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In What Is Cannot Be Unwritten, we see that Mordrek is uneasy about his role as a Sinan spy well before the death that ultimately leads him to make a career-changing decision. He never liked his employer, Queen Susuma, and doesn’t agree with the Sinan penal system.

While he is in Breme to get intel, we see him pausing to reflect about why he should bother gathering any information for his terrible boss in the first place. There’s discomfort every time he finds a new detail, or stops to look at stained glass windows depicting Bremish people getting crushed by a Sinan-triggered avalanche.

The character who died had given him a potential out: stay in Breme, run away from the queen. Her death closes this avenue and forces him to make a different choice.

In other words, the seeds of his ultimate actions were already there long before said character made the tragic (and stupid) decision that led to her death. Watching her die only pushes Mordrek to revise his plans, selecting a more ambitious and rebellious plot.

This goes along with the fact that a good character death feels necessary and inevitable. There is simply no way for this character to continue living without ruining the future; they are out of time.

The character becomes a beloved roadblock whose ultimate end pushes things forward – not because it gives the MC a burst of energy, but because it forces them to take action for their own survival, too.

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A satisfying death is one doomed by the narrative.

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I say right away in the blurb for What Is Cannot Be Unwritten that there is a doomed romance. I’m not hiding the fact that the MCs aren’t going to get together forever. Why?

Firstly, I don’t lie to readers, even if I don’t infantilize them through trigger warnings. Clickbait isn’t my thing: what you see is what you get.

Secondly, because a lot of people like doomed romance. If I didn’t say that, then they wouldn’t want to pick up the book.

I always knew that this character was going to die. The death is the centerpiece of the book; everything works up to it. This wasn’t a random decision I made because I was bored or wanted some extra drama.

In fact, I knew to write it this way because that character is mentioned again in the sixth book, Poesy, which I wrote first of all the books. Even before I had started drafting What Is Cannot Be Unwritten, said character was doomed.

The distinction is important because it means I shaped the plot around the death. It had to happen so I could tell the story I wanted – and it had to happen to her, specifically. No one else could suffice.

We see the push-pull throughout the story before the death scene. Much as Mordrek wants to be with her, he can’t; political, cultural, and personal forces all align against this. Every time they talk about a future, it seems halfhearted, impossible. There are layers of barricades between that happy potentiality, too much to prevail against.

Mordrek even calls the doomed character an “angel” the very first time they meet.

Who is generally an angel? Not living people, that’s for sure.

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Now, did I fridge the character, as the reviewer said?

I don’t know. It’s up to you.

Ultimately, my interpretation doesn’t matter. I can justify all I want, explain my reasoning, but that has no impact on how a reader felt or what they thought.

A writer doesn’t get to say whether or not they fridged someone, even if that wasn’t their intention. Only readers can make that decision. If a writer is accused of fridging despite doing their best not to do so, then that signifies a plot failure.

I will keep this reviewer’s opinion in mind as I move forward, and I appreciate their willingness to bring up such an argument. That type of critique is invaluable for my writing process and will deeply influence my next works.
Writing Sibling Relationships in Fiction

January 31st, 2026

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Sibling bonds are sadly underrepresented in most genres, something I aimed to fix in the Eirenic Verses. Cerie and Uileac’s bond isn’t idle window dressing but one of the most important connections in the series; multiple of the books hinge upon this relationship.

My brother and I are very close, so it just felt natural to me that I write about siblings. In fact, I couldn’t imagine not exploring how important family is to me, something I wish others would do, too.

I wouldn’t say that Cerie and Uileac have the same relationship as I do with my own brother, even though they are big brother and little sister like we are. All my characters are their own people. I may have taken some traits from people I know, but it’s all been blended into such a slurry that no one in the series fully resembles a real-life human – nor are they intended to.

Still, I have taken the essence of the sibling bond I understand and applied it to them, with adjustments based on their personalities and history. This is a difficult thing to do: siblings that are too close may spawn some uncomfortable suggestions, but those who are too distant may not feel authentic. So there’s a careful balance here, which I hope I have achieved.

I’d like to discuss some of what I’ve considered in forming my character relationships so that you can apply them for yourself.

Note that I am primarily talking about adult siblings. My series after 9 Years Yearning involves adults, so I don’t really discuss or explore those childhood periods. And I don’t like kids anyway.

