Tag Archives: Writing Advice

The Big Myth About Plotters

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Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Plotting versus “pantsing” (as in writing by the seat of your pants) is a familiar debate among fiction writers. I’m not here to proclaim the virtues of one method over another, as whatever works for any given writer is evidently best for them. According to Goodreads, successful novels have been written pantsing (Stephen King’s work, for instance), as well as plotting (John Grisham is a good example). JK Rowling is another famous plotter, who works from detailed hand-scribbled charts.

As an unashamed full-blown plotter, my methodology is simple: I don’t start a novel or short story without an ending that blows me away, as I know without that, I won’t have the enthusiasm to finish. Once I have that ending, I work backwards from that point, planning character profiles and arcs, researching, preparing chapter outlines, and so forth. Yet despite this, people often assume I have no flexibility in my writing process.

The idea that plotters are creatively compromised control freaks is a myth I wish to debunk. Yes, it’s true that going straight to manuscript stage by inventing a character and seeing where they take you isn’t a style that works for us, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t open to new ideas and directions outside of our detailed outlines. It has often been suggested to me that my approach stifles spontaneity. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Spontaneity whilst outlining: Destroying my work

For a plotter, spontaneity occurs mostly in the planning stage. I create multiple outlines of a particular scene, trying to decide which variation works best for the story. For example, where should lovers meet? On public transport? At work? In a bar? Online? Or who should turn out to be the killer in a whodunnit, and why? What characteristics should the protagonist take on? Are they cheerful? Optimistic? World-weary? Sarcastic? Outgoing? Private? Repressed? What is their fatal flaw? Greed? Pride? Anger? Lust? Too trusting? Overly ambitious? Delusional?

As an example, for my most successful novel to date, Children of the Folded Valley, I considered many different potential protagonists and points of view. The story is narrated by a protagonist recalling his life growing up within a mysterious cult cut off from the outside world. However, at one point, the protagonist was going to be a female journalist who investigates and ends up trapped within said cult. I wrote a detailed outline based on this protagonist, still culminating with the same big reveals and uprising featured in the final version, but with a significantly different character arc. I ultimately jettisoned this protagonist, opting for a much more personal approach, drawing from my real-life experience growing up in a cult.

These kinds of possibilities are all delved into at the planning stage, in order to destroy the plan. I eliminate characters, characteristics, scenes, sequences, entire chapters, entire acts, but within my ever-evolving outline. Rather than write myself into a corner halfway through a 90,000-word manuscript, I write myself into corners in a one-page outline. What’s more, I do it on purpose. I want to exhaust every possible variation before I choose which to run with. I don’t like settling for good ideas if there is a great one waiting to be discovered through outline experimentation with different protagonists and scenarios.

I fully accept that this process is arduous, lengthy, and requires discipline. But writing a novel from a thorough outline is a joy, and often proceeds at a lightning pace.

Spontaneity whilst writing the manuscript: Unexpected branches

Pantsers might say this is all very well, but what if better ideas occur to you whilst working from a detailed outline? In my case, the answer is simple: I make the change. However, by this point, because I’ve worked through umpteen scenarios and possibilities, changes at this stage tend to be easily incorporated. They aren’t dead ends hit 50,000 words in, requiring a page one rewrite. They tend to be, as Tolkien once put it in his foreword to The Lord of the Rings, unexpected branches thrown out along the way.

I’ve certainly had a few unexpected branches whilst writing my novels, as well as some unexpected pruning. Regarding the latter, one supporting character in Children of the Folded Valley was originally going to die, leading to a subplot that provided contrast and counterpoint with the protagonist in the finale. However, whilst it looked splendid in the outline, when I came to write it, I realised the subplot detracted from the emotional arc of the main protagonist. As a result, the supporting character got a reprieve, and the subplot was abandoned.

At the same time, an entirely new, unexpected branch emerged in the finale. I shan’t get into spoilers, but this sequence — involving the protagonist experiencing a profound, possibly supernatural catharsis whilst purchasing a rare model railway set from a seller in the west country — was not a part of my original outline. I’d planned something much more straightforward for the seller in question, but he would up being far more enigmatic, and the story is all the stronger for it.

Conversely, whilst writing psychological gothic mystery Phantom Audition, although working from a meticulous outline, I had a creative safety net in place. My earlier gothic novels had clear-cut finales. However, this story I designed to be more ambiguous. It concerns a grieving widow who comes to believe her famous actor husband may have been murdered, possibly by a supernatural agent that took possession of him in a method acting experiment that went pear-shaped. My intention was for the identity of the killer (if indeed there is a killer) to become increasingly irrelevant as the protagonist’s grief, guilt, denial, possible delusion, and eventual cathartic empowerment comes to the fore.

Ambiguous finales are risky, so for this reason, when outlining Phantom Audition, I prepared six alternative versions of the ending, each with more concrete, clear-cut resolutions. That said, the seventh more open-ended finale — the original inspiration that blew me away and propelled me to write the novel — was the ending I ultimately settled for. I use this example to contrast my experience with the finale of Children of the Folded Valley, to illustrate that despite ultimately sticking with my outline, I remained open to other possibilities throughout the writing process.

Spontaneity whilst editing: A case study

After the first draft is finished, whilst editing and penning subsequent drafts, I remain open to spontaneous inspiration that can sometimes reshape the narrative for the better. Here’s are three examples, from another of my gothic mystery horror novels: The Irresistible Summons. Whilst the mechanics of the main plot didn’t change, certain scenes, subplots, and sometimes entire characters were removed to bring clarity and focus. New scenes and even an entirely new epilogue emerged in the edit stage.

The Irresistible Summons concerns a television producer, Naomi, who makes documentaries debunking the supernatural. A personal tragedy from her teenage years returns to haunt her, as she uncovers a spooky conspiracy in the office building of Persephone, a London-based computer game company. My original outline featured many additional elements ultimately discarded, resulting in an initial draft of 109,000 words ultimately weighing in at around 93,000 words.

Murders in Persephone — I have to skirt around spoilers a bit here, but there are certain characters whose demises originally occurred much earlier in the story, precipitating murder investigations that complicated the main plot. In the end, I felt the police aspect of the story cluttered the narrative, so I removed these murders, and instead restricted police involvement to the first mysterious disappearance.

Romantic subplot — The chemistry between Naomi and game designer Eric was much more fully explored in the original draft, with several more conventionally romantic scenes. However, this all felt out of place, especially given Naomi’s ongoing obsession with her dead teenage lover Toby. I ended up cutting these scenes, and instead having more of an undertone that Eric might be someone with whom Naomi could ultimately strike up a romantic relationship — if she ever gets past what happened with Toby.

The Epilogue — On reflection, the epilogue in my outline and earlier drafts was absurdly optimistic, and tonally felt like it belonged more in a romantic novel. For the final version, this was replaced and rewritten entirely, closing on an appropriately melancholy note that brought the novel full circle.

Conclusion: Plotters are spontaneous and also unpredictable

I’ve gone into considerable detail, but hopefully, this article is a strong rebuttal to the idea that plotters are inflexible or bound up in creative straitjackets. Personality, temperament, and many other factors come into play in the determination of whether one is a plotter or pantser, and I certainly do not claim my method is superior to anyone else’s. However, I do take exception to the idea that plotters aren’t spontaneous. In my experience, it’s a myth.

In closing, I also wish to challenge the notion that plotters write predictable stories. Many reviews of my novels praise their unpredictability and how the readers didn’t see the big twists coming (here, for example). I know that sounds arrogant — and it is, considering I’m hardly a famous author — but if that doesn’t convince you, consider the unpredictability in the novels of JK Rowling; not just the Harry Potter novels, but the Strike series too (which she pens under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith). In short, plotters can be just as spontaneous and unpredictable as pantsers.

The Chosen One Trope: Is It Played Out?

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Photo by Ergo Zakki on Unsplash

NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

In fantasy fiction, the Chosen One trope is a mainstay. It has informed some of the greatest fantasy narratives of all time. Unfortunately, it is also regularly trotted out in a raft of inferior imitators, usually to largely indifferent effect. Is it time to retire this cliché, or can new life be breathed into it?

Fantasy is a genre I’ve recently started to delve into as a writer, and so far, I’ve avoided Chosen One-type narratives. But would I always avoid them? It depends on one simple question: Can I come up with a variation on this trope compelling enough to warrant writing?

Frankly, to my mind, that ought to be the only consideration. The Chosen One cliché may be one to avoid in general, but if a writer comes up with a genuinely original spin on the idea, I’d always encourage them to go ahead and write it. I’d feel the same way about any clichéd scenario, and I’ll come back to why at the end.

Origins of the Chosen One trope

It is interesting to trace the Chosen One trope back through history. Some assume its origins lie in the tale of Jesus Christ, but there are Chosen One narratives in even more ancient texts, including Greek mythology, and the Old Testament. For example, in Greek mythology, Perseus, Theseus, Hercules, and Jason are all Chosen Ones, of a kind.

In the book of Exodus, Moses is a Chosen One, delivering the Israelites out of slavery into the Promised Land. In the books of Samuel, David is another Chosen One, selected by the prophet Samuel to be King of Israel. Regarding the latter, I’d even argue the story of David was the inspiration for yet another great Chosen One story: The legends of King Arthur.

King Arthur and King David

Whether Arthur existed has long been the subject of scholarly speculation. However, the various fictional accounts of his exploits — in particular, Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur — resembles the David story in a number of remarkable ways. Here are a few examples.

