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Novels are necklaces. We talk a lot about the structure of a plot, and stress about it, and we’re right to talk and stress because plot matters so intensely and is so hard to get right.

But a book is just a chain of scenes, right? And yes, it’s a carefully sequenced chain, but each scene has its own story and its own structure.

Write with Jericho

Now, as you probably know, as part of our MAGA policy (Make Authors Great Again), we’re launching a new-and-improved version of our Write with Jericho course. Lesson One – Making Each Scene Purposeful – drops this week, led by my colleague (and psych thriller author), Becca Day. Next week, I’ll be teaching about building atmosphere in the scene. My colleagues (and authors) Sophie Flynn and Laura Starkey will also lead lessons.

The course is free to all Premium Members and the above link tells you more about how to participate. It also tells you what to do if you’re not.

So: take the course, listen to Becca, and think about scenes.

How one scene works

Now, I’m not going to repeat all the things that Becca speaks about, but what I do want to do is to take one short scene and see what it’s doing in terms of:

1. Opening with some questions
2. Answering those questions and replacing them with others
3. Deepening and complicating things

The scene – which I’ve chosen literally at random from Talking to the Dead – is one where Fiona arrives at the home of a man called Huw Fletcher. She suspects him of real wrong-doing, but knows he’s missing. She doesn’t have a way to get into the house … but she does have a strange kind of friend/enemy relationship with a bent copper, named Brian Penry.

The bold text is the scene itself. The italics are my comments. I’ve made some minor edits for the purposes of brevity.

Modern brick houses, double-glazed and comfortable. Speed bumps in the road and cars neat in their driveways.

The scene opens with several questions. One, what’s happened to Fletcher? Two, how does Fiona expect to get into a house when she has no means of entry and no search warrant? And three, what’s in the house?

Nothing remarkable about any of it, the house or the street, except that there’s an unloved dark blue Toyota Yaris parked up in front of Fletcher’s address, window wound down, and Brian Penry’s darkly haired arm beating time to some inaudible music.

I’m not surprised to see him. I don’t altogether know what the dark lines are that connect Rattigan, Fletcher and Penry – though I’ve got my ideas – but [I had ways to send signals to him and did what I could.]

I wasn’t sure that any of that would bring Penry, or what I’d do if it didn’t. But I don’t have to worry about that. Here he is.

Penry gets out of the Yaris and leans up against it, waiting for me.

OK, so a new question now jumps out at us: what is Brian Penry’s connection with any of this? As far as the reader’s been concerned, he’s under investigation for an entirely different crime. But notice also that one of the questions we started with – how does Fiona get into this house? – already feels different with Penry’s presence here.

‘Well, well, Detective Constable.’

‘Good morning, Mr Penry.’

‘The home of the mysterious Mr Fletcher.’

‘The mysterious and missing Mr Fletcher.’

Penry checks the road. No other cars. No other coppers. ‘No search warrant.’

‘Correct. We’re making preliminary enquiries about a reported missing person. If you have any information that might be related to the matter, I’d ask that you disclose it in full.’

This is fencing, and it feels like it. Neither party is saying what they actually think or feel. But notice that Penry is now making that question about access to the house explicit. He’s basically saying, “You can’t legally enter that house because you don’t have a search warrant.” And he’s right. That question is now centre stage.

‘No. No information, Detective Constable.’ But he gets a key out of his pocket. A brass Yale key, which he holds up twinkling in the half-sunlight. ‘I want you to know that I have nothing to do with any of this. I made some money that I should not have made. I did not report some of the things that I should have reported. I fucked up. But I didn’t fuck up the way that idiot fucked up.’ He equals a jab of the index finger equals Huw Fletcher.

I reach for the key.

He holds it away from me, polishes it in a handkerchief to remove prints and sweat, then holds it out. I take it.

Now both our starting questions get attention. Penry for the first time acknowledges that he is in some (still mysterious) way linked to Fletcher. That’s the first time two major story strands have been formally connected in the book. And the question about access – well, he has a key. Him wiping prints off the key emphasise the not-very-official nature of what’s happening.

‘Time to find out what kind of idiot you aren’t,’ I say.

Penry nods. I’m expecting him to move, but he doesn’t, just keeps leaning up against the Yaris and half smiling down at me.

‘You’re going in there alone?’

‘To begin with, yes. Since I am alone.’

‘You know, when I was a young officer, a wet-behind-the-ears DC, that’s what I’d have done too.’

‘Junior officers are required to use their initiative in confronting unforeseen situations,’ I agree. I don’t know why I start speaking like a textbook to Penry, of all people…

The access question is solved by the key, but that question is instantly replaced by this one: are you going in there alone? That’s partly a safety question (is it safe in there?), but it’s also a legality one. Fiona doesn’t have a warrant. Does she intend to break the law?

Penry says, ‘You’re like me. You know that? You’re like me and you’ll end up like me.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Not maybe. Definitely.’

‘Can you even play the piano?’

‘No. Not a single bloody note. Always thought I’d like to, but I get a brand-new piano in the house and I never touch it.’

‘That is like me,’ I nod. ‘That would be just like me.’

Penry is now saying, “Yes, you will go in there illegally and you’ll end up like me – a bent copper who’s about to be sent to prison.”

When Penry stole money, one of the things he bought with it was an upright piano, which Fiona saw earlier at his home. The non-playing of the piano shows how pointless the thefts were. Penry destroyed himself for no gain, and is telling Fiona that she’ll do the same. It’s not quite clear if Fiona even disagrees.

So now we have a new question – and one much bigger than those we started with – which is: can Fiona manage her future in a way that doesn’t destroy her? And, in fact, because we know she’s about to enter the house illegally, the question has edge. It looks like she is on the path to self-destruction.