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Do not use sexually charged descriptions.

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This should be a total duh, but as displayed by the example I gave on perspectives in description, it is not.

I imagine that single-child authors don’t really understand that siblings’ brains are hardwired not to think about our blood relatives in that way, at least if we were raised together. They think about characters in terms of how they personally feel about them rather than how the character himself would.

In that post, I showed how Uileac talks about his little sister. He does mention her body, but it’s about how she looks different than he remembers.

What things should you avoid discussing when having one sibling describe the other? These are a few points.

Descriptions like “busty,” “toned,” “voluptuous,” “fit.” More neutral things like “slim” are okay, but “lithe” may be pushing it.

Any discussion of breasts, at all. But you shouldn’t be talking about those anyway, as I stated in my “men writing women” post.

Lips. People usually only talk about one another’s lips when they want to do something with those lips. Now, you might be able to get away with it if one of the siblings is on the brink of death and their lips are turning blue, or if they have been tortured and their lips are cracked and chapped. But if their lips look normal, don’t discuss them.

Calling one another beautiful or handsome, even if others use this term or demonstrate desire for one of the characters.

Things about their figure. For example, a brother would not discuss his sister having an hourglass figure.

In general, the way siblings talk about one another’s bodies will not be complementary. They are more likely to point out one another’s flaws than to discuss their attractive qualities because, well, their brains sort of edit that out. I will tell you if my brother’s beard is looking scruffy and ugly, and he’ll tell you if I’ve got a pimple.

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Be cautious about siblings tending to one another.

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If you’ve got a grand adventure going on, it’s likely that someone will get hurt, and if the siblings care about one another, they will want to help. But they’re not going to be delicately sobbing and stroking their sibling’s hair. A parent might do that, but probably not a sibling.

In my next book, Absent All Light, I have a scene where Uileac tries to perform CPR on Cerie after she almost drowned. Cerie is revolted by the close proximity and shoves him away, finding this more disgusting than literally anything else she has recently endured.

I, too, would be hysterical with anger if my brother did that to me, even if it saved my life. It’s gross, and Cerie acknowledges that as any sister would.

Anything that would require a sibling to get naked or touch near to erogenous zones is off-limits. For example, washing a little brother would be offloaded onto someone else, such as the brother’s romantic partner or parental figure. The big sister might throw clothes at the brother and tell him to get it done while she retreats.

The presence of others also changes the way things feel. If anything is done that might become over-intimate if described wrong, then have someone else present while it’s happening, who can discharge any uncomfortable tension. For example, a friend or unrelated person – or even a sibling’s love interest – may be there to talk through what’s happening.

We’ve established through the other books that Orrinir and Cerie are very close: more like actual siblings than just in-laws. But, still, they are technically not blood-related, so we need to further clarify that nothing freaky is going on behind the scenes.

In Saint Luridalr and the Peony Phoenix, Cerie’s brother-in-law Orrinir feeds her, and Cerie whines that she can do it herself. This already helps to reduce any potential quasi-incest vibes because if she were into it, she couldn’t be complaining.

This is achieved through light-hearted banter. Orrinir says that if she’s going to act like a baby, she’ll be treated like one, and Uileac threatens to burn all her stuff so she doesn’t get them sick. Uileac’s presence also serves as a moderating force because we know he would step in if things seemed weird.

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The greater family dynamic influences how siblings react to one another.

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Whether they mean to or not, many parents play favorites, typically preferring those who are closest to them in personality or interests. This can breed resentment or make one sibling more closely resemble the parent who liked them most.

Later on in the Eirenic Verses, we meet Haniya, who really dislikes both of her siblings. Daiski, the bastard half-brother, is an evil troublemaker, and her sister Marget was the golden child despite not being the heir. It’s clear that both the siblings got more attention than her: either they needed constant management or were fawned over.

Her iciness toward these two works to make her seem both petulant and vulnerable. It also serves as a nice contrast to Uileac and Cerie, showing that being blood related doesn’t always necessarily create a real bond.

However, traumatic events like losing a parent will either bring siblings closer or drive them away.

Uileac, being the oldest, adopted a more paternal role than most big brothers. It’s shown that Cerie was the baby of the family, who was spoiled and showered with care. She was born four years after Uileac, so she was likely a pleasant surprise for their parents, who may have thought they couldn’t have another.