Saul and Uther Pendragon are both assisted and then abandoned by the prophet Samuel and the wizard Merlin respectively. The anointing of David the shepherd boy (at the expense of his older brothers) is strangely akin to the moment Arthur pulls the sword from the stone, when outwardly obvious candidates could not. David and Arthur are both taken under the wing of Samuel/Merlin.

David’s early battles with the Philistines and ascension to the throne are akin to the battles Arthur faces to unite his kingdom. In both cases, a golden age is ushered in, in Jerusalem and Camelot. In addition, Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table are akin to David’s Mighty Men of Valour.

At the height of both golden ages, an act of adultery shatters the idyll. In the case of King David, he commits adultery with Bathsheba. In Arthur’s case, he is innocent (though some versions of the story have him duped into sleeping with his half-sister, thus creating Mordred), but his wife Guinevere has an affair with the knight Lancelot.

Samuel and Merlin both die or disappear from the story, only to return from the dead at a key moment. David and Arthur both wind up fighting battles against vengeful sons, Absalom and Mordred respectively. Both kingdoms also suffer when plague and famine strike the land. Both stories feature artefacts of immense power: The Ark of the Covenant in the Bible; Excalibur and the Holy Grail in the Arthur legends. These items bring blessing and protection to the land.

Obviously, there are some points of divergence, but the similarities are so clear that I can’t help wondering if Malory and others didn’t look to the Bible for their storytelling inspiration, or to otherwise embellish Dark Ages history (assuming there was a real Arthur, Merlin, Camelot, etc). And even if they didn’t, the parallel is still fascinating.

Regarding more modern iterations of the Chosen One story, here are seven examples where the trope played out in memorable, resonant, unique fashion. As with the Greek myths, biblical stories, and Arthurian legends, these stories have multi-generational appeal. They continue to inspire the imaginations of millions around the world.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (CS Lewis)

In this, my favourite of the Narnia series, CS Lewis introduces the concept of children from our universe entering a universe of talking animals. A prophecy states the coming of four “sons of Adam and daughters of Eve” will herald the overthrow of the evil White Witch. Under her spell, in Narnia, it is always winter but never Christmas. Can you imagine anything more miserable?

Needless to say, this enchanting, endearing tale is a children’s classic with good reason. Lewis’s use of Chosen One themes are a potent addition to his (very blatant) Christian allegories. Let’s face it: What child wouldn’t want to rule a kingdom of talking animals?

The Lord of the Rings (JRR Tolkien)

Tolkien’s masterpiece includes two Chosen One stories, one more subtle than the other. Frodo isn’t written as a hobbit from some great noble lineage. He’s an everyman character who happens upon the Ring of Power, and it becomes his burden by default to destroy it. However, via the wizard Gandalf, Tolkien suggests forces other than the will of evil are at work in making sure the Ring ends up in Frodo’s hand. On top of that, the Christlike imagery of Frodo staggering up Mount Doom, bearing the weight of the Ring as though it were the sins of the world, adds to the overall feeling of this being a Chosen One narrative.

On the other hand, the story of Aragorn is a much more traditional Chosen One tale, running parallel with Frodo’s story. He is directly descended from the ancient Kings of Numenor and has the rightful claim on the throne of Gondor. Multiple incidents throughout the story prove his Chosen One credentials beyond all doubt, such as the summoning of the Army of the Dead.

Between Frodo and Aragorn, Tolkien weaves a masterful tale of the traditional and the unexpected, when it comes to Chosen One tropes. It may be high fantasy, but it is also deeply relatable, as a tale about courage, friendship, loyalty, sacrifice, growing up, and the melancholy sense of loss at the end of an era. Not everyone is destined to be the King of Gondor, but anyone can be chosen to save the world.

Dune (Frank Herbert)

Fantasy’s cousin science fiction also uses Chosen One tropes. In the case of Dune, Hebert intended his epic story of far-future feudal intrigue and the fight to control a space travel enabling spice to be a damning critique of Messiah figures. As such, Dune is justified in using the Chosen One trope because it deliberately inverts them. The ascension of Paul Atreides to “Kwisatz Haderach” — a Chosen One destined to lead desert people the Fremen to freedom from Imperialist oppression — is meant to have Lawrence of Arrakis — sorry, Lawrence of Arabia — overtones.

The fascinating ironies of the Dune narrative make this a Chosen One story like no other. It transpires the Fremen prophecy of a saviour has been deliberately implanted by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, who are secretly manipulating bloodlines to produce a superbeing they hope to control. Paul is the result of this manipulation, but rather than allowing himself to be controlled, he decides to genuinely liberate the Fremen, even though he foresees a catastrophic interplanetary jihadist bloodbath as a consequence.

The original Star Wars trilogy (George Lucas)

As discussed elsewhere, I’ve always considered Star Wars fantasy rather than science fiction. For the purposes of this article, I’m sticking to the original trilogy of films, ie Star Wars (no one from my generation calls it A New Hope), The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi. The inferior prequels unnecessarily muddied the waters by clumsily trying to make Darth Vader fit a more literal Chosen One narrative. This choice was ultimately undone by the final film in the sequel trilogy in any case, so I’m just focusing on the original three.

The Chosen One here is obviously Luke Skywalker. Though technically, it could have been his “safely anonymous” twin sister if necessary (“There is another” as Yoda famously stated). Why is he the Chosen One? Not because of any prophecy. Simply by default, as there are no other Jedi. The Emperor knows the offspring of Anakin Skywalker are a huge potential threat, as the Force runs strong in the Skywalker line. This puts a near unbearable burden on Luke, as he grapples with temptation to join the dark side, and the famous secret at the heart of the Star Wars saga. For this reason, Star Wars remains one of the great Chosen One narratives, even though the words Chosen One are not once used in the original trilogy. Obi-Wan simply tells Luke he is “their only hope”.

The Matrix (The Wachowskis)

Another outstanding science fiction Chosen One tale. What makes The Matrix unique in its execution of Chosen One tropes is the setting. The virtual reality scenario depicted here provides a mind-boggling techno-spirituality exercise that encompasses ideas of reincarnation, as well as Judeo-Christian underpinnings (a kind of postmodern Pilgrim’s Progress with Christ allegory overtones, if you like). The story can be interpreted in many other ways too, including as a transgender metaphor.

This kind of multiple applicability gives freedom to the viewer to take the film at whatever level they please. But whatever level it is taken at, it remains an outstanding piece of iconic cinema. I’ve never much cared for the sequels, but Neo’s character arc in the original film is a fantastic use of Chosen One themes and ideas.

The Harry Potter series (JK Rowling)

The Harry Potter novels are a remarkable achievement for many reasons, not least of which is Rowling’s ability to weave in a clever spin on the Chosen One narrative within her ongoing school story/adventure mystery magical mashups. In his attempt to exterminate the child prophesied to bring about his downfall, Dark Lord Voldemort ensures his downfall will come. This is true both at the very start and very end of the saga, and adds a lovely layer of irony to proceedings.

For convoluted reasons, Neville Longbottom could also have been the Chosen One. However, beyond this Rowling adheres to fairly traditional Judeo-Christian ideas in her exploration of this theme. What makes it special isn’t so much what she does but how she does it. Rowling’s clever misdirection and sublime use of red herrings throughout the entire saga constantly keeps the reader guessing. As such, she more than earns her right to use the Chosen One trope.

His Dark Materials trilogy (Philip Pullman)

This remarkable trilogy contains a particularly interesting use of the Chosen One trope, in that protagonist Lyra — a girl living on a parallel Earth who later crosses into our world and several others — isn’t really on a quest to fulfil a great destiny. She isn’t mentored in any traditional way. In fact, she’s barely aware of the prophecies from witches and various others that state she is destined to be the new Eve and bring about the fall of the “Authority”. Her actions aren’t based on any self-conscious Chosen One type actions, as other characters state, she has to be left to discover what to do for herself.

Pullman’s iconoclastic masterpiece ruffled a few feathers among religious groups, though to my mind they misunderstood the nature of the narrative. This isn’t so much anti-God as anti-organised religion, anti-authoritarian, anti-corruption, and anti-ignorance. Pullman leaves enough of the mystery unanswered (especially concerning the enigmatic Dust) to allow for unseen divine influence, despite his own agnosticism. At any rate, His Dark Materials is sublimely different in its deployment of Chosen One tropes amid a non-Judeo-Christian worldview.

Conclusion: An aside on clichés and offence

Clichés exist for a reason, but at present one can find a lot of essays online sermonising that they should be avoided at all costs, especially if they are considered offensive. Some claim certain Chosen One tropes are offensive, for a variety of reasons (white saviour narratives, elitist or Imperialist views on lineage, and so forth). I sympathise, but only to a point, and have written elsewhere about when I think it is appropriate to risk offence. An alarming number of people in modern western culture seem unable to appreciate the difference between depicting something and endorsing something. Frankly, I don’t believe authors should encourage such censorial thought by tiptoeing around it.

I am inherently suspicious of any authoritarian demand that a particular cliché be an automatic red line. There may be noble intent behind such a prohibition, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Ultimately, I believe an author’s first duty is to write what is dramatically correct, not what is politically correct. Furthermore, readers often take great comfort in cliché. This is particularly true in genre fiction, and as such, I’d argue it is the writer’s job in genre fiction to give the reader what they want, though not the way they expect.

In the past, I’ve heard people claim that as writers we have some kind of moral duty to educate and elevate readers out of their love of cliché for the supposed betterment of the human race. Personally, I don’t believe in patronising fiction readers. They will smell a sermon a mile away, roll their eyes, and read something else. Again, I’ve written elsewhere about why I believe consciously inserting any kind of “message” into fiction is a mistake. What is important to any author will be inherent in the text in any case, and therefore far more potent. Deliberate preachiness is something I recommend avoiding like the plague.