His half-smile extends into a three-quarters one, … then vanishes. He gives me a half-salute, slides back into the Yaris and drives off, slowly because of the speed bumps.

So the Penry-related questions are closed off (for now). The questions about this house-entry loom large.

The street is empty and silent. The sunlight occupies the empty space like an invading army. There’s just me, a house and a key. My gun is in the car, but it can stay right where it is. Whatever’s in the house isn’t about to start a fight, or at least I hope it isn’t.

I approach the door, insert the key, turn the lock.

I feel a kind of amazement when the lock turns. It’s like turning the page in a fairy story and finding that the story continues exactly as before. At some point, this particular tale has to come to an end.

This is a pause, but it’s weaponised. The invading army, the gun, the fight – all those words add menace to this moment. In a somewhat metaphorical way, the story is telling us that things are starting to turn serious. The stakes are rising.

The house is . . . just a house. There are probably twenty other houses on the same street that are exactly like it, near as dammit. No corpses. No emaciated figures of runaway shipping managers chained to radiators. No weapons. No stashes of drugs. No heroin-injecting prostitutes or little girls with only half a head.

OK. So far, so nothing. But there’s no release of tension. Slightly the opposite. The reader knows that something’s about to happen – there’s been too much made of this house entry for there to be nothing inside.

I tiptoe round the house, shrinking from its accumulated silence. I’ve taken my jacket off, and wrap it round my hand whenever I touch handles or shift objects.

I don’t like being here. I think Brian Penry is right. I’ve got more of him in me than of, say, David Brydon [a very upright police officer, and Fiona’s first proper boyfriend]. I wish that weren’t true, but it is.

Another reminder that Fiona is acting illegally, and that her future is in doubt. That question feels even sharper now. Fiona’s two possible futures are personified: the upright Mr Brydon, and the self-destructive Mr Penry.

In the bedroom, there is a big double bed, neatly made with white sheets and a mauve duvet cover.

In the bathroom, just one toothbrush. All the toiletries are male.

In the living room, three fat black flies are buzzing against the windowpane. A dozen of their comrades lie dead beneath them.

More stillness. More waiting for whatever The Thing is that’s about to show its face. But also – those dead flies. A little drip of reminder about the darkness that lies here.

In the kitchen, I open cupboards and drawers, and in the place where tea towels and placemats are kept, there is also cash. Fifty-pound notes. Thick wodges of them. Held together with rubber bands. The drawer below holds bin liners and kitchen foil, and even more bundles of notes. These ones are stacked up against the back of the drawer, making multiple rows. A little paper wall of cash. With one finger, and still through my jacket, I riffle one of the bundles. Fifties all the way down.

Ah! Here’s the thing. That third question – what’s in the house? – is now fully answered. But that also means it’s instantly replaced by a “and what are the consequences?” type question.

I don’t like being here at all now. I don’t like being Brian Penry. I want to go back to plan A, which was to practise getting ready to be Dave Brydon’s new girlfriend. To experiment with my putative new citizenship of Planet Normal.

I close the drawer and leave the house. The lock clicks shut behind me. I find an old terracotta flowerpot in the garden and stow Penry’s key underneath it.

OK, so we’re done with questions about the house. The questions about Fletcher remain, but now he’s not just missing. He’s a missing person with tons of surely illicit cash in his home. But what about Fiona? She shouldn’t have gone in there. She did. She found something which her less rule-breaking colleagues surely need to know about.

Back in my car, I find that I’m sweating and cold at the same time. I try to go back to that feeling I had on the print-room stairs. That feeling of being somewhere close to love and happiness. Living next door to the sunshine twins. I can’t find them anywhere now. When I stamp my legs, I can hardly feel my feet when they hit the floor.

I call the Newport police station. It’s all I can do, and I feel relieved when the silence is ended.

OK, the scene – which has been low-key emotionally – ends with some big emotions. Fiona is a long way now from ‘the sunshine twins’. The darkness of these crimes is enclosing her.

But she does at least call her police colleagues. She’s doing something to restore legal / official order to affairs.

But notice what’s happened to our opening questions. They were:

1. What’s happened to Fletcher?
2. How does Fiona expect to get into the house?
3. What’s in the house?

The first of those questions is still a big Don’t Know – but the question has become deeper and darker as a result of what’s just happened.

Question 2 has been answered, but it’s been replaced a much bigger and more interesting one: “Will Fiona destroy herself the same way as Penry did?”

Question 3 has been answered, but it’s been replaced by a “What the hell is going on with Fletcher?”

And notice two more things before we finish:

1. The Fiona / Penry relationship has just become deeper and more complicated. In this little scene, they found a kind of kinship, but based around Fiona’s capacity for self-destruction. That’s interesting – but we also want to know how that strand plays out in the future.
2. The stakes have risen. Although this scene was very quiet, there was an invading army, twelve corpses (only flies yes, but still symbols of death), and Fiona seems close to collapse.

The story after this scene ends is more complicated, darker and deeper than it was before And this was a short scene. And nothing much actually happened: a man gave a woman a key. And she found some cash in a drawer. That’s not much by way of actual action.

Reflections

A lot of writing advice is generated because people have to generate something. They have a blogpost to write, or an email to send, or a course module to fill,

But the only advice worth anything is advice that helps you solve problems in your writing. So when I read or listen to advice, I always ask: does this actually describe what I personally do when I’m writing well? Does this advice actually generate insights that will help me when I get stuck?