Maybe Uileac resented this specialness before their parents died, but he’s come to absorb his parents’ attitude, perhaps as a way to keep them alive through his actions. Cerie is also his only family member left, so he’s more protective than other big brothers might be.

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Sibling relationships have power differentials that may not necessarily reflect birth order.

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When I say “power differentials,” I’m not necessarily talking about status. One person may be a high-powered politician but still feel small and inadequate next to their accountant brother.

This comes back to the original family dynamic. The golden child could be a total fuckup, but they have authority over their other siblings, even if they’ve moved out or their parents have passed away. That sense of superiority remains long after everyone has become their own actualized individuals.

One of my friends has several siblings. They are all older now, and their parents have passed away, but she still talks about them in terms of who was the favorite, who was the black sheep, and who left to forge his own way. Our earliest memories leave a strong imprint and will flavor our relationships for the rest of our lives, even as circumstances change.

These differentials can shift over time, but they will still have a flavor of what we were like as children. If one sibling is very ill, then they will naturally require more attention than everyone else, and this can breed resentment or a sense of paternalism, depending on how old everyone is and how close they were before the illness.

Other times, a child may be saddled with what I call Residual Fuckup Syndrome. Maybe they had a drug addiction, or a mental health crisis, or made some bad financial decisions and needed to be dug out of the hole. But they turned everything around and are now doing well for themselves.

The thing is that our impressions of other people tend to be pretty sticky. Even if we logically know that the person is doing better, we may still treat them with mild condescension because we can’t release that feeling of superiority, pity, or disdain. The sibling’s new reality doesn’t fully penetrate our hearts and minds; they will always be the fuckup, whether they resemble that or not.

This can create some very interesting dynamics between siblings if one experiences significant character growth while the other remains stagnant. There will be a quiet, unspoken tension between the new reality and the old one, which can be played out in numerous subtleties.

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How well a sibling fulfills family expectations will influence how well they are treated by others and whether they have more power.

This depends on what the family values and how strongly these expectations are inferred.

If the siblings’ parents really emphasize the importance of having children, any child that gives them grandbabies is going to be favored, no matter how badly their life is going in other ways. If they value education, then the highest-achieving sibling will naturally gain authority over the others.

You don’t have to go into the siblings’ earliest lives and childhood in detail if it’s not important to the plot. Even in 9 Years Yearning, which sees Uileac and Cerie as children, we don’t get a lot of information about who they were before the story begins: just little hints that suggest at deeper themes. However, having a basic idea of who was the favorite, who was the outcast, and who was ignored can give you ideas of how they may relate to each other later on.

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External pressures, particularly other relationships, can change sibling bonds.

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For most people, their romantic connections predominate even family connections. As such, two siblings who have partners are going to interact differently than two single ones.

In the first half of the series, Uileac is married while Cerie is single. He continues to act like more her father than an older brother, always fussing over her and protecting her. Cerie presents as the pampered child of him and Orrinir.

Later, though, she gets her own partner, and we see this connection start to become a little more distant. Both of them are occupied nurturing their own relationships. While they still love one another, they don’t spend as much time together and tend to talk about external issues, not internal ones. We understand that they remain close, yet their connection is no longer the primary factor in either of their lives.

Uileac has essentially allowed his surrogate child to grow up, and now he can focus on his marriage more than managing her. In Shadow and Sword, he chooses to go off on a journey without Cerie, though for her benefit. This would have been unthinkable when they were younger, but now he recognizes that she can tackle challenges by herself and instead focuses on what needs to be done elsewhere.

Children also complicate an adult sibling bond. If one sibling has children and the other doesn’t yet (or doesn’t want any), they can no longer perfectly relate to each other: the parent-sibling is going through an experience that their brother or sister can’t understand.

When both have children, then they may commiserate or trade childcare duties, but they won’t have as much time to sit and chat together as they used to. Their focus has shifted to caring for their own children rather than supporting each other.

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Sibling banter is an excellent way to show closeness and camaraderie.

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In truth, I had siblings in my series because I simply love the banter that comes from two people who have watched each other grow up: the inside jokes, the fond insults, the exasperation. The way siblings mock each other is unique in the breadth of human experience and really cannot be replicated, even by close friendships.