The bottom line? If you come up with a really great, unique, exciting, dramatic, thought-provoking, or even satirical take on the Chosen One trope, please write it. I’d love to read it.

Authors: Be Offensive on Purpose

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

As someone who deliberately jabbed raw nerves on both sides of the American political divide with my dystopian novel Peaceful Quiet Lives, I have a few thoughts to share on tackling contentious subject matter in a story. I’ll freely admit I’m hardly a famous author, but I’ve had a few questions on my process of handling controversial issues in fiction, so I thought I’d answer them with this article.

Peaceful Quiet Lives is a dystopian romantic satire, about a couple who fall foul of extremist laws in both nations that rise from the ashes of America’s second civil war. Writing the novel was a huge challenge, as I didn’t mean to pen a political polemic. The intention was to satirise the absurdity of extremist fears on both sides of the so-called culture wars in America.

As a Brit, I knew I was opening myself wide open to criticism as someone looking at America from the outside, so that initially gave me pause. On the other hand, sometimes an outsider’s perspective can be more objective, so I stepped away from my usual gothic mystery oeuvre, took a deep breath, and wrote the novel. Afterwards, in preparing the book for public consumption, I undertook this three-step process, which I humbly offer for consideration, hoping it might prove useful to other authors.

Be Brave and Write It

First, have the guts to write it. Let rip and be as ruthless, honest, graphic, and contentious as you please. Do not censor yourself. Write almost as though it were a stream of consciousness that only you will see. Yes, it may reveal dark and ugly things about yourself. It may also reveal prejudices and biases (we all have them) but for now, don’t question them. Just write the first draft, knowing you will never show this raw, unpolished version of your narrative to anyone.

After you finish, leave it to one side for a while. I’d recommend a full year (my first draft of Peaceful Quiet Lives was written in early 2018), but at least wait a few months. This will give you distance from the story and make you more objective. Do not give this first draft to anyone else.

Rewrite It

After the waiting period is over, read your story again. It may need redrafting for a multitude of other reasons — plot problems, bad dialogue, unconvincing characters, prose needing polish, an infestation of adverbs — but it will almost certainly need redrafting to clarify your intentions. If dealing with contentious subject matter such as religion, racism, sexism, politics, sexuality, and so forth, you might wish to reword certain elements. Or if your story contains graphic sex, violence, and bad language, you might want to tone some of this down (or up).

In Peaceful Quiet Lives, I removed some of my protagonist’s darker sexual impulses because they were inconsistent with his character. I also removed certain contentious references to the ongoing gender debate, because I realised my novel wasn’t really about that, and I didn’t explore the subject in any detail. This stage brought focus, and I realised that whilst I wanted to explore extremist ideologies, I couldn’t cram in every extremist social or political ideology. I had to narrow my focus. On the other hand, revising this first draft also led to the enhancement of subjects I’d only touched on minimally. For example, the final version has a lot more about incel culture than originally intended. Indeed, it became pivotal to the narrative.

Where the first draft has revealed biases and prejudices, these can also be addressed, to give the novel more honesty. At this point, you might enhance certain elements you want to be more contentious, pushing the envelope further. With Peaceful Quiet Lives, I added a reference to post-birth abortion (flippantly termed a “cooling off period”) as a legal procedure in one of the two nations, because it created a more appropriately extreme satirical alternative to the laws in the other, where abortion was punishable by the death penalty.

Following this polish (or as many as are necessary), the time has come to give the manuscript to beta readers.

Get Feedback

At this stage, it is important to get feedback from people you trust, who know you well, and understand your intentions. It is important to see whether your contentious material is provoking in the way you hoped it would, or whether it is being misunderstood. I should add that interpretations and perspectives you didn’t expect may reveal themselves at this point. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just because you didn’t intend something doesn’t make it an invalid interpretation. But you have to decide whether it is an interpretation you wish to allow for.

I am generally dubious of sensitivity readers, especially if this is mandated by publishers without authorial veto. That’s censorship as far as I’m concerned. However, it is possible to use a sensitivity reader to find blind spots, especially if said sensitivity reader is someone known and trusted. I had someone proof Peaceful Quiet Lives who knows me very well, and she was able to point out moments where I gave accidental offence instead of deliberate offence, often through poor wording. It became a simple case of: “You don’t really mean this, do you?” and was easily tweaked.

Here’s the key point: Offend by all means, but do so intentionally. Causing accidental offence is an amateur mistake. For that reason, a sensitivity reader may root out weeds that spoil an otherwise bracing, challenging work.

An Aside: Punching Down

A word on so-called “punching down”: One hears this phrase often, as a guideline to avoid hurting minorities. However, I think it is important to distinguish between marginalised individuals and social or political organisations claiming to represent them. Sometimes the latter can be militant, unreasonable, and hypocritical. As such, it makes said organisations prime candidates for satire. Stripping bare their sanctimonious attitudes and behaviour is entirely legitimate.

To illustrate this point, as a Jewish person by descent (via my maternal grandmother) I get particularly irritated when lobbying groups claim a “Jewish joke” is offensive, piously claiming to speak on behalf of all Jewish people. To me, context is everything. Not every joke about Jewish people is anti-Semitic. Personally, I think there’s nothing inherently wrong with laughing at cultural absurdities, stereotypes, and cliches, nor do I subscribe to the notion that, for instance in the case of Jewish jokes, a person has to be Jewish to make them. Again, intent and context are everything. What annoys me is the blanket assertion that “all Jewish people” would find such jokes offensive as though we are a homogenous, Borg-like collective. Some won’t. Some might. But a claim like that — especially one made by a non-Jewish person making a professionally offended statement by proxy — is absurd.

There are no Jewish lobbies discussed in Peaceful Quiet Lives, but I use the above point to explain why I sometimes consider lobbying groups claiming to speak for oppressed groups ripe for a satirical poke. I don’t consider this “punching down”, but obviously not everyone will agree. That’s fair enough, as needless to say, I am pro-free speech.

Conclusion: Brace for impact

Having taken your story through the above process, it becomes a simple case of releasing it — via a traditional publisher or self-publishing — into the world for people to find offensive or otherwise. Peaceful Quiet Lives raised a few eyebrows on both sides of the US political spectrum, and some of the criticism — of the what-the-hell-does-this-armchair-pundit-Brit-think-he’s-doing variety — was entirely expected. Both sides of the political divide have claimed the satire of their side to be implausible. Again, this is exactly what I expected. I knew I had a good, compelling tale, but I knew it would irk different people at different points.

To reiterate my main “takeaway” (a term that makes me and many other fellow Brits think of pizza, curry, or Chinese food, by the way): The important lesson with any contentious novel is to offend deliberately, not accidentally.

Writing Whilst Holding Down a Full-Time Job

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

In August 2020, I took voluntary redundancy from a staff job I’d had in television for over twenty years. It was a difficult decision, made in an exceptionally tough set of circumstances, complicated by a global pandemic. Nonetheless, it was the right time to leave for all sorts of reasons. Besides, it gave me the shove I needed to make the leap into pursuing a career as a full-time writer, something I’d wanted to do for many years.

However, I had worked on writing as a side project for over twenty years. I wrote film reviews, short stories, and novels, as well as blog articles on books, writing, television, and promotional pieces for my stories. Whilst holding down a demanding full-time job that involved running a department with staff in multiple timezones, I also managed to self-publish several novels, and had three traditionally published by a small US-based indie publisher.

The question I got asked again and again was: How did I find time for writing? People believed I had a secret that enabled me to live a smugly insufferable life of perfect productivity that also made time for everything and everyone. Not true. There is no magic formula to juggling the pressures of writing and a day job. I cannot manipulate the space-time continuum and create extra writing hours. My existence was a deliberate, calculated burning of the candle at both ends that may well not work for everyone. That said, here’s the honest truth of how I did it.

Make time for what is important to you

No matter how busy they claim to be, people always make time for what is important to them. Those who were surprised I had time to write commented from the perspective of their own lives, which were often full of social engagements. By contrast, I carefully stripped out everything non-essential that ate into writing time. I prioritised my wife and children, and any other spare time went into writing or visiting the cinema.

Speaking of cinemas, when my wife was pregnant with our first, a colleague taunted me, saying that I’d no longer be able to go. When I told my wife what he said, she laughed and said: “Of course you’ll still go to the cinema, because it’s important to you. It isn’t important to him, which is why he stopped going.” She was proved correct. My regular cinemagoing continued, although for a while I did go at more offbeat times. But I made time for what was important to me.

The same was true of my writing. That meant consistently getting up early at weekends to write, staying up late in the evenings, and obsessively grabbing whatever time I could to pen a few more sentences. Juggling the demands of the children often meant writing at unusual times, but the point is I did write in those times, rather than spend hours surfing the internet.

Lunch break writing

I am sure several writers on this platform juggle writing and day jobs. I’ve encountered many who write during their lunch breaks, and this is exactly what I did for the better part of two decades. The key is consistency. One hour per day may not seem like much, but knowing I had limited time gave me extraordinary focus. I would typically thunder through a thousand words per lunch break. Add to that at least two thousand words per day on weekends, and on a particularly productive streak, I could write a novel in two to three months (not counting the planning, research, character outlines, etc prior to starting the first draft).

Yes, I appreciate this might not be an option for those who have micromanaging middle management bosses breathing down their necks, or those unable to find a place to sit and write in their lunch breaks. However, I was fortunate in this respect. I could easily get up with my personal laptop, squirrel myself away, and spend a concerted hour writing my novels. Sometimes I may have gone a little over that time, but on the other hand, during busy periods it could prove necessary to work through lunch, so it all balanced out. Again, the important thing was consistency. Needless to say, I wasn’t known as a sociable person at work, which brings me to my next point.