And, without talking about everything that Becca discusses, I have to say that, yes, her insights described exactly what was happening in this scene. Not just that, but it was surprising to me to see how mobile the scene-questions were. How they changed, not even from page to page, but every few paragraphs. That’s presumably why good writing feels alive, mobile and unpredictable, and bad writing feels stagey, dull and dead.

Anyhow: I hope you enjoy the Write with Jericho course. More info below if you need it.

***

FEEDBACK FRIDAY

No feedback from me this week. Becca takes over. Her Lesson One video (available to Premium Members only) contains an assignment to do and upload to Townhouse. In addition to feedback from your peers, there might even be a chance of getting feedback from Becca. If you aren't a Premium Member, then you can sign up, and join the course, immediately and for free.

***

That’s it from me.

Til soon.

Harry

Last week’s email was all about staying close to character and I ended, in a way I seldom do, by being a bit mean about another author’s work. Specifically, I wasn’t keen on the amount of clenching, contorting and panicking that went on. We wanted to rustle up other ways to convey inner state. I gave some examples in that email, but today I want to give a more comprehensive, more fully ordered list of options. 

Honestly, I doubt if many of you will want to pin those options to the wall and pick from them, menu-style, as you write. But having these things in your awareness is at least likely to loosen your attachment to the clench-n-quake school of writing. 

So. 

Let’s say that we have our character – Talia, 33, single. She’s the keeper of Egyptian antiquities at a major London museum, and the antiquities keep going missing. She’s also rather fond of Daniel, 35, a shaggy-haired archaeologist. Our scene? Hmm. Talia and a colleague (Asha, 44) are working late. They hear strange noises from the vault. They go to investigate and find some recent finds, Egyptian statuary, have been unaccountably moved. In the course of the scene, Asha tells Talia that she fancies Daniel … and thinks he fancies her back. 

In the course of the scene, Talia feels curious about the noises in the vault, feels surprise and fear when she finds the statues have been moved. And feels jealousy and uncertainty when Asha speaks of her feelings for Daniel. 

We need to find ways to express Talia’s feelings in the story. 

Here’s one way: 

Direct statements of emotion 

Talia felt a surge of jealousy, that almost amounted to anger. 

Bingo. Why not? That’s what she feels, so why not say it? No reason at all. Some writers will panic that they’re telling not showing, and they’ve read somewhere that they shouldn’t do that (at all, ever), so they’ll avoid these direct statements. But why? They work. They’re useful. They help the reader. 

More complicated but still direct statements 

Somewhere, she felt a shadow-self detach from her real one, a shadow self that wanted to claw Asha’s face, pull her hair, draw blood, cause pain. 

That’s still saying “Talia felt X”, we’ve just inserted a more complicated statement into the hole marked X, but it still works. And that dab of exotic imagery gives the whole thing a novelly feel, so we’re good, right? Even though technically, we’re still telling not showing. 

Physical statements: inner report 

Talia felt her belly drop away, the seaside roller-coaster experience, except that here she was no child. There was no sand, no squinting sunshine, no erupting laughter. 

Now as you know, I don’t love text that overuses physical statements as a way to describe emotion, but that’s because overuse of anything is bad, and because the statements tend to be very thin (mouth contorting, chest shuddering, etc). If you don’t overuse the statements and enrich the ones you do make, there’s not an issue. 

Notice that here, we have Talia noticing something about her physical state – it’s not an external observation. But both things are fine.

Physical statements: external observation 

Colour rushed into Talia’s face. She turned her head abruptly to prevent the other woman seeing but Asha was, in any case, more interested in the case of funerary amulets. 

Here, we’re only talking about physical changes that are apparent on the outside, and that snippet is fine too. It doesn’t go very deep and, for my money, it feels like a snippet that would best go after a more direct statement. “Talia felt a surge of jealousy, anger almost. Colour rushed into her face, and she turned her head …” 

Dialogue 

“Daniel?” said Talia. “But he’s so much younger. I really doubt that he’d …” 

Dialogue conveys emotion. It can also provide text and subtext in one. So here, the overt meaning is Talia’s doubt that a mid-thirties Daniel could fancy a mid-forties Asha… but the clear sub-text is a catty jealousy on Talia’s part. And readers love decoding those subtexts, so the more you offer them, the better. 

Direct statement of inner thought 

“Daniel?” said Talia. “But he’s so much younger. I really doubt that he’d …” 

Doubt what? That he’d fancy the glamorous, shaggy-haired Asha, with her white shirts and big breasts and pealing laughter? 

The second bit here is a direct statement of Talia’s actual thought. We could also have written: 

Doubt what, she wondered. That he’d fancy … 

That inserts a “she wondered” into things, but as you see, we can have a direct statement of her thoughts with or without that “she wondered”. Either way, it works. 

Memory 

Talia remembered seeing the two of them, at conference in Egypt. Holding little white coffee cups on a sunny balcony and bawling with laughter at something, she didn’t know what. Asha’s unfettered, unapologetic booming laughter and all the sunlit roofs of Cairo. 

That doesn’t quite go directly to emotions, but it half-does and we could take it nearer with a little nudging. And, for sure, if you want a rounded set of tools to build out your emotional language, then memory will play a part. 

Action 

When Asha spoke, Talia had been holding a small pot in elaborately worked clay. It would once have held a sacred oil with which to anoint a new bride. Talia felt Asha looking sharply at her, at her hands, and when she looked, she saw the pot was split in two, that she’d broken it, now, after two thousand three hundred years. 

OK, is that a bit on the nose? Breaking a marriage pot. Well, maybe, but it’s better than quaking, clenching and contorting all the time. 