The reason for this is that siblings can get away with much more than anyone else can. While teasing insults from parents may cause genuine harm, it doesn’t feel as hurtful when coming from a sibling because they are on the same level of power, assuming that they are close in age.

Moreover, siblings know one another more deeply than just about anyone else would, even parents. They are together so often during the formative years, observing each other and adjusting their perceptions as they change, that they have keener insights about what their brother or sister values.

Adult siblings often joke about how no one else would love their brother or sister, knowing full well that they do love them and value them. Another common topic of banter is ugliness – remembering that siblings do not generally register one another as attractive. We’re all ugly in the eyes of our brothers and sisters, no matter how beautiful we might be to others.

Uileac and Cerie constantly call one another stupid, ugly, whiny, bitchy, and so on, but we see their actions don’t match their words. It’s hard to believe they hate one another when they’re going the extra mile to care for one another when sick. For example, Uileac reads a bedtime story to Cerie in Saint Luridalr and the Peony Phoenix while also calling her bratty and annoying. She’s ill, so he sleeps outside of her door even as she complains that she doesn’t want him to help her.

It’s this mismatch between words and deed that makes their relationship warm and compelling. In fact, it would ruin everything if they actually said they love each other on a regular basis. This reluctance to compliment one another makes it all the more heartwarming when they do break that mask and admit how much they care.

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Much as people may act otherwise, romantic relationships are not the end-all be-all of human experience. A story that only highlights romantic love comes across as flat and empty. We are all defined by our connections to dozens of people: friends, family, coworkers, and acquaintances.

By highlighting this very relatable dynamic, you can develop a story that feels richer and more lived-in than if two lovers seemed to exist in a vacuum, devoid of other forms of care.
How to Write a Morally Gray Character

January 3rd, 2026

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After creating Mordrek Willets, I really caught the morally gray bug. His exploits in What Is Cannot Be Unwritten sparked a fascination with how to make a character just insane enough to be “not good,” but redeemable enough to be “not bad.”

This deeply informed what creative decisions I made in Absent All Light (coming June 23), which features the Bremish cast, and allowed me to create a richer story.

But morally gray characters are very hard to do. Just a few years ago, I published an article admitting that I had never done a morally gray character because I didn’t feel up to the challenge. It was only after 15+ years of consistent study that I decided to take the plunge. I’d like to share what I have learned so that you, too, can find the exciting in-between of a shady character.

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Why are morally gray characters so hard to write?

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The answer comes from the careful balancing act involved in crafting an individual with murky morals.

Most real humans are somewhat morally gray. We make unethical decisions sometimes. We care about things we know we shouldn’t – or don’t care about things we know we should. Catch a great person on a bad day and they may be a total asshole.

However, a morally gray character in fiction is often involved in things that the average human would refuse to do. Their lives are grander and stranger than ours, which is why we want to read about them in the first place. Someone being a bitch on Facebook isn’t enough of a hook in most cases; we can just scroll through comments on a contentious post and derive satisfaction without paying a dime.

With these greater decisions come greater downfalls and more heinous acts. We can make a morally gray character do something genuinely evil, but if it is balanced with introspection, then we understand the tradeoffs.

So let’s get into it now and see what really makes morally gray characters tick.

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We must be deeply embedded in their head.

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The reason why a morally gray character is not a villain to the reader is because we understand why they do the things they do. From an in-universe perspective, they are almost always a total asshole who ruins peoples’ lives for selfish gain.

Mordrek Willets’s actions in What Is Cannot Be Unwritten are objectively Not Good. To someone living in the world with him, he is a bad person, no question about it. He works for a tyrant, kills people without remorse, ghosts dozens of lovestruck women, sneaks into unauthorized territories, burns houses down.

We see other characters reacting to his awful behavior in an appropriate way; they hate his guts, even if they don’t know everything he has done.

But we, the reader, have access to information that fellow characters don’t. We see his good acts that would be downplayed by others; we see his crises of conscience, his hopes and fears and dreams. We know that he doesn’t always agree with the things he does but privileges survival over ideals, even when he doesn’t want to.

Because of this, he becomes more sympathetic. If we didn’t have this deep understanding of him, we wouldn’t like him as much. So your morally gray character is almost always going to be written in first person or in third-person close. Omniscient POV will not cut it; they will seem terrible.