Balance is overrated

I was often asked how I managed to write and maintain a healthy balance in life. I didn’t, because I consider balance overrated. Nothing great was ever achieved by balance. Besides, I didn’t feel as though I had a choice. The voices in my head clamoured for attention, and the only way to silence them was to get them on paper. To do that required significant sacrifices. For about the first fifteen years of my married life, I didn’t really have close friends, as I didn’t make time for them. That sounds harsh, but my writing came first.

Work colleagues and acquaintances often urged me to “broaden my horizons”, suggesting I take an interest in other hobbies and activities. I didn’t — not because I wasn’t interested or didn’t want to, but because I was more interested in writing consistently and effectively. Sometimes this sacrifice was painful. You could argue it was unwise or unhealthy, and from a logical perspective, I would agree. But ultimately, it yielded a large body of work alongside instructive and valuable learning experiences. If I had been “balanced”, I would have pursued other hobbies, joined church groups, gone to the pub with friends, and spent far more time watching television and surfing the internet.

Final thoughts

In conclusion, many factors came into play with my obsessive pursuit of writing whilst holding down a full-time job. Frankly, I’m amazed I managed to do so for as long as I did, as I imagine exhaustion would have set in sooner or later. It also helped that my obsessive and introverted personality had a side effect of allowing immense focus. Not everyone is like me, and my life is not a formula. I certainly don’t recommend following my example for the sake of lunatic productivity levels. What I will say is that some of my experience illuminates how writing and working full-time is possible, depending on how much one is prepared to sacrifice, and for how long.

Ironic Character Arcs

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Warning: Contains spoilers for Born on the Fourth of July, Rain Man, Schindler’s List, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Treasure Island, Five on a Treasure Island, Moonfleet, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Breaking Bad, The Witch, The Wizard of Oz, Romeo and Juliet, The Catcher in the Rye, Macbeth, and The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Alanis Morissette famously complained that rain on a wedding day was ironic, when in fact that was just bad luck. However, she isn’t alone in her confusion regarding the nature of irony. Despite the standard definitions of verbal, situational, and dramatic irony, it’s a tricky concept to explain, and even trickier to consciously nail in fiction (some of the ironies in my own novels have been happy accidents). However, ironic stories are extremely satisfying to read or watch when the concept is properly understood.

One method of crafting an ironic story is to create a central protagonist with a convincingly ironic character arc. For the best results, I recommend first figuring out where you want your character to end up, and working backward from that point, weaving irony into the narrative. For example, a rich man systematically bankrupts himself to save lives. What ironic events would bring him to that point? I’ll come back to this question in a moment.

Ironic character arcs are best defined in two ways: Firstly, by what they aren’t, and secondly, because irony is by nature slippery and difficult to define, with examples. Irony isn’t sarcasm, bad luck, coincidence, or ambiguity, as some have claimed. A sarcastic character isn’t ironic for that reason. Simple bad luck or coincidence does not provide the deep rush of profound insight inherent in an ironic story. There is nothing ambiguous about irony either. Ironic character arcs communicate a crystal-clear truth to the reader or viewer, leaving them in no doubt. Furthermore, they typically come in two forms: redemptive and punitive.

Redemptive ironic character arcs

Redemptive ironic character arcs can be roughly defined this way: The protagonist pursues goals initially esteemed and greatly valued, perhaps obsessively. These goals can be financial, career, or love life-related. They can be politically, socially, or spiritually motivated. However, the compulsion to realise these goals drives the protagonist to the verge of despair and self-destruction.

Any intelligent audience is aware of the character flaws that drive the protagonist on their obsessive quest because they have the self-awareness and objectivity the protagonist lacks. However, in the redemptive ironic character arc, the protagonist eventually experiences an epiphany that brings about profound change, wherein they have a moment of clarity, look at themselves in the mirror, disregard their original goals, and achieve something far greater.

Films like Born on the Fourth of July, Rain Man, and Schindler’s List are good examples of this storytelling principle. Ron Kovic begins Born on the Fourth of July as a gung-ho Vietnam War recruit but is wounded in combat and paralysed from the mid-chest down. He returns home, still driven by patriotic fervour, but gradually changes his views as he degenerates into political disillusionment, self-pity, and rage. Eventually, after PTSD moves him to confess to a friendly fire incident, Kovic emerges as an anti-war activist; a role ironically requiring the same courage he displayed on the battlefield, as protestors clash with riot police.

Tom Cruise is excellent as Kovic and equally excellent as Charlie Babbit in Rain Man, where he plays a ruthless, selfish car dealer. Following the death of his estranged father, Charlie is furious to discover his inheritance goes to his autistic brother Raymond; a brother he never knew he had. Charlie in effect kidnaps Raymond and takes him on a road trip, hoping to leverage a deal with the lawyers so he’ll get a chunk of the inheritance. But as time passes, Charlie bonds with his long-lost brother, and by the time the lawyers are ready to make a deal, he no longer wants to be parted from him. The money ceases to matter to him. He wants the relationship with his brother instead.

Schindler’s List features another redemptive ironic character arc, one alluded to in my introduction: A rich man systematically bankrupts himself to save lives. What ironic events would bring him to that point? Oscar Schindler was a member of the Nazi party and a profiteer of slave labor, yet a crisis of conscience at the treatment of the Jews in wartime Poland caused him to systematically bankrupt himself to save as many lives as he could. His original goals are sacrificed in favor of a greater moral imperative, giving him a redemptive ironic character arc.

Treasure hunt narratives

Another good example of the redemptive ironic character arc is often found in treasure hunt stories. The protagonist obsessively searches for treasure, yet ultimately the greatest treasure is not the object of the quest, but something else more important gained along the way. The treasure turns out to be a side benefit to a greater reward ultimately received by the protagonist, or in some cases, the protagonist does not retain the treasure at all.

In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Henry Jones Sr spends his life in an obsessive pursuit of the Holy Grail. For forty years he meticulously chronicles endless clues, to the exclusion of all else, including his son. As a result, Indy is estranged from his father for years. But when the Nazis attempt to uncover the Grail and Henry is kidnapped, Indy rescues him. They try to find the Grail before the Nazis, and in the process, both gain something far greater: The restoration of their relationship.

Other famous treasure hunt stories follow this pattern, including Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, probably the most famous treasure hunt story of all time. Jim is excited by his quest, but his relationships with the other colourful characters, especially Long John Silver, are what drives his character arc. Yes, the heroes ultimately keep the pirate treasure, but Jim’s rite of passage to manhood is the more interesting aspect of the tale, and his experiences are his greatest gain.

Another example is Enid Blyton’s Five on a Treasure Island. It features a treasure discovering narrative that rescues George’s parents from pseudo-middle-class poverty, so they can send George to a posh private school. This rather laughable call on reader sympathy and its subsequent resolution is not the most satisfying upshot for George and the other children. Instead, George’s character arc from an angry, distrustful loner to someone with close friends is the ultimate reward for her endeavours.

Punitive ironic character arcs

By contrast, punitive ironic character arcs often involve falls from grace. For example, sticking with treasure hunt narratives, an inverted principle comes into play when such tales have a darker, more tragic side, especially when characters become unduly obsessed with the treasure they seek. Fred Dobbs in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre or Elzevir in Moonfleet are good examples. It can be equally satisfying to see these characters obtain the treasure (often temporarily) whilst losing everything that actually matters.

The punitive ironic character arc can be roughly defined this way: The protagonist pursues what they believe is a noble goal through dubious means, unaware of their own flaws and hypocrisy. They increasingly believe their self-justification and lies, and this lack of self-awareness makes them vulnerable to the very kinds of behaviour and action they condemn.

Again, these stories can centre around financial gain, career, love life, politics, criminality, religion, and so forth. At a critical point, the protagonist reaches a similar crisis that mirrors that in the redemptive ironic arc, only this time rather than pull back from the abyss, they tip over the edge, committing acts that directly contradict the very values they profess.

Shakespeare’s Macbeth is an obvious example. Macbeth’s actions are set in motion as a result of his consultation with the witches. Had he disregarded their prophecies, his ambitions and desires would have been fulfilled in any case, since King Duncan already favoured him, naming him Thane of Cawdor and heir to the throne. Instead, the famous bloody tragedy ensues.

Television series Breaking Bad is another excellent case in point. Walter White’s descent into evil is bone-chilling and darkly funny. A law-abiding citizen fatally flawed by pride, Walter starts secretly manufacturing crystal meth to pay medical bills and provide for his family after a cancer diagnosis. However, the audience recognizes something Walter takes five series to admit: he’s doing this for his own gratification. Walter gradually deteriorates into full-blown megalomania, allowing for a rich vein of irony in his character arc as hospital bills become irrelevant, and he loses the family he originally wanted to support.

Horror film The Witch provides another fascinating example of punitive irony. A family of Puritan settlers too uptight for regular Puritans believes they are being targeted by a witch in the forest. The father is completely obsessed with the idea of sin, and forces strict religious ideology on his charges, especially his teenage daughter, who he comes to believe is a witch. As the hysteria escalates, the daughter, who had no intention of becoming a witch, ends up becoming a witch, demonstrating the ironic truth that the more religious people are obsessed with their ideas of sinfulness, the more likely they are to manifest it. One only has to look at the various scandals in the church for evidence.