Use of the setting 

They were in the vault now, marital relics stored in the shelves behind them, funerary relics and coinage on the shelves in front. Leaking through the walls from the offices next door, there was the wail of Sawhali music, the mourning of a simsimiyya. 

At one level, that snippet is only talking about hard physical facts: what’s stored on the shelves, what music they can hear. But look at the language: we have marital and funerary in the same sentence. The next sentence brings us wail and mourning. This is a pretty clear way of saying that Talia’s not exactly joyful about things. Every reader will certainly interpret it that way. 

And there are probably more alternatives too, and certainly you can smush these ones up together and get a thousand interesting hybrids as a result. I said you probably won’t want to pin this list up on a wall anywhere, but honestly? If you do read back a clench-quake-contort passage in your own fiction, then you might want to (A) delete nearly all of that that clenching and quaking, then (B) check back here for alternative approaches. 

Your writing will get better, instantly, if you do that. And – you’ll have more fun. 

*** 

FEEDBACK FRIDAY 

Take any passage in which you’ve got excessive dependence on physical statements about your character and rework it, using any mixture of the tools here. You’re welcome to keep some physical statements in your scene, but make sure you keep a nice balance overall. We want to get a rich and rounded sense of the character’s emotion – written in a way that doesn’t make me want to scream. 

What I need: 

• 250 words from your scene 

• 2-3 lines of introduction as needed 

I’ll give feedback to a good handful of you. All are welcome to participate, but I’ll only offer feedback to Premium Members. When you're ready, upload your material here. If you’re not yet a Premium Member but would like to be, then you can join us here.

*** 
That’s it from me. We have a new puppy in our lives. He’s called Dibble, and he’s a black-and-white poodle / papillon cross. He has four white socks, a white bib, a touch of white on his nose, and the end of his tail looks like it’s been dipped in white paint. The little lad is an absolute darling. My girls are smitten, but I’m not exactly unsmitten. 

Til soon. 

Harry 

Are you struggling to get started with your next writing project? Wondering which idea is the one to run with, or how to decide? Preparing for the launch of our new Premium Member course, Write With Jericho, has got me thinking about this very topic. What do you do when you have way too many ideas bouncing around in your brain? And what if you can't even decide which genre to dive into? If this sounds familiar, don't panic - I've got you covered. Let's figure it out together. (And don't forget - Write With Jericho is for Premium Members only, so be sure to join us to access this course! We'll be learning how to craft the perfect scene, so you'll be able to approach any story idea with confidence.) 

1. Start with what excites you most 

When you have too many ideas, start by asking yourself: which one makes you feel the most excited? Which idea has you daydreaming about characters or imagining epic plot twists? Sit with the ideas for a few days or weeks. If one idea gives you that little spark of joy and you find yourself constantly thinking about it, run with it. Writing a book is not easy. If the idea doesn’t make you bounce in your seat a little bit, it’s probably not going to be an idea you’ll want to sit with for 80k plus words and read and edit again... and again... and again. Excitement is the fuel that will keep you going. 

Pro Tip: If you’re excited about it, chances are your readers will be too. 

2. Create a “Battle Royale” of ideas 

Take all your ideas and pit them against each other. Write a quick elevator pitch for each one and see which stands out. When I say elevator pitch, I don’t mean the kind you’d include on a query letter. I mean the quick, dirty kind that you stick on a post-it note or scribble in the middle of the night. Take a look at this masterclass from Harry Bingham if you’re unsure how to do this. If you’re torn between a thriller about a missing heirloom and a romantic comedy set in a flower shop, ask yourself: which feels fresher? Which would you rather spend months (or years) writing? 

3. Test drive your ideas 

You don’t have to commit right away. Write a short story, an opening chapter, or even just a scene for a few of your favourite ideas. Why not use Write With Jericho, where we’re going to be writing a scene together, to try out your idea? As a Premium Member, you’ll have access to the replays for as long as you’re a member, so if it doesn’t work out you can always take the course again with a different idea. This process can help you see which one feels the most natural to write and has the most potential for growth. 

4. Combine ideas 

Who says you have to choose just one? Sometimes the best stories come from blending two seemingly unrelated ideas. For example, your dystopian sci-fi concept could pair perfectly with your love for cozy mysteries. Suddenly, you’re writing about a sleuth solving crimes on a spaceship. Genre mashups can be magical – and extremely sought after by agents and publishers if they’re done well. 

5. Explore your genre dilemma 

If you can’t decide which genre to write, think about: 

What you love to read? The genre you enjoy most as a reader might be the one you’ll enjoy writing. 

Your natural strengths: Are you great at building suspense? Maybe thrillers are your calling. Do you write snappy dialogue? Consider comedy. 

What scares you a little: The genre that intimidates you might be the one that helps you grow the most as a writer. 

6. Look at the long game 

Ask yourself: which genre do you see yourself sticking with for multiple books? If you’re hoping to build a career, it helps to establish yourself in a particular niche. That doesn’t mean you can never branch out, but if a publisher is considering offering you a book deal, they’ll want to know that you can produce multiple books in the same genre that will appeal to the same readers again and again. When I wrote my first novel, which was a sci-fi, this is exactly why I never queried it. I couldn’t see myself as a sci-fi writer. I didn’t think I could write another book in the genre, or at least, not multiple books. However, I could see myself writing lots of thrillers, so I decided to do that instead. 

7. Consult your characters 

Sometimes it’s the characters, not the plot, that can help you decide. Think about the people in your ideas. Which characters feel the most real or compelling? Which ones are clamoring the loudest for their story to be told? Follow their lead. 