If they aren’t the POV character, then we still must gain enough insight into their world to recognize that they’re not a villain. Often, this means that they are friends with the MC, who gets to see their multiple sides. It is this closeness to their perspective that makes them morally gray.

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Morally gray characters are typically charismatic and superficially charming.

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There’s an “it” factor that comes with being morally gray. A loser incel could be morally gray by definition, but they’re not as interesting and will be cast as a villain instead.

Charisma makes us forgive the character even though we know we shouldn’t. In many cases, the charm comes from wittiness and confidence. They leap off the page because they believe they are special. Doubt and rumination are likely going to come from external factors, like fear of consequences, their position in society, or the impact of their actions on people they care about.

When building a morally gray character, ensure that they believe in their positions and decisions. Let them crack jokes to relieve tension. Make them woo ladies (common morally gray tactic) and charm more innocent characters who don’t see the dangers.

Common patsies for morally gray characters are gullible, naive characters and those who also have a slightly dented moral compass. People with strong moral convictions will not like someone who challenges those, but people who like to bend the rules will.

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Their bad behavior must be truly reprehensible.

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Here’s a common issue with some characters that are packaged as morally gray: they do bad things only to people who deserve bad things. They hunt down a puppy kicker, or they financially ruin the landlord who was stealing from a single mom through obscure but ultimately legal means.

Those are, for most people, just slightly tarnished heroes. They’re doing things that most of us would want to do in a world without limits. In many cases, they won’t murder anyone who hasn’t done anything truly vile.

But a morally gray character can take a mildly bad situation and go overboard. Their murkiness comes from the fact that they have disproportionally violent or maniacal responses to things when a normal person would not do that.

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The morally gray character has a personal ethos that is in contrast with societal mores or objective morality.

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Mordrek Willets lays out for us exactly what his personal ethos is: survive at all costs. He is, at least in the beginning of the story, an atheist who doesn’t think he’s going to be judged at the end of his life, so he’s not concerned with salvation. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and he’s going to feast.

This is a pretty standard worldview for morally gray characters. They wouldn’t make the same decisions if they were thinking about the fact that other people have the same deep feelings, hopes, and fears that they do. In a way, moral grayness is also about objectifying others and dismissing their concerns.

But, like many other morally gray characters, Mordrek does feel things, and he does get attached to people. Those individuals become extensions of himself who also must be protected at all costs – sometimes to his own detriment (but not often).

This means he picks and chooses who he shows kindness to and who he will kill without concern. And sometimes he just finds people interesting and wants to see what they will do next, so he shows them a basic modicum of decency so he can keep observing.

It must be clear that a morally gray character’s personal opinions aren’t aligned with what a person “should” think, but are internally cohesive. As such, they live in accordance with their own desires, and this makes them objectively murky.

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There is solid internal justification for their terrible behavior.

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A morally gray character is, in most cases, a pragmatic individual. They do think about the consequences of their actions – mostly so they don’t get caught. If they just did whatever they wanted, and those happened to always be bad things, then they would be a simple villain.

As such, they make tactical decisions about what level of evil they will personally accept at this moment in time. Sometimes the most appropriate thing to do is also the most moral one, and sometimes it’s not.

But, and here’s the catch – they don’t always choose the morally wrong thing to do. Sometimes they allow emotion to overtake them. They may spare a child because that child reminds them of themselves as a youth. They may help the love interest because they like them or want sexual access to them in the future. They may refuse to defame an ally, even when everyone else is, because they know that person will likely be helpful to them.

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Morally gray characters are often morbidly curious.

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I’ve discussed before how good characters are nosy characters. They have to be invested in the plot or we aren’t, either.

But there are different motivations for curiosity. The timeless example of Bilbo Baggins is the “good” kind of curious, the one that spurs the adventure and leads to mishaps. I doubt any of us would characterize Bilbo as morally gray because the plot doesn’t portray him that way, and his actions don’t either.

So the difference between a morally gray character and a hero is that they are morbidly curious, like a child beheading a frog because they want to see what it looks like when an animal dies. Morally gray characters want to see how things work – including when they stop working to catastrophic effect.

Later on in the Eirenic Verses, specifically Poesy, Mordrek joins the main characters for a quest. He doesn’t really do anything terrible during this quest, but he also doesn’t have much of a reason to join other than “why the hell not? I don’t have anything else going on.”