Conclusion: Irony adds value

In conclusion, embracing irony in fiction is difficult but worthwhile, especially when writing a protagonist with an ironic character arc. You will probably find multiple methods to organically evolve ironic themes as you plan the narrative, and even more, in the writing process itself. For example irony in the plotting, will make any story sparkle. The fearsome wizard in The Wizard of Oz turning out to be a fraud is a superb ironic plot turn. The tragic irony at the end of Romeo and Juliet, where Romeo commits suicide thinking Juliet is already dead, is another powerful example.

At the very least, irony can add humour. Just look at Holden Caufield’s flippant attitude to the tumour in his brain in The Catcher in the Rye. Or the ridiculous intergalactic bureaucracy in The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, wherein Arthur Dent protests that his house is due to be destroyed to make way for a bypass. He is greeted with bureaucratic indifference by the construction foreman: “The plans have been on display in the council for over a year. It’s not my fault you don’t take an interest in civic affairs.” Shortly afterward, Earth discovers it is to be destroyed by the Vogons to make way from an intergalactic bypass. The Vogon Commander states the plans have been on display at Alpha Centauri for over a year, and it isn’t his fault if humans don’t take an interest in civic affairs.

On that amusing note, as you write, may the irony be ever in your favour.

Not Suitable for Grown-ups?

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Warning: Contains spoilers for The Witches.

One of my as-yet-unpublished children’s novels is a very dark fairy tale. A horror story for children. The scariness envelope is deliberately pushed to the absolute limit.

I was intrigued to note the reaction from adult beta readers versus child beta readers. The adult readers were horrified, greatly disturbed by some of the imagery and events in my story, and insisted it was far too scary. By contrast, the child readers loved it, but also made some merciless criticisms, including that it wasn’t scary enough!

Writing children’s fiction is exceptionally tricky. My children’s novels are pitched at the Harry Potter/Alex Rider demographic, so they aren’t aimed at the very young. However, it becomes even trickier when generating a gripping, satisfying narrative around darker subject matter. When done well, it will engage child readers, and hopefully grown-up readers too — even if they find it more alarming.

Here are four important principles I follow in crafting dark children’s tales.

Don’t condescend

The worst thing to do to children is to talk down to them. Don’t be afraid of strategically including more advanced vocabulary. To quote JRR Tolkien:

“A good vocabulary is not acquired by reading books written according to some notion of the vocabulary of one’s age group. It comes from reading books above one.” — JRR Tolkien, The Letters of JRR Tolkien.

This is a principle that many modern schoolteachers seem unable to grasp, to my immense frustration. They have often refused permission for my children to read certain books considered above their reading level. When my children returned home and informed me of this, I would present them with my own copies. If they find words they don’t understand, they ask or look them up. Children should never be discouraged from reading above their ability level.

No subject matter off-limits

On a related note, I don’t believe any subject matter is inappropriate for children. It is the treatment of the subject, not the subject itself, that is important. Children’s fiction can be every bit as incisive, incendiary, challenging, and thought-provoking as grown-up fiction. Often more so.

Difficult subjects covered in children’s fiction include terminal illness and repressed guilt (A Monster Calls), racism and prejudice (Ghost Boys, To Kill a Mockingbird), the Holocaust (The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, Maus), autism (The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time), wrongful imprisonment (Holes), corrupt religious authority, abuse of power, and sexual awakening (His Dark Materials). Countless great children’s novels deal with death (Charlotte’s Web, Watership Down, the Harry Potter novels). The novels of Jacqueline Wilson cover everything from mental illness to adoption and divorce.

In the case of my own aforementioned novel, the plot concerns a thirteen-year-old girl in denial over her parent’s marital crisis, after she overhears a phone call between her father and what could be his mistress. Within the framework of the horror/dark fairy tale genre, the scary, supernatural events that ensue provide the protagonist a cathartic character arc that (I hope) resonates with any child of divorced parents, helping them come to terms with their situation.

Include material that isn’t necessarily PG-rated

When the subject matter calls for it, don’t be afraid to step outside the “PG-rated” envelope. Edgier content can be fully justified depending on the genre and context. For example, you might think the f-word has no place in a children’s story, but The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time proves otherwise. The placement of those words is hugely important regarding the consistent voice and character of Mark Haddon’s protagonist, Christopher Boone (and also the adults in that story who try not to swear, but are driven to out of frustration due to Christopher’s actions).

Some of the greatest children’s stories, from the Grimm fairy tales to the Goosebumps series, are scary and gruesome. In my experience, children are morbidly curious about gore, love to be scared, and should be allowed to explore frightening stories, rather than have their curiosity squashed. Yes, temperament, personality, and upbringing are complicating factors, but on the whole, I believe scary stories are good for children’s mental health. They are important childhood rites of passage.

Sometimes endings that are dark and cruel to adults make complete sense to children. As a child, I remember thinking the ending of Roald Dahl’s The Witches was perfect. After being turned into a mouse, the unnamed boy protagonist wonders how long mice live. After discovering it’s about as long as his beloved grandmother will live, he is quite content, as she is his only surviving family member after his parents died in a car crash, and he doesn’t want to outlive her in any case. This downbeat, melancholy conclusion only became more upsetting to me with age.

Sometimes a children’s story needs to be not merely scary but flat-out terrifying. Neil Gaiman’s Coraline is a case in point. The nightmarish buttons-for-eyes parallel universe is a vital crucible through which Coraline must journey, as she gradually learns to appreciate her own dull but decent parents. This is a moral lesson implied, rather than stated outright, which brings me to my final point.

Don’t preach

Editorialising, preaching, or consciously grinding the message axe is to be avoided in any work of fiction. In a children’s novel, multiply that factor by ten. The moment children detect a sanctimonious, finger-wagging authority figure telling them what they must do or think, for their own good, they switch off.

That isn’t to say moral messages can’t be included in children’s fiction. Indeed, certain children’s stories are practically hellfire sermons (Pinocchio for instance). But these messages must be inherent in the story, as in the example of Coraline.

There are rare exceptions. Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a good example, as it features spoiled children getting their just desserts, accompanied by amusing Oompa Loompa rhymes. But unless you have Dahl’s outrageous wit, inserting a po-faced moral message into a children’s novel is a guaranteed way to kill a potentially good story.

Conclusion: Remember the delirious thrill of being scared as a child

As a child, after reading The BFG, I had nightmares about giants snatching me from my bed and eating me alive. Yet I read it again and again and absolutely loved it. I was also thrilled by many other scary novels and movies (PG-rated films in those days could be a far more frightening experience, as anyone who saw Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom at the cinema as a child will tell you).

Whilst writing scary stories for children, it is important to return to that mindset, when being scared was so much fun, even if it meant nightmares. It is also important to approach such writing with a smidgen of subversive glee, knowing you may incur the wrath of disapproving parents. But write them anyway. To quote Marty McFly in Back to the Future: “Your kids are gonna love it.”

Why the Best Tragedies Are Funny

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Warning: Contains spoilers for Legends of the Fall, The Godfather Part II, Oedipus Rex, The Remains of the Day, The Illusionist, The Empire Strikes Back, and Blackadder Goes Forth.

Several years ago, I went to see Legends of the Fall. The film featured fine direction from Edward Zwick, an A-list cast that included Anthony Hopkins, Brad Pitt, Julia Ormond, and Henry Thomas, and gorgeous, Oscar-winning cinematography courtesy of John Toll. I hoped for a sweeping, epic tear-jerker, but it turned out to be one of the most unsuccessful attempts at tragedy I have ever seen on film. The screenplay features poorly motivated, unconvincing characters, who then have tragedy upon tragedy piled upon them. The ludicrous escalation of misfortune becomes numbing, and eventually even funny.

Throughout the film, I was acutely aware of the audience’s emotional response. The first great tragedy occurs with the death of Henry Thomas’s character in World War I. Audience reaction: Sombre silence, but no-one was particularly upset, as we didn’t have a handle on who he was enough to miss him.

This was merely the first act. Another tragedy occurred shortly afterward. Then another, and another, until I heard disgruntled snorts from fellow patrons. Towards the end, when the character played by Anthony Hopkins has a debilitating stroke, the audience finally erupted with derisive laughter. Why? Because we’d been bludgeoned over the head with an unrelenting stream of big tragic events, to the point where it was absurd to expect us to be upset any longer.

Legends of the Fall contained none of the counterpoint vital to generating a satisfying tragic tale, comedic or otherwise. Before explaining how and why such counterpoint works, I am going to explore two different tragedies, and why counterpoint is essential to the success of all tragic writing. This applies whether they are based on irony, fatal character flaws, circumstantial disaster, or other traditional English literature definitions.

The Tragedy Spectrum

“I used to be partial to tragedy in my youth, until experience taught me life was tragic enough without my having to write about it.” — Amon, Clash of the Titans.

I cite the above quotation not because I agree with it (although I share the sentiment to a degree), but because it hints at the two kinds of tragedy, we invariably encounter in stories. If it is your ambition to write impactful, meaningful, convincing tragic drama, whether for stage, television, film or in prose, you must first decide what kind of tragedy you wish to write. I have devised what I term the Tragedy Spectrum.

Melodramatic Tragedy

At one end of the spectrum, we have what I loosely term “melodramatic tragedy”. This deals with the accidentally killing-one’s-father, marrying-one’s-mother, and gouging-one’s-eyes-out kind of tragedy. It is big, melodramatic, and often overheated. Not that it can’t be interesting, convincing, and moving. Sometimes a blunt instrument is the most effective tool, but it has to be well deployed. With Legends of the Fall, it was not.

However, with Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex (flippantly alluded to above), it works. It also works in everything from Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet, to great novels including Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, and Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. Many films also feature successful uses of melodramatic tragedy, including Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather Part II and Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge.