8. Set aside market pressure 

It’s easy to get caught up in what’s trending. While it’s good to be aware of the market, trying to chase trends can stifle your creativity. It’s also a bit pointless. What’s trending today probably won’t be next year, so by the time you’ve written the book, edited the book, and started to query, it’s likely to no longer be in demand. Even worse – the market will probably be over-saturated by that point and you’ll be competing with writers who got there quicker than you. Instead, focus on writing what you’re passionate about. Trends come and go, but a story you love will always have value. 

9. Flip a coin (seriously) 

If you’re truly stuck, grab a coin. Assign an idea or genre to each side and flip. You’ll either: 

Get your answer, or 

Realize as the coin is mid-air which one you’re secretly rooting for. 

10. Remember to have fun 

Writing should be fun! Yes, it’s hard work, but it’s also your chance to create a world, fall in love with your characters, and tell a story only you can tell. Don’t stress about choosing the “right” idea. Whatever you write, it will be uniquely yours. 

So, take a deep breath, pick an idea (or two!), and start typing. You’ve got this! 

Don’t forget to join us as a Premium Member to take part in Write With Jericho. The first lesson is now live! You can find out more about the course right here. 

One of the bits of feedback I give most – and really, I’d want to give it almost all the time, on auto-repeat – is: stay close to character.

Sometimes that means simply reporting what a character thinks of something.

The coffee shop was white, vaguely seaside-y in its timber and flaking paint, over-priced and, Niamh thought, pretentious.

 That ‘Niamh thought’ simply plops the character’s view right into the description without feeling a tad out of place.

But character can and should sneak in anywhere.

The bickering couple moved away from their seat in the window, and the rain had left, and there was sunlight on the wet street, shining off car windscreens and fallen magnolia petals.

And, yes, in a way that’s just description: a matter of stating simple facts. Except why is Niamh observing these facts? There are other observations she could have made. In the same place at the same time, she might have chosen to observe:

The door to the toilets wasn’t properly closed and the sound and smells of plumbing eased through. Coffee here was four pounds a cup, and the most prominent aroma was pine-scented disinfectant.

One of these snippets suggests one mood. The second delivers quite another. And we all know that if we’re depressed, we see the world differently from if we’re not. Our views of people and situations are coloured by our own mental state.

It’s the same in books. If I’m describing sunlight on a wet street, I’m offering you something (however hard to put into words) about the character’s mental state. If I’m passing on facts about the price of coffee and toilet smells, then I’m suggesting something quite different.

But character can invade even more directly than this. Take this:

The coffee arrived. Each cup came on its own copper-trimmed wooden tray, with a small glass bottle of milk and an oat-biscuit about the size of a large button. The waitress, inevitably, paused to tell them about the Colombian estate from which the coffee had come.

That whole chunk is factual narrative, but always filtered through the observation of a particular character. The ‘size of a large button’, for example, tells us about the character’s range of reference. ‘Button’ is quite homely, quite domestic in nature. A ‘good-sized poker chip’ would tell us something different. A ‘heavy-duty washer, the sort you’d use in roofing’ would give us something else.

But look a little deeper. The little snippets I’ve created for this email are all voiced in the third person. We have an unnamed, impersonal narrator whose job is mostly just to describe facts: what happened, what Niamh said and did, what she thought and felt, and so on. The narrator knows as much as we choose for them to know. For all I know, in the next chapter, the narrator will be talking, not about Niamh, but a burly Polish roofer called Lech. But no matter who the narrator is talking about, he or she is basically impersonal. A being of no interest.

Look back at that oat-biscuit snippet. It says, “The waitress, inevitably, paused…” That word, ‘’inevitably’, belongs to Niamh, not the narrator. It’s her sarcastic comment about the café’s pretentiousness: the narrator doesn’t really have a view.

In effect, you can write third person, but your character should still infuse the entire text, with every observation, with every choice of word.

Now all that sounds as wholesome and good as an artisanal oat-biscuit. So why make a big deal of it?

Well, the reason is that plenty of text just feels like … words.

Here for example:

Before Sarah has time to find an excuse, they're standing inside the dark entrance hall. She shudders. It's as cold as the grave.

The man [an estate agent] fumbles on the wall beside the door and clicks the light on. A single bulb spreads a sickly glow around the room. Sarah takes in the parquet floor and wooden panelling and the smell: mould and cat pee. She can see the man properly now. Close up, he looks older than she'd first thought. Fine lines score his face and she wonders if his luxuriant dark hair is quite natural.

'Do you have a place to sell yourself?' he asks, his voice casual. ‘I take it you're on the move?'

She focuses on his face, concentrating on keeping her eyes steady and her mouth from contorting. She tells herself she must try to appear normal, even if she feels far from it.

'Yes, probably, quite soon,' she says, her voice unnaturally bright.

He smiles, a professional smile, still probing. 'Is it in the area?' He shakes his umbrella and slips it into an oak stand beside the door.

Her fists clench involuntarily. She's not going to tell this man that her life has imploded. That only a few hours ago she walked out on her husband with just three suitcases and a couple of tea chests to show for fifteen years of marriage. How can she talk about it to this stranger before Alex himself knows - even though she owes him nothing? Panic washes over her …

Now, look, that chunk is lifted from a book called The Orphan House by Ann Bennett, and it’s got lots of lovely reader reviews, and I haven’t read it, so maybe the book has depths that I can’t assess from this passage. Sorry, Ms Bennett.

But:

I do not love this writing. I do not love prose that works like this.