He withholds crucial information from the MC because he wants to see them work it out themselves. He’ll avoid providing his theories, which leads to greater calamities, because he likes the domino effect of things falling down.

Morally gray characters will often decide when to intervene and when not to based on how interesting the outcome will be, not whether it is positive or negative. In most cases, the bad outcome is more interesting, so they choose that one.

This gives them a sense of twisted whimsy that is fun to read about, even if it would make them absolutely vile in real life.

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Other people react badly to them.

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Moral grayness doesn’t necessarily come from the actions themselves, but how others respond to those actions – both inside and outside of the narrative. The reader may feel disgust and fear of the character, but so do other characters.

And different characters will have varying levels of unease and distrust based on their own moral compass. Upright and honest characters may be revolted by the morally gray character; they can tell that something’s off about this person.

In the seventh book, Shadow and Sword, we see Mordrek meet Irith Druidinn, who we already know to be a very moral, very peaceful woman. And she despises Mordrek immediately. He hasn’t even done anything, but she senses he’s bad news and doesn’t want him around. She chases him from the meronym and tells him not to come back under any circumstances – all without him actually exposing his misdeeds.

In fact, a lot of the High Poets don’t like Mordrek despite not knowing much about him. Except Cerie, who knows firsthand how violent he can be. That probably tells us a lot about her.

This makes sense, of course. People don’t like those who break rules and get away with it, or who flout societal expectations about morality and decorum. If everyone around the morally gray character is totally okay with them or even complimentary, then they are not really morally gray because they’re not really going against social norms.

Note particularly those of high status, who will likely have the strongest reactions to a morally gray character. If they themselves have mercenary mindsets, then they won’t be so upset; they’ll think about how they can use this person for their own ends. Those who see themselves as upholders of morality and social cohesion will be far less complimentary.

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I regret that I didn’t try out a morally gray character sooner. They’re fascinating, and perhaps I would have gotten further on my writing journey in a shorter timeframe if I had taken the plunge.

You can rise to the challenge if you understand the balance between good and evil. Don’t be afraid to go “too far” with your character; memorable fiction breaks the rules and wanders places where others don’t want to follow.

And I think you’ll find that these characters are a hell of a time to write. They’ll stick in your head long after you’re done with the project. More likely than not, you’ll want to play with them again – probably more than with your heroes.
How Men Can Avoid “Men Writing Women” Pitfalls

December 3rd, 2025

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“Men writing women” is such an obnoxious occurrence that there are whole subreddits, listicles, and even articles on college websites complaining about it.

I particularly like that last link from Emerson College explaining three key issues with men writing women, which I’ll highlight now:

Objectification. Men write entirely about women’s bodies and not about their personalities.

Weird sexual language. A lot of men apparently do not understand how women work sexually, despite supposedly having sex with them.

Their existence centers around men. The women are always love interests, married to a different man, daddy’s little princesses, or a sexual antagonist for the male hero.

Though I am a lesbian, I like men (platonically); I wouldn’t write a whole series with prominent male characters if I didn’t. Harsh as I might sound here, I’m not a man-hating harpy. I say everything here as some tough love.

I want men to do better in all ways, including writing. So let’s examine some of the ways you can avoid being accused of this heinous crime.

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Do not discuss breasts. For any reason.

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This is one of the major elements that gets men called out as misogynist pigs, and it’s so easy to fix, so I don’t know why y’all haven’t just done it already.

I read David Guterson’s East of the Mountains as a teen and absolutely loved it. There really weren’t any women in the book, so I didn’t know that David Guterson is kind of a creep. I only realized this when I read Our Lady of the Forest where every single woman, no matter their relationship to the protagonist, had to have a full overview of their chest meat, often multiple times.

Again, it wasn’t like the protagonists were sleeping with all of these women. Guterson just felt like the only way to differentiate the female background characters was by what kind of breasts they had. Including a very young character who I believe wasn’t anymore than 16, and who everyone had to mention had small boobs. Eww????

As of now, I think there is only one reference to a love interest’s breasts in the entire Eirenic Verses – which is going to be 10 books, by the way.

Before you complain that “oh, well, you’re a woman, you don’t look at boobs” … remember, I am a lesbian. I sure do admire an attractive bust. I may sometimes wax poetic about them – just not in my books.

So go through your draft. CTRL + F to find any breast references (including synonyms). Remove it. Immediately. Find something else to discuss.