These narratives feature large-scale tragedies that wear their hearts on their sleeves, attempting to make the biggest potential impact on the audience. Whether Hamlet’s bloody vengeance, resulting in the deaths of most of the key characters, or King Arthur’s tragic fall at the hands of his bastard son Mordred, or Michael Corleone deciding to murder his own brother, these stories exist squarely at the melodramatic end of the scale.

This kind of tragedy we are mercifully unlikely to experience. Most of us aren’t destined to unknowingly murder our fathers, sleep with our mothers, and gouge our eyes out. Nor are we likely to discover our uncle has murdered our father, undertaking procrastinating vengeance that winds up with the deaths of our entire family, whilst others around us go insane and commit suicide for good measure. Nor are we likely to become the head of a mafia organisation and commit fratricide to consolidate our power. These kinds of tragedies, when well-written, make for a gripping, dramatic story we can enjoy from a safe distance, knowing it is exceptionally unlikely we will one day find ourselves in the protagonist’s shoes.

Private Tragedy

At the other end of the spectrum, we have what I call “private tragedy”. This deals with more intimate, everyday, small-scale heartbreak and loss. As Henry David Thoreau famously put it: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation”. These tragedies rarely involve lurid sexual sins, gruesome revenge, and Grand Guignol body counts. But they are quietly devastating to those concerned. This kind of tragedy we are likelier to or inevitably will experience; the tragedy of small, mundane, seemingly insignificant events that only spell despair for the person or people directly involved.

Quiet desperation narratives include Susan Hill’s sublime collection of short stories A Bit of Singing and Dancing. Or novels such as Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, David Nicholl’s One Day, and films including Sylvain Chomet’s The Illusionist, Yojiro Takita’s Departures, Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name, and Marc Foster’s Finding Neverland.

The Remains of the Day is about the tragedy of wasted lives. Butler Stevens misses his opportunity for happiness with housekeeper Miss Kenton, out of misguided loyalty to an equally misguided Nazi appeasing master. The gradual realisation of the appalling personal cost to himself unfolds throughout the narrative, which is told in flashback.

The Illusionist is interesting because it taps into tragedy all inevitably experience: Wistful nostalgia at the passing of an era. The music hall magician in that film finds himself increasingly upstaged by the rise of rock bands in the late 1950s. Along with other music hall acts, he gradually becomes obsolete. An achingly sad tale.

Counterpoint and Humour

One of the most important narrative techniques when writing any fiction is to use counterpoint. The best writing emphasises conflict, contrast, differing views, and opposing ideas. To write tragedy convincingly, there must be something tugging against it. Some optimism. A note of hope. Regardless of how relentless and miserable real life may be, it often contains moments of absurd humour. To deny humour a place in a tragedy is to deny reality, which is why a story like Legends of the Fall rings hollow.

The Illusionist works because the magician is accompanied by a naïve assistant girl who believes his magic is real. Her innocent beliefs are destined to be shattered, but her own coming-of-age, culminating in her attracting the attention of a young man, shows a happy future. This subplot provides an undercurrent of optimism amid the melancholia of the main plot.

The devastating heartbreak at the core of The Remains of the Day would be too much to bear if it weren’t for the gentle humour in the story, regarding Stevens’s hilarious fastidious, uptight character. One moment where he is instructed to convey the facts of life to his master’s godson is hilarious. Yet throughout the narrative, audience response to the absurd repression of Stevens’s character gradually moves from laughter to tears.

Hamlet has several amusing and witty subplots; for instance, the bumbling pompousness of Polonius, who seems unable to take his own advice (“Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice”). Wuthering Heights gains much tragic power because it is told through the eyes of the unreliable narrator Mr. Lockwood, whose slightly comical emotional timidity stands in stark contrast to the raging passions of the main protagonists. F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby pulls off a similar trick.

Baz Luhrmann drenches Moulin Rouge in surreal, outrageous humour, making the final tragic loss even more potent. The Godfather Part II is a sombre, brooding film, but it finds time for upbeat and comedic moments, particularly in the flashback sections to the young Vito Corleone in early 20th Century New York (the carpet theft, for instance).

The Empire Strikes Back is generally regarded as the finest Star Wars film, yet it is also one of the darkest and most downbeat. Luke Skywalker struggles not just against external evil, but the evil in himself, as revealed in the terrible secret of the Skywalker family line. Han Solo ends up frozen in carbonite, with possibilities of unfreezing parole looking increasingly unlikely as he’s spirited off to Jabba the Hutt. Our heroes don’t win. They merely survive, by the skin of their teeth, to fight another day. All of which is leavened by the hilarious, screwball comedy of the Han/Leia romance (“Would it help if I got out and pushed?”).

Even something as serious as Schindler’s List has funny moments peppered amid the horrific events. Scenes such as Schindler’s secretary montage, to his darkly comic asides with Nazi bureaucrats (“I think I can guarantee you’ll both be in Southern Russia before the end of the week”), makes the appalling tragedy even more believable and powerful. No one would be foolish enough to describe Schindler’s List as funny, but these tiny moments provide important glimmers of humanity amid one of the darkest chapters in humanity’s history.

A superb example of comedy as a counterpoint to tragedy occurs in the TV series Blackadder Goes Forth. After six hilarious episodes satirising the absurdity of the trenches of World War I, the principal characters meet their deaths in a hail of machine-gun bullets after they are ordered to advance. Their slow-motion, doomed attempt to cross no-man’s-land dissolves into a quiet field of poppies; one of the most shattering television finales I have ever seen. As a testament to the horrifying tragedy of the First World War, it leaves Legends of the Fall in the dust.

Conclusion

I expect some of you are thinking tragedy in life isn’t funny. I don’t wish to argue with anyone’s personal experience, but rendering tragedy in a satisfying narrative is a different matter. Besides, my experience is that even the most tragic real-life situations can contain moments of dark comedy. For example, at my father’s funeral, I experienced a farcical “shoe malfunction” that would have had my father in stitches. Such real-life experiences have only underlined my belief in the storytelling counterpoint principle.

Deliberately omitting humour from tragedy makes for a one-note tale that is depressing for all the wrong reasons, especially if said tale comprises little more than the repetition of endless tragedy. Such stories actually end up becoming unintentionally comic because they are so absurd, as the audience reaction I witnessed to Legends of the Fall shows. A tragic story that uses counterpoint judiciously and wisely, especially comedic counterpoint, will win over even the most tragedy-averse viewer or reader. My point boils down to this simple takeaway: If you make an audience laugh at your character, they will like them. Therefore, they will feel for them when you place them in tragic situations.

Writing Major Plot Twists

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Warning: Contains spoilers for Planet of the Apes, One Day, Dead Poets Society, Rebecca, The Hound of the Baskervilles, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, 24 series 2, Death on the Nile, and The Sixth Sense.

Big story twists can be brilliant or dreadful, depending on the skill of the writer. Many a budding screenwriter or novelist would love to pull off a gasp-inducing twist of The Sixth Sense proportions, but doing so in a manner that feels organic, plausible, and above all inevitable is extremely difficult. However, it is not impossible.

Successful big twists can be intellectually thrilling and emotionally exhilarating; The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Usual Suspects, and Memento are examples of the former, Rebecca, Jane Eyre, and The Empire Strikes Back the latter. Some are a combination: Snape’s true allegiance in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for instance. The big reveals at the end of Les Diaboliques, Planet of the Apes, and The Sixth Sense generate tremendous cerebral and emotional pleasure, whilst the latter even operates on a spiritual level.

Conversely, a bad plot twist feels bolted on, gratuitous, and irritating. How many times have you encountered a film or novel with a promising plot, only to be sideswiped by a random, contrived plot twist that seems to have gate-crashed from another story? Ambushing an audience with ill-conceived, implausible, shock tactic twists only serve to undermine intellectual or emotional engagement. The big twist ending cannot seem tacked-on as an afterthought. It must be an essential final component.

Twist versus Unexpected Plot Turn

To avoid confusion, it is important to define a plot twist. I do not mean an unexpected plot turn, which is slightly different. In an unexpected plot turn, the story may veer off in a new and unforeseen direction, but it does not mean earlier events are viewed in a different light. A plot twist is a reversal; a revelation that turns the entire story on its head, provoking a rush of insight and causing the audience to see the entire narrative from a completely new angle. The tragic death near the end of One Day, the suicide at the climax of act two in Dead Poets Society, or the aftermath of the sucker-punch received by Hilary Swank’s character in Million Dollar Baby are examples of unexpected plot turns rather than twists.

Most great, narrative-defining twists occur towards or at the end because that’s the natural place for them. Withholding the most essential facts from the audience for as long as possible creates the immensely satisfying thrill of delayed gratification. However, there are rare occasions when revealing the major twist earlier adds depth to the work. The Crying Game and Reservoir Dogs are both good examples.

The major bombshell central to the mystery in Hitchcock’s Vertigo occurs at one hour and fifteen minutes in. This surprised me the first time I saw it, but every subsequent viewing has underlined why screenwriters Alec Coppel and Samuel A. Taylor made this unconventional choice. Audience knowledge regarding Kim Novak’s character creates a sense of impending dread and despair, as we watch James Stewart’s character spiral into ever increasing obsession over the remaining forty-five minutes. How will he react when he finds out the truth?

Know your ending

I know this won’t appeal to “pantser” writers, but if your ambition is to craft a story with a major twist ending, simply seeing where a character takes you will almost certainly lead to far more agonised rewriting than if you work from a well-planned outline. I always prefer to start with an ending that completely blows me away, then work backwards, discovering how the characters ended up at that point. As I’ve already noted, twists of plot-defining magnitude typically occur in the latter stages, so with this kind of story, it really pays to plan.