In this short passage, Sarah shudders. She concentrates on keeping her eyes steady and has to work to prevent her mouth from contorting. Her voice is unnaturally bright. Her fists clench, though she doesn’t ask them to. Panic washes over her. That’s a truly vast amount of shuddering, panicking and clenching, while at the same time keeping the voice bright and the eyes steady. It’s such a barrage of information, it’s not quite clear we can meaningfully assemble it, except in a very basic “oh, she’s feeling emotional and upset” way. I don’t even think the author has any more precise conception of her own. If she had, she’d have given it to us.

The factual observations give us nothing either.

The house is as cold as the grave, which might mean that the character has her mind filled with death and the end of everything … but is much more likely to reflect the unconsidered use of a tired old cliché.

An old, unheated house smells of mould (normal) and cat pee (not so much, unless the place is so derelict that there are ways for cats to enter the property.)

The light is sickly. But what does that mean? Normally, that would suggest a greenish light, but why would a house have bulbs any different from anyone else’s bulbs? The observation isn’t followed by anything, which makes me think that the word ‘sickly’ is used simply in order to convey a very general “this property doesn’t look all that great” message.

In short, we have a passage that is NOT invaded by character. The author doesn’t use the tools she has to deliver character via back-door routes, and she compensates with a whole barrage of shuddering and panicking.

The result feels both flat (because of the deadness in the observation) and over-coloured (because of the babbling, quaking character on the page.) That’s a bad combination.

My advice? Don’t write like that.

My further advice: Stay close to character. Always and everywhere.

You’ll like it if you do.

***

FEEDBACK FRIDAY

Well, it’s clear what we need this week: 250 words from your text that is infused by character. We’re going to be looking especially for factual observation that conveys something about the character present. Extra bonuses if there are places where the character sneaks control from the narrator.

If you’re writing first person, then all of this is easier and more natural, but that also means the demands rise. Every word of your passage needs to belong to your character. We need to be smelling him or her in every line.

Please also give us the title of your book, and a line or two of introduction, so we can make sense of the scene.

When you're ready, post your work here.

***

That’s it from me. I am going to clench, shudder and panic my way over to a coffee pot and see if caffeine will help. It surely will.

Til soon.

Harry

Most nights, I watch a bit of TV with the missus before bed. She does not get ready as fast as I do, so I usually have 15 or 20 minutes watching something on my own before we settle on something that works for the two of us.

And, out of curiosity really, I just started watching (in 15 or 20 minute chunks) David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia. I’m not sure how widely known that name is outside of Britain – but the guy was an Oxford scholar of the Middle East who ended up uniting the – normally squalling – Arab tribes in a revolt against their Ottoman overlords. This happened as part of World War I, and since the Turks were allied with the Germans, them bashing the Turks in the Levant was (a bit) helpful to the overall cause.

OK, that’s the historical background. The film history is that David Lean – already a well-known filmmaker – brought the film out in 1962 and was nominated for 10 Oscars in the 1963 awards, winning 7 of them.

The film runs for 3½ hours. It’s perfectly willing to have long, long takes that show little more than figures (and camels) moving through a landscape.

It involves a sexually ambiguous hero, who is (it is implied) raped mid-film.

The story doesn’t have a happy ending, as Lawrence’s dreams of Arab independence collapse as a result of individual greeds and colonial realities.

Could the film be made today? I doubt it. A niche historical drama of that length? With no superhero character, no bestselling source material, and not even a well-known lead, I think the film would stand no chance of securing the necessary funds.

Is it a masterpiece? Well, don’t ask me; ask the American Film Institute, who have the film ranked #7 in their list of the 100 best ever movies.

A masterpiece, that no one would make.

And don’t lay the blame on the passage of time. 1962 is not so long ago. We’re not dealing with the cultural distance of Shakespeare. We’re talking about the cultural distance of Bob Dylan and the Beatles.

And books?

The same, the same, the same, the same.

There are any number of great and successful books from the past which wouldn’t be bought today.

Sometimes, it’s just that something has been done to death. (Imagine trying to sell Twilight now. Publishers would groan at something so stuffed with genre cliché, and with so few twists on a theme.)

Other times, politics would come into play. Part of the problem with making Lawrence of Arabia today would be having a white man in a rescuer role. Publishers have become nervous and – some would say – oversensitive in their approach to navigating similar issues in the twenty-first century.

Then, perhaps, there’s just a sense that something has dated. So, for example, I don’t think my Fiona Griffiths books will date quickly – they’re not especially wedded to their period. But my first book, The Money Makers, felt dated within years of arrival, because of its setting in the 1999/2000 financial industry.

But looking at all the great books that could not be published today misses the point.

The publishing industry is not in some sort of collapsed state. Old tropes die and new ones are born. If Shakespeare had been reborn in Victorian times, he wouldn’t have written the works of Shakespeare – he’d have been a Dickens. If Dickens were writing his first book now, it wouldn’t be Bleak House or Oliver Twist. It would be – well, we don’t know, because the man was a genius and geniuses aren’t predictable.

And you?

What about you? Because this email isn’t about Dickens, or Shakespeare or David Lean. It’s about you.

And you, my friend, are going to use this glorious great stretch of 2025 – a whole big, loping, empty year – to write something wonderful. Or to complete the wonderful thing you’ve already started.

And you’re not going to complain about the broken state of publishing because (A) it isn’t broken and (B) there are more ways to find readers than there ever used to be. But also, and mostly, because (C) you are writing your book in the glorious year of 2025, and every sentence you write is embedded in the culture of today – with all your knowledge of what people are writing about, responding to, watching, getting annoyed by and so on.

Believe in that culture. Be part of it. And, for sure, you can yelp about the stuff that annoys you, or subvert current tropes for something you think is better. Take yesterday’s idea and twist it in a way that makes it shipshape for tomorrow.

But whatever you do, apply your bum to that seat.