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When discussing a woman’s physique, focus on the face and any unique identifiers.

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Descriptions of women from male writers often sound like they’re describing a porn star. You’ll see something like this:

She had a lean, taut body with perfectly round breasts that jiggled softly with each step. Her waist was so small that he could easily wrap his hands around it with a little extra space, but her hips flanged like a Coke bottle.

Ew. I could keep going on but it would make me a bit nauseous.

And the very worst male writers will even include hip, waist, and bust measurements as if this is at all useful or important. It’s not, really; these authors just want to get their male audience horny by making up numbers that sound good. But are usually physically impossible.

The thing is that this doesn’t help us visualize her in any depth. That is because most normal people look at someone’s face first.

Said author didn’t even say anything about the female character’s … well, anything but her body. We don’t know her hair color, eye color, facial features, height, weight, anything. Everything above the boobs is a blur.

All we know is that she looks pretty fuckable by Western standards. And this isn’t a very interesting description anyway; it doesn’t stick with us.

Let’s look at an example from my most recent book, What Is Cannot Be Unwritten, where Mordrek describes his love interest Juliska during their first meeting.

“My name is Juliska Sygnis,” a gentle voice told him. “I’ll be taking you to our meronym in Vercingetorix.”

He jerked his face to the woman, eyes wide. In his fragile state, she was the most ravishing dame he had ever seen. Snow-white hair that curled at the edges like wings; dark eyes and pale skin; a blue robe cinched with black at the waist. If he could speak with any coherency, he would have told her she looked like an angel.

Mordrek doesn’t mention her body at all except to say what she’s wearing. Amusingly enough, he defaults to the simplest color descriptions, as men tend to do. No “sapphire” here, just blue and black.

Instead, he focuses most of her attention on her fascinating hair: pure white with curling ends. It is this, not her cup size, that makes him say she looks like an angel.

Later on in the book, he talks about how he loves her crooked teeth. This is something that makes her less than perfect, and therefore it makes her memorable.

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You can write sexual encounters with women without objectifying them.

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I do not think there’s anything wrong with writing sex scenes in fiction. But part of the reason that people don’t like sex scenes is because they are often far more explicit than most are comfortable with, and they treat women like a Fleshlight.

If the scene is written from a man’s perspective, there’s not really much about what the woman is thinking or feeling. We don’t get the sense that she is enjoying it; she doesn’t say anything funny, make weird noises. The POV centers on how the man is enjoying thrusting into his partner and how he likes the way her body looks.

Rarely does the woman take agency and flip things around, getting dominant with the man. She’s quiet and receptive, or she just moans and accepts what he is doing.

And, of course, there are even more depictions of how hot she looks while she’s getting railed.

In a healthy relationship, most people aren’t really thinking about the other person’s body while they are having sex. They are thinking of how good it feels, wondering if their partner is enjoying everything, worrying about their sexual performance. Their visual focus is likely going to be on the partner’s face to watch their expressions (if they’re in missionary), or on whatever body part they are currently pleasuring (if they’re doing something like oral).

Think about the woman’s feelings during the sex act and deprioritize bodily descriptions, especially in the thick of things. You can talk about their body while they’re undressing – and you should, particularly if this is the first time the two are being intimate – but once the lights dim and the two are in bed, it’s time to think about emotions.

Use your Theory of Mind to consider how the other character is feeling, then match that to dialogue or action. Then remove any breast descriptions that may have slipped in during your writing fugue.

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Ensure that women are defined by something other than their relationships to men.

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Of course, if you have a mixed cast of men and women, the women will relate to men in some form. They could be lovers, friends, relatives, enemies, or whatever.

But they have to have something beyond this – something for them alone.

In the first three books of the Eirenic Verses, we know Cerie Korviridi through her relationships with Uileac (her older brother) and Orrinir (her brother-in-law). She is a child and young adult in these books, so of course she doesn’t have much of her own going on just yet.

Still, we see that she does have things outside of them: namely, High Poetry and the High Poet Society. In Pride Before a Fall, we see her studying with Uileac and Orrinir, who are attempting to help her prepare for her big research paper, and we also get to see her recite a poem she wrote for a festival.