It is also worth asking, does my story need a big twist ending? It might not. However, as an aside, every story should at least feature crisis in the climax. If the final act of a heist thriller features everything going precisely to plan during the heist, how boring would that be?

The most obvious skill in writing a major plot twist is the ability to conceal it from the audience. In some genres, such as the murder mystery, the author must summon an arsenal of misdirection weaponry, because the reader is already on the alert to expect the unexpected. Here are some examples of tactics that can be deployed in whodunit type narratives.

Red Herrings

The use of red herrings — seemingly important plot points that prove irrelevant — is an obvious genre trope, but they should be deployed sparingly. Too many will lead to frustration and confusion in the reader. However, slipping one in now and again can work wonders for plot misdirection.

Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories provide a masterclass in red herrings. In The Hound of the Baskervilles, Holmes himself turns out to be one, as he is latterly identified as the mysterious figure Watson observed on the moors. That same novel includes many other false trails, including a subplot involving an escaped convict.

In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, JK Rowling deploys multiple red herrings concerning the identity of the heir of Slytherin. Everyone from Hagrid to Draco Malfoy is suspected. At one point, Rowling even cast a suspicious eye at Percy Weasley (when he is seen reading about “Prefects that gained power”). There is also a monstrous red herring in the form of giant spider Aragog.

Incidentally, red herrings aren’t necessarily confined to detective fiction. Romantic stories can contain emotional red herrings. These take the form of misunderstandings, or secondary characters attempting to win the affections of our protagonist in their quest for true love. There are often plenty of red herring dalliances before the reveal of who the protagonist ends up with. Jane Austen’s novels, such as Pride & Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, indulge in such romantic red herrings, as do latter romantic comedies following the Austen template, like Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Multiple Suspects

When writing any story featuring a mysterious, perhaps murderous unidentified figure manipulating events behind the scenes, I incorporate at least three suspect characters into the narrative. The first is the individual to whom all evidence points, and they are suspected by characters or investigators in the story. Since the audience invariably considers themselves smarter than the protagonist, it is vital to feed them a second character, not suspected by anyone in the plot, over whom clouds of suspicions can gradually form. There can be more than one of these second suspects, as required. The final suspect is the genuine culprit or manipulator, who is considered by both reader and protagonist to be above suspicion. Yet when unmasked, the solution must appear obvious and make complete narrative sense.

Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile features a particularly clever example of this technique, with multiple suspects, all of whom have means, motive, and opportunity for the murder. Yet the two characters with cast-iron alibies, who are emphatically above suspicion, prove to be the killers. What’s more, their scheme is convincing, plausible, and fiendishly clever.

In TV series 24, agent Jack Bauer suspects young Muslim Reza of being involved in a terrorist plot. Reza protests, and we believe him. But we’re not so sure about his shifty father-in-law to be, who has secretly worked for the CIA and clearly has some dark secrets. Yet the real snake in the grass turns out to be Reza’s seemingly sweet and innocent wife-to-be, Marie. She was completely above suspicion, yet she has been brainwashed into murderous fundamentalism.

Hiding in plain sight

The final misdirection device, and one of the most effective, is the hiding-in-plain-sight technique. The Sixth Sense is a case in point. Everything you need to figure out the big twist is contained within the opening scene, which in retrospect ought to be obvious. Yet the audience doesn’t see it coming. Why? Clever screenwriting sleight of hand, from M Night Shyamalan. The subsequent scenes with Bruce Willis’s character Malcolm interacting with his estranged wife Anna, and with his young patient Cole, appear to be straightforward. Yet the final reveal points to the elephant in the room, so to speak, in every one of those sequences. It was there, the entire time, yet we failed to spot it.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is another example of hiding in plain sight. It features a phenomenally cunning twist that works best on the page rather than in onscreen adaptations, for reasons that will be clear to anyone that has read it. Whenever I encounter snobby dismissals of Agatha Christie, I point to that novel as one of the finest examples of hiding in plain sight misdirection ever written.

Daphne Du Maurier’s gothic mystery Rebecca features my all-time favorite hiding in plain sight twist. The young, nameless protagonist marries widower Maxim de Winter in a whirlwind romance, but once back at ancestral family home Manderley, finds herself endlessly and unfavorably compared to Maxim’s first wife Rebecca. She is torn apart over the belief that Maxim adored Rebecca, whose wit, intelligence, sophistication, and beauty is remarked upon by all around her. Sinister housekeeper Danvers seems particularly determined to torment the new Mrs de Winter, and she does so with devilish cruelty.

Yet eventually, a dramatic turn of events forces Maxim to confess his true feelings regarding Rebecca to his new bride: “I hated her.” Those three words reverberate in the reader’s mind, as a shocking rush of insight. Maxim’s subsequent explanation, concerning how their marriage had been a sham, forces the reader to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about Maxim up to that point. Every time a memory of Rebecca was triggered, he wasn’t upset because he had loved her. He was upset because he had hated her. More importantly, he had been indirectly responsible for her death, and had made it look like an accident.

Inevitability

There is one other major factor in creating a twist ending that genuinely wrong-foots the audience: It must seem inevitable. If the audience instantly imagines an alternative scenario, or a better plot twist, the writer has failed. The reader or viewer needs to experience the big twist in such a way that it not only makes complete sense, but that the plot could not have unfolded any other way.

In the original 1968 Planet of the Apes film, Charlton Heston’s character Taylor is an astronaut on a mission to explore the far reaches of the universe. After years in suspended animation, his spaceship crashes on a strange world where apes seemingly evolved from men. With ape the master and mankind their mute slaves, Taylor spends the entire film trying to validate his existence as intelligent being rather than savage. In the process he upsets the religious, theocratic apes, who don’t believe in evolution, but stubbornly cling to their religious texts which warn man is dangerous and must be suppressed. They also want to suppress recent archaeological evidence of a society of intelligent men predating apes.

Taylor exposes this conspiracy, and leaves the apes feeling rather pleased with himself. But then he has to confront the appalling truth when he discovers the ruins of the Statue of Liberty, revealing the planet to have been Earth all along. Taylor pounds the sand in despair, cursing the men who pushed the button of (presumably) nuclear annihilation that turned evolution upside down. It’s an astonishingly dramatic, powerful reveal, which answers all the questions of the film in a rush of insight, through a single devastating image. Impossible to see coming, but also, in retrospect, inevitable.

Conclusion

With good planning, and by factoring in some or all of the above disciplines, in my experience it is possible to write a convincing, thrilling, unexpected twist ending. I have crafted a few in some of my own novels, which I believe fulfill the criteria of being organic, plausible, and inevitable. I hope the above advice is useful to anyone with similar ambition.

When to Write Ambiguous Endings

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Warning: Contains spoilers for Time Bandits, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Doubt, The Pledge, Life of Pi, Picnic at Hanging Rock, Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Handmaid’s Tale, Great Expectations, and Let the Right One In.

Writing ambiguity into the finale of a novel, play, or film is fiendishly tricky. The task is difficult and daunting. It has defeated many a writer, and frustrated many a reader. Yet when done well, it can add tremendous depth and audience pleasure. How should it be approached?

My wife does not care for what she terms “doubt” in stories. She coined this term after watching the 2008 film of John Patrick Shanley’s celebrated play Doubt, about a mother superior exploring whether a priest is guilty of sexual abuse. In that story, “doubt” is the entire point of the narrative, and the ambiguous resolution forces the audience to think through the moral issues raised by the drama.

However, when my wife gives offending examples of stories with “doubt”, it is often the case that the story promised one thing and delivered another. The writer set up particular genre expectations, and instead broke the “rules” to deliver an ambiguous resolution, when the narrative called for clarity. Such instances are typically found when inexperienced, posturing, pretentious authors think themselves “radical” by breaking honored conventions.

Understanding and bending genre convention

In his seminal screenwriting book Story Robert McKee states:

“You are free to break or bend convention, but for one reason only: To put something more important in its place.”

As such, it pays to understand genre expectations, before adding ambiguity that will prove frustrating to the audience. Some stories do not call for ambiguity. For example, denying readers a clear-cut resolution to a Sherlock Holmes mystery or Hercule Poirot whodunit — not revealing the guilty party, how they did it, and why — would obviously be a foolish choice.

But in some murder stories, the identity of the killer can prove irrelevant. The Pledge, a 2001 film starring Jack Nicholson, is a case in point. It opens with the murder of a young girl. Her distraught mother urges Nicholson’s character Jerry Black, a soon-to-retire cop, to “swear on his salvation” that he’ll find the killer. Black is moved, and agrees. He retires from the police, but continues to dig into the case. He works tirelessly, but makes no progress. Clues lead to dead ends. Eventually, Black becomes romantically involved with an abused woman and her child, but uses them as bait in what he hopes will be a trap for the killer. As his quest continues, the film no longer focuses on the identity of the killer, but the depths of Black’s obsession. The ironies of the finale, in which the killer dies and burns in a car crash, renders his identity moot. However, Black has now gone insane, and continues to search, still believing the killer is out there.

In the case of The Pledge, the filmmakers, adapting Friedrich Durrenmatt’s 1958 novella The Pledge: Requiem for the Detective Novel, followed McKee’s advice. They broke the genre convention of identifying the killer, and replaced it with something more important: An ambiguous finale leaving the viewer unsettled as to what lies ahead for the now unhinged Jerry Black.

Sometimes the question is better than the answer

In some stories, allowing mysterious events different interpretations can be more satisfying than giving a definite explanation. Joan Lindsey’s novel Picnic at Hanging Rock was deliberately published with the final chapter missing. A variety of interpretations regarding the fate of the schoolgirls ensued, involving everything from murder to pagan deities and alien abduction. Peter Weir’s celebrated film of the novel accentuated themes of repression and sexual awakening, but wisely avoided coming to any definite conclusion. Even after the final chapter of the novel was published posthumously, the surreal events described do not fully satisfy in and of themselves, and are open to wider speculation.