And write.

***

FEEDBACK FRIDAY

First up – apologies. At the end of last year, I asked you for your agent questions and then got too overwhelmed by the onset of Christmas to answer properly. I’ve remedied that now. If you had a question about agents and all that, then check out the forum again, and you’ll find an answer there from me.

As for this week, it’s a New Year, so let’s make that the theme. Please give me:

• The opening page (max 300 words) from your current project. As always, give us enough background that we know what kind of book we’re dealing with.
• If you’ve submitted an opening page recently, then just give us something new – a chapter beginning, for example. Again, just give enough of an intro, that we know what we’re dealing with.

When you're ready, post your work here.

Do please be as generous as always with your comments for others. Don’t forget to give useful, specific feedback as well as positivity and encouragement. The latter is nice; the former improves books.

Til soon,

Harry.

A retreat from reality. A whole day, or maybe even several days, wholly devoted to writing. An opportunity to focus solely on your work-in-progress: to smash a word count goal, get under the skin of your story idea or wrestle your plot into perfect shape. 

Sounds great, right? It’s no wonder that attending a writing retreat is on most authors’ wish lists for 2025 – mine included!  

However, writing retreats can be prohibitively expensive, especially in the aftermath of Christmas. They can also be tough to fit into everyday life if you have other commitments to consider.  

Luckily, there are ways you can bring the principles of a retreat into your own writing practice, whatever your budget and time constraints may be. Here are five helpful ideas for running your own DIY writing retreat. I hope they help you get 2025 off to a strong, creative start.  

1. Pick (or prepare) a place 

If spending a few hours away from home – perhaps in a particularly nice coffee shop – is an option for you, then this might be a good place to start. Alternatively, it could be that a day or two in a local hotel or B&B is within reach. If so, this could offer sufficient distance from the daily grind to boost your productivity.  

If you can head further afield, that’s great, too – though (unless your retreat is also a very specific research trip) beware the temptation to book accommodation in a location where you’ll be tempted to explore. Trekking to Scotland for some peace and quiet is all very well, but you’re unlikely to get much writing done if you can’t resist checking out local hiking trails or touring whisky distilleries… 

Which leads me nicely to my point. While the word ‘retreat’ probably makes you think of going away somewhere, in reality this is far less important than the decision to retreat – as in, step back – from what you normally do and think about. You could travel to a perfect, picturesque cottage in the middle of nowhere and still struggle to concentrate on writing if you can’t put down your mobile phone or silence the voice in your head that keeps whispering, ‘Don’t forget tomorrow is bin day!’ 

As you prepare for your DIY writing retreat – which can certainly happen in your own home – think about the distractions that typically pull you away from writing. How can you tackle them? You might consider asking a friend or partner to take charge of children or pets for a day, for example.  

If you’ve booked a day or two of leave from work to write, turn your ‘office’ phone off and put it in a drawer. Refuse to think about your day job until your retreat is done! Also, make sure those around you know that just because you have booked a day off work, it doesn't mean you are ‘off’. This is not the opportunity for accepting invitations to brunch, or tackling those extra projects around the home you've been meaning to do. You're still working. It's just a different sort of work. 

Give yourself permission to de-prioritise any chores and errands you’d usually get done during the time you’ve set aside for your DIY writing retreat. That said, make sure the space you’ll use for writing is clean and tidy… otherwise ‘neatening it up’ could easily become a smokescreen for procrastination.  

If you’re keen to dedicate some more time to your work-in-progress but don’t have the opportunity or funds to go on a traditional writing retreat, signing up for The Ultimate Start could also be a great option for you. This one day, online writing workshop offers five tutorials with expert authors, and is designed to kickstart your creativity for the New Year. Best of all, it costs just £49 for Jericho Writers Premium Members and £99 for non-members.

2. Set strategic goals 

So, you’ve decided when and where your DIY writing retreat will take place. Now it’s time to define what you want to achieve during the time you’ve set aside.  

Perhaps you want to plan your next project. Maybe you have a completed draft that you’re keen to self-edit. It could be that you’re desperately trying to get to ‘the end’ with a work-in-progress, and just need some focused time to help you bring home the final act of your story.  

Wherever you are on your writing journey, think about the best way to invest the time you’re devoting to your retreat. What can you get done in that period, and what impact will it have on your project overall? What aspects of writing do you normally find most difficult – and does this distraction-free time offer an opportunity to get to grips with them?  

Before you begin your DIY writing retreat, you need to know upfront what ‘success’ means for you. Without a clear goal in mind, you may struggle to stay motivated – and you also risk ending without that clear, satisfying sense of crossing the finish line.  

You must also make sure that, whatever goal you set, it’s realistic. If you have a single day to work on your writing, for example, don’t tell yourself you’re going to produce 10,000 perfect words. Aim for a number you know is feasible, then pat yourself on the back if you overshoot!

3. Create a schedule 

The phrase ‘writing retreat’ probably conjures up cosy images of people thinking very deep, writerly thoughts, snuggled up in front of roaring fires and sipping from bottomless mugs of hot chocolate. Lovely as such images are, the truth is that you can only spend so much time contemplating and quaffing sugary beverages if you want to get stuff done.  

By all means, make regular hot chocolate breaks a core component of your DIY writing retreat plan – but schedule them in advance. Make them a reward for an hour of good work. Think about how they can push you closer to achieving your goal, rather than hamper you from focusing on it. 

When you’re planning your DIY writing retreat, it’s a good idea to consider in advance how you can incorporate regular meals, small treats, physical movement and rest – particularly if you’re spending more than a day on focused work. It may sound puritanical, but creating a schedule will not only help you stick to writing, planning or editing; it will also encourage you to take good care of yourself.  