China Mieville, noted male writer, is excellent with this. All his female characters have their own goals and purposes, even if they are in relationships with men. They take active roles in the plot, they have hobbies that don’t necessarily align with others in their lives, and they solve problems the men around them weren’t able to.

In Perdido Street Station, Lin is essential to the plot; most of it wouldn’t have happened without her. She is displayed as both confident and scared, willing to take risks but terrified of the consequences. We also learn more about her strange upbringing, her species’ history and culture, and how she feels about the discrimination she faces.

I also don’t remember him ever discussing breasts in any of his books, and he is an extremely successful author. If he can do it, so can you.

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Explore the female character’s motivations and beliefs.

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Let’s return to Our Lady of the Forest by David Guterson for a minute. One of the characters, Tom, is going through a contentious divorce with his ex-wife after he intentionally paralyzes his son during a logging accident.

Despite the fact that he is the sole cause of this tragedy, Tom is painted as a martyr figure with a bitch of an ex-wife who is determined to make his life difficult for no reason. All the women around her are also portrayed as terrible people out to get poor ol’ Tom.

We have no idea what his wife thinks about anything. In fact, she’s so forgettable as a character that I don’t even remember her name, and I’m not bothering to look it up either. Her sole purpose is to be an antagonist for Tom who he also wishes he could fuck again.

And every woman in the book is like this. All of them. They are all viewed through the men’s eyes as flat, two-dimensional characters who exist to sexually torment or steal from the men.

This is rampant misogyny, no question about it. And Guterson is not trying to make a statement about misogyny either; he’s actively participating in it, with no hint of authorial dissent.

If there had been a single male character who actually treated women as humans and not fuck toys, we could discern that Guterson doesn’t agree with his characters and is trying to portray something about the state of society.

But no. He spends more time discussing logging and setting the atmosphere for this Pacific Northwest town than he does exploring any woman’s motivations, beliefs, or passions.

Look at your female characters and compare their motivations to what you have provided for the men in your book. Write it all down if you have to. Does the woman have any goals? Are those motivations as interesting as the men’s? If not, work on that.

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If you hate women, don’t write about them.

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You likely don’t expect a female author to tell you this, but if you don’t want to write about women, you don’t have to.

There’s no reason you have to put women in your book unless you want feminist brownie points – which you won’t get, because your book is misogynistic.

Some of the most successful books by male authors don’t have a lot of women in them. I love Moby Dick, but it has approximately one woman in it. The whaling ship is entirely populated by men, and the only woman Ishmael interacts with extensively was a female innkeeper at the beginning of the book.

Of course, I’m not saying Herman Melville was a misogynist, though we can argue about that based on his biography if we want. He just didn’t put any women in his book because he was talking about a mostly male-dominated profession. Other books I enjoy, like Remainder, also prioritize men with only a few female background characters.

Is it kind of douchey, given that women are half the population? Yes, it is. But not every book in the world has to include every single type of person or focus on every possible experience.

People may not like your book if it doesn’t have women in it, and they may complain that you didn’t pass the Bechdel test, blah blah blah.

A lot of my books also don’t pass the Bechdel test, btw, particularly the ones with male POVs. The Bechdel test is a simplistic determination of whether women are prioritized in storytelling and was never meant to be some litmus test of Good Woman Writing.

So you don’t have to write a feminist anthem. But readers will like your book even less if you refuse to portray women in a sensitive and compelling way.

No women in your book = moderate readership, decent reviews, a lot of people may not even comment on the lack of women.

Objectified and useless women in your book = everyone but raging misogynists will hate it.

While I always encourage all writers, of any gender, to experiment and try new things, you’re also not obligated to write about anything you don’t want to.

If writing women feels like pulling teeth to you, then I’m giving you permission not to do it. I probably won’t read your book, but losing my readership isn’t the end of the world for you or anyone else.

But, you might find that you can have a more engaged audience and higher readership if you work hard to improve your female characterization.

Work with female beta readers when you’re done. Ask them specifically to address the female depictions in your work. Listen to their suggestions without judgment or defensiveness.

I do understand that writing about people you don’t fully understand can be very challenging. Only a few authors are able to capture the nuances of numerous human experiences in their stories, such as Michael Ondaatje and David Mitchell. I’m not good at writing characters who are very unlike me, and most authors aren’t.

However, trying something new is always worthwhile. It will get easier the more you do it – and you may find you grow as a human being, too.