Stanley Kubrick’s science fiction masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey has one of the most famous ambiguous endings in cinema history. Using Arthur C Clarke’s short story The Sentinel as a basis, Kubrick’s classic has baffled and intrigued cinemagoers for decades. What on earth does it all mean? Some have derived meaning from explanations in Clarke’s text, but in the film, many questions are thrillingly unanswered.

For example, why does the HAL 9000 computer go mad and murder the crew of the Discovery spacecraft? The non-Kubrick film sequel 2010 posits that HAL had contradictory programming which he interpreted as best he could. An incredibly unsatisfactory answer. My own theory is that when HAL came into contact with the enigmatic, evolution triggering alien monolith orbiting Jupiter, HAL himself began to develop feelings, evolve, and turn on his human creators, believing his survival was at stake. Kubrick’s calculated ambiguity allows for my interpretation, and the story is richer for it.

Drawing different conclusions

Not all stories need to end as enigmatically as 2001, but inviting differing readings of apparently clear-cut events can delight the audience. At first glance, George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four appears to end in the bleakest way imaginable. However, the coda discusses Newspeak in the past tense, and in normal English. This insinuates the oppressive regime of the novel ultimately fell.

In Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, the conclusion casts doubt on Pi’s version of events. Did his survival at sea adventure really involve dangerous animals in a lifeboat? Or were those animals really people who turned on one another, causing Pi to invent a different narrative to repress his traumatic experience? The novel is all the richer for opening it up to interpretation. I find it hard to imagine even the most linear minded of readers would prefer it had that final section been excised.

Terry Gilliam’s much underrated children’s fantasy film Time Bandits has, on the surface, an extraordinarily bleak and cruel conclusion. Young Kevin is drawn into a series of bizarre time-traveling burglaries, with a group of dwarfs who stole a map of time portals from the Supreme Being. Each time portal leads to an important historical figure. In the final scene, after awakening from what is assumed to be a dream, Kevin finds himself being rescued amid a house fire. The firemen discover a burnt roasting joint started the blaze, but Kevin recognizes it as a piece of leftover “evil” from the last of his adventures (when he and the dwarfs confront what is essentially Satan). He yells a warning to his parents not to touch it. His parents ignore the warning, and are instantly obliterated.

Pretty dark for a children’s film? Perhaps. However, Kevin’s parents are established as materialistic, unimaginative bores. Kevin himself essentially renounces them during one of his adventures, when he gets himself adopted by King Agamemnon. played by Sean Connery. One of the firemen, also played by Connery, winks at Kevin as everyone depart the scene, completely ignoring what just happened to Kevin’s parents. A hint that “Agamemnon” will keep an eye on Kevin as he grows up? Given that every time portal led to someone significant, what about the portal that led the dwarfs to Kevin in the first place? Could Kevin be destined for greatness?

Bearing the above in mind, would Time Bandits really be a better film if Kevin woke up, was reunited with his dull parents, and his adventures were all a dream?

What happens next?

Some classic novels end in ways that leave the reader wondering what happened next. In expert hands, with the right story, this can be a hugely effective tool to lodge the narrative in the mind of the reader. Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale is a case in point. The reader wants to know what happens after Offred is bundled into the van, but in fact the narrative is played out. I always liked to extrapolate that Offred escaped, and Atwood’s belated sequel The Testaments proved me right. Nonetheless, I didn’t need to be proved right. The Handmaid’s Tale’s abrupt end is perfect, and as with Nineteen Eighty-Four, we are offered hope for the future in a coda.

Great Expectations is another novel with a famously ambiguous conclusion. Did Pip and Estella ever get together, or were past traumas in their relationship too great to overcome? Conversely, whilst the novel lets the reader decide, I’ve always loved David Lean’s 1946 film adaptation, which settles the matter with an unambiguous happy ending. Because Lean chose to portray Pip in a more sympathetic light, the ending in the film felt earned. The screenplay silently urged viewers to expect it. Dickens, by contrast, was a lot more critical of his protagonist; a protagonist many commentators interpret as something of a self-portrait.

Occasionally, storytelling collaborators disagree on how their tale should be interpreted. For example, what happens next after the seemingly upbeat conclusion of Swedish horror film Let the Right One In? Director Tomas Alfredson, and the novel’s author John Ajvide Lindqvist completely disagreed. Blade Runner is another famous example, with Harrison Ford and Ridley Scott differing on whether Ford’s character Deckard is a replicant. Audiences have argued about it for decades, and really that is half the fun. At any rate, what happens to the lead characters in the aftermath of both the above examples is very much a question in the minds of the audience. The stories are all the better for it.

Conclusion

Having studied which kinds of stories lend themselves to ambiguous finales, I’ve tried to apply what I’ve learned in my own writing. Some of my novels feature endings with events that can be interpreted a number of different ways. When asked the correct interpretation, I refuse to answer, because no interpretation is wrong. Although I have my own interpretation, I don’t desire to inflict it on the reader and cheapen their experience. They are the last piece of the puzzle that completes the story.

Be a Storyteller Not a Preacher

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NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

How many times have you been drawn into a gripping plot with engaging characters, only to experience a nagging suspicion that the author is wagging their finger at you?

Fiction readers have a sixth sense that detects when they are being preached at. I’ve grown increasingly wary and intolerant of this, even if I agree with the message. Whether an author’s axe-grinding is social, political, or religious in nature, I still react with a weary eye-roll. Perhaps I’m jaded, but even the youngest of readers can’t stand being condescended to, being told what they ought to think, for their own good, on a particular issue.

Littering a novel with characters that act as author mouthpieces, delivering calls to action or “come to Jesus” moments, is a recipe for provoking the opposite reaction in the reader. For example, an earnest anti-war message delivered with consciously po-faced seriousness can become so numbing that the most committed of pacifists will get the urge to start fighting, just to spite the author. Again, it doesn’t matter if you agree with the author’s sentiment. You will feel cheated out of a good story, as though you’ve listened to a long sermon instead.

Before the inevitable cries of protest, rest assured I am not wilfully ignoring the many great novels with powerful, convincing messages. However, the real classics strive first and foremost to be a damn good story, well told. Yes, there are social issues and concerns highlighted in classics like Oliver Twist (Victorian poverty) and To Kill a Mockingbird (racism), but at no point does the reader feel as though they are being preached at. So how did Charles Dickens and Harper Lee achieve their goal?

I believe the answer is simple: they wanted to tell a good story and set aside any conscious agenda. Charles Dickens didn’t write a novel about poverty, he wrote an adventure story about an orphan against a backdrop of poverty. Harper Lee didn’t write a cry against racial prejudice, she wrote a coming-of-age drama about loss of innocence, and a courtroom drama set inside a racist culture. Therefore, what was important to them became inherent in the material.

Disregard your agenda

It might sound counter-intuitive, but attempting to insert a message into your story leads to a novel that is, at best, unconvincing. Designing a narrative around a message results in something even worse: propaganda. As someone who grew up surrounded by evangelical Christian culture, I read many laughably insincere Christian novels, with unconvincing plots about ludicrously sinful protagonists who go on to get saved at evangelistic rallies.

If writing a story about political tyranny, racial injustice, or sexual inequality, whether in a contemporary or historic setting, the temptation is to deliver your strongly held beliefs in an on-the-nose fashion. Resist this temptation. Instead of seeing a cause you care about fighting for, see a story you care about telling well. One of the worst pieces of advice I see doing the rounds in literary circles is to only write when you have something to say. Utter nonsense. Instead of writing to deliver a message to the masses, write to entertain the masses. Simply tell a good story with no conscious agenda whatsoever.

Write in a genre you love

Having decided to write a story with no agenda, the next thing to decide is genre. Choose a genre you love, not a genre that is currently popular, or by self-consciously striving to write ‘literary fiction’. I’ve always considered that an absurd term, because all fiction is literary. Rather than denoting a genre, it instead fences off a section of literature as somehow more elite or important. Snobbery about genre fiction persists, but don’t let that put you off. Choose your genre, and write the compelling, page-turning tale that you would love to read.

Build convincing forces of antagonism

Eschewing a consciously inserted message frees you up to properly explore the antagonist’s perspective, rather than paying it mere lip service. A convincing narrative must contain opposing views to those you are no longer trying to preach, whether social, political, or religious. All good writing emphasises conflict, and as such it pays to build up genuine, convincing arguments for those characters, organisations, political groups, or other forces opposing the protagonist in your novel. However, because you are the author, the interests of your worldview will be inherent in the text, without needing to be stated in dialogue or inner monologue that read like unconvincing, clumsy, patronising editorial asides.

Finally… add humour

An underrated but hugely effective way of ensuring your novel doesn’t sound like a sermon is to add humour wherever possible, regardless of how dark the subject matter might be. Laughter is a part of life and makes everything feel more natural. Even the bleakest of situations contain moments of gallows humour.

Conclusion

If approached this way, when reading back through your novel, you’ll be surprised just how your deeply held beliefs shine, but without any cringe factor. When others read it, you’ll also be surprised at the strongly held beliefs and ideas that worked their way in, without you even realising. I’ve had readers discern many of my strong views — about oppressive religious groups and abuse of power, for example — when reading novels I had intended purely as good entertainment.

The most powerful and important message will reach a receptive audience if it is entertainingly presented. That is why novelists should first and foremost determine not to preach their views, but to write a great story.