Through The Ultimate Start, we’re offering five workshops in a single day to help you plan a new project, review your work-in-progress or provide a fantastic framework for self-editing. You can view the schedule for the day (which includes plenty of all-important breaks!) right here on our website.  

4. Prepare your resources  

Think about ways you can prepare for your DIY writing retreat in advance. Could you batch cook a few meals, for instance, or stock up on healthy snacks that will keep your creativity flowing? If you’re a lover of fabulous notebooks and snazzy pens, would having a couple of new ones help motivate you during your retreat?  

You’ll also want to consider more mundane things like ensuring any research notes, files or books you might need are readily available. Collect everything together in one place so that, even if you’re staying at home, you won’t waste precious time hunting for them.  

Think about making sure you’re comfortable, too. If you have a favourite cushion, blanket or scented candle, incorporate this into your workspace.  

Such items should be a welcome reminder that your writing retreat is supposed to be pleasurable, as well as productive. Focusing on your writing in this way is something you get to do, not something you have to do. 

5. Celebrate your success (and analyse how you could improve) 

When your writing retreat is over, make sure you give yourself credit for the time and effort you’ve put into it – whether or not you achieved everything you set out to.  

If you didn’t quite hit your target, see if there’s anything you can learn from that. Was your word count goal too ambitious? Did you underestimate how long editing or planning certain sections of your story might take you? Or, did you find an idea you’d thought was good didn’t have legs and come up with something else instead? 

So often in writing, what seems like a setback is a learning experience, or an opportunity to pivot and improve something. When you look back on what you’ve managed to do during your DIY writing retreat, consider it with positivity and without judgement. That way, you won’t be discouraged from carving out time for another writing retreat in future – and you’ll be even better equipped to make the most of it.  

So, there you have it! Five tips for creating a DIY writing retreat that will help you start your writing year right.  

And if you’d like to find out more about the affordable mini ‘writing retreat’ we’re running for online this January, check out The Ultimate Start page on our website.  

‘The saggy middle’. Not a very attractive term.  

What does it mean, however?  

We could say that, broadly, the centre of a narrative should mark the zenith of its arc – and therefore, it is the pivotal point of the story. If your book loses momentum around this point, that’s problematic.  

So how do you avoid the dreaded saggy middle? Here are some ideas to implement.  

1. Consider a twist at the mid-point 

This will inject your plot with energy and propel the text on.  

Might one of your protagonist’s friends or allies betray them, offering new interest and prompting the reader to reconsider assumptions they’ve made?  

Conversely, someone the reader had thought was a villain may turn out to be something else. Perhaps they are more subtle, more intriguing, than they first seemed? Maybe that villain is wrestling with their own conflict, or fulfilling a role forced upon them.  

Thinking more about assumptions, could you offer something subversive here? Maybe a character readers have assumed to be truthful has been lying throughout the story so far. Or is your narrator less dependable than they seemed?  

What happens need not be a cataclysm; it could just be a series of hints to unsettle and intrigue your reader. All these things may come earlier or later in your novel – but do consider them here and see if they ignite your book. 

2. Up the stakes  

Often, a saggy middle comes from a lack of increase in stakes. What are the consequences if your protagonist succeeds or fails in their mission? What if it looks as though they might not answer the questions you posed earlier in the book? You could make the need to solve a problem more urgent, or introduce an additional element of danger or risk. You could add a setback or two. 

We don’t want your protagonist to arrive too smoothly at their destination. Do elements of the plot fall into place too neatly? In that case, the book might struggle to keep momentum as it moves towards its climax.  

Adding a setback, or a series of setbacks, around the halfway point is an effective way to keep the book alive. By creating new jeopardy and complexity, you’ll lead the reader on, making them wonder how the protagonist is going to recover. This is a terrific technique because wanting to know the answers to questions is instinctual in all of us – particularly when the questions are thorny!  

Added to this is the question of whether your protagonist’s (and other characters’) emotional arcs need to be more expansive. Have you tied their development closely enough to the setbacks they’re experiencing? Consider whether more is needed to develop and build to sustain the fascination of your reader with your characters from this point. 

3. Add more action 

Does your novel need more action at this stage? How might you add drama and tension?  

The action need not be physical – it can take many forms, depending on genre, plot and your readership. Consider an argument, where long-held resentments come to the surface; or perhaps a revelation that leaves one or more characters reeling. Whatever happens, will it open the way to further engaging twists, setbacks, and developments? Will it make your reader keep turning the page?  

4. Experiment with editing 

Just how badly is your book’s middle sagging? Is it time to make some cuts? 

Read the text aloud. Are you bored? If so, that’s a sign some trimming is needed. I have found that when a writer doesn’t know how to get from one point to another, their text may be mired in unnecessary dialogue, small events which do nothing to advance the plot (however lovely the language) or an efflorescence of detail that just grounds the book.  

Sometimes writers tell me they need to include lots of detail at this point because it is immersive for the reader. But the opposite can be true: it can be a drag factor. It might be that you are actively creating a saggy middle!  

In general, your reader needs less detail than you do – so consider whether there is just too much here. It can be a painful process, but it is part of authoring a book. Being tough on yourself here is excellent training, too – not least because edits are part of the process of bringing a novel to market.  

Bonus tip: if you do decide to trim your text, remember to keep any content you remove from your manuscript in a separate, clearly labelled, dated document. You never know – you may want to add it back in later, or even place it somewhere else in the text.   

Hopefully, these ideas are useful for you. Above all, please know that saggy middles are a common problem – and definitely something you can fix!