The Writer's Classified Formula
How to move past the blank page, steal your reader's mind, & set up an unavoidable story.
I’m told you’ve done the work.
You’ve conquered the blank page, you’ve put in the time, and you’re no longer a beginner.
You have a story, perhaps a first draft, or even a finished manuscript.
But a first draft is just raw material.
The problem is, you’re not done.
Not yet, anyway.
You’re past the first move, now you’re facing a new set of problems: how to make your words hit harder, how to build a world that feels real, how to write with a deeper purpose, and how to get the feedback that will truly level up your game.
I’m here to tell you that talent is not enough. You need a strategy.
The most compelling stories are not a product of luck; they’re a result of a calculated plan.
Every paragraph must be a point of control.
And the tactics, structures, and psychology behind the words are all that matter.
So, I’m not here to toss a guide on your face...
I’m here to give you the damn playbook.
The first tool we grab is the lens.
Before you map the story, you must set the perspective.
This is where you decide how much you let the reader in, and how much distance you maintain.
Your authority begins with your point of view.
Your voice & your tense
Choosing a point of view and a tense is a fundamental decision.
It controls the distance between the reader and the story.
You’re either putting them inside the mind of your character, observing from over their shoulder, or pulling them back to see the entire world.
Your voice is the primary vehicle; select it with clear intent.
The point of view (POV)
1st person
This is the most intimate and unfiltered POV.
You’re the narrator, using “I” to tell the story.
The reader sees the world through a single pair of eyes.
The concept: The story is told by the protagonist themselves.
The power: It creates an immediate connection. The reader feels every thought, emotion, and lie. It’s the most personal and authentic voice you can use.
The limitation: Your world is limited. The reader only knows what the narrator knows. If your narrator is naive, biased, or unaware, the reader will be, too.
The use: Start with an immediate internal observation that’s impossible for anyone else to know. Example: “I knew the second I walked into that room that the price on the table was a lie. The air felt cheap, and the handshake was too soft for the number he was quoting.”
2nd person
A rare and assertive choice.
You’re placing the reader directly into the story by using “you.”
The concept: The reader is the protagonist. Every action is theirs.
The power: When used correctly, it’s the most immersive form of narrative. It breaks the fourth wall and compels the reader to live the experience.
The limitation: It’s incredibly difficult to sustain. It can feel like a trick and can push the reader away if not handled with absolute precision. Use it for a short, punchy piece, not a full novel.
The use: Use direct, active commands that place the responsibility squarely on the reader. Example: “You step to the edge of the glass and look down. You feel the knot tighten in your stomach, realizing the only way out is the one you came in, and you’re not turning back.”
3rd person
This is the most common and versatile POV.
You’re an invisible narrator observing the character from the outside, and you have two main approaches here.
3rd Person Limited
The concept: The story is about “he” or “she,” but the narrator’s knowledge is confined to a single character’s mind. The reader knows what they know, feels what they feel, and sees what they see.
The power: It retains the intimacy of the first person without the confines of “I.” It gives you the flexibility to describe the character’s actions without them needing to reflect on them.
The use: Describe the character’s external actions while anchoring them to their internal, single-source conclusion. Example: “He stared at the blank screen, the coffee cooling in his hand. He wasn’t tired; he was waiting. The whole market could collapse, but he knew exactly what his next five moves had to be.”
3rd Person Omniscient
The concept: Your narrator is a god-like entity, an all-seeing eye that knows everything about everyone. You can enter any mind, see any event, and reveal any secret. The characters are always referred to as “he,” “she,” or “they.”
The power: You have total control. You can jump between characters and plotlines, revealing information at will. This is for when you want a broad, epic scope.
The limitation: It creates a distance between the reader and the characters. The more you know, the less the reader has to work for it.
The use: Reveal information that no single character could possibly know, controlling the narrative time and space. Example: “The CEO believed she had secured the deal for good, but six blocks away, the market’s invisible hand was already closing the window of opportunity she was still celebrating.”
The difference between 3rd person limited and 3rd person omniscient is not the pronoun, but the distance and the scope of the narrator’s knowledge.
They both use “he,” “she,” or “they,” because the narrator is an outside observer.
Limited just puts a leash on that observer.
The tense
We come to the part that dictates the feeling of time in your narrative.
Past tense
This is the most standard tense for stories.
The events have already happened and are being recounted to the reader.
The concept: The story is a memory. “’He walked into the room,’ she said.” This is the default anchor for any narrative, including the 3rd person limited and omniscient perspectives.
The power: It feels natural and familiar. It allows for a sense of reflection and gives the narrator the ability to hint at future events, since they already know how the story ends.
The limitation: It can feel less immediate than the present tense.
Present tense
A tense that makes the reader feel like they’re in the story as it unfolds.
The events are happening right now.
The concept: The story is a live event. “’He walks into the room,’ she says.” This is used to thrust the reader into the scene, regardless of whose immediate experience the narrator is observing.
The power: It creates a powerful sense of urgency and immediacy. The reader is experiencing every single moment with the character, making the tension far more visceral.
The limitation: It can be very difficult to sustain and can feel monotonous. It also makes it difficult to include backstory without breaking the flow.
The temporal lever: Tense as a 3rd Person strategy
Application: Visceral confinement.
Perspective & tense: 3rd person limited (Present tense high impact).
Purpose & impact: Use the urgency of the present to confine focus. It traps the reader inside a single character’s experience, making immediate stakes feel unbearable and every small action intensely visceral.
Application: Wide-scope anchor.
Perspective & tense: 3rd person omniscient (Past tense default).
Purpose & impact: Use the distance of the past to control scale. It grants you the historical context necessary for an epic scope, allowing you to seamlessly jump across time and between a dozen minds without overwhelming the reader.
Applied strategy: Examples of temporal control
1. 3rd person limited (Present tense high impact)
This traps the reader in the immediate, high-stakes action of one person’s experience.
Example: “He steps into the light, and the silence in the room is a physical weight on his chest. He doesn’t look at the report, because he knows the single digit that matters is already burned into his mind.”
2. 3rd person omniscient (Past tense anchor)
This is the standard anchor that allows you to provide context and history.
Example: “The deal was signed on a damp Tuesday in London, but the cracks had been forming months before in Dubai. The CEO believed he was closing a negotiation; he was merely finalizing a long-term surrender.”
3. The omniscient blend (Switching tense for effect)
This is the pure power you asked for.
The 3rd person omniscient narrator defaults to past tense for narration but can temporarily snap into present tense to thrust the reader into an immediate, high-tension moment for dramatic effect, then immediately revert.
Example: “She had everything she needed. The final contract sat on the marble table, ready for the signature that would cement her empire. But then the door slams open. He stands there, drenched, the file that contains the real truth clutched in his hand. She knew, in that single instant, that everything was about to change.”
The switch to present tense in the middle (”slams open,” “stands there,” “clutched in his hand”) is a tool to inject an immediate jolt of electricity into a scene before pulling back to the reflective past tense (”She knew”).
This is the level of control you demand.
Choose your voice and your tense with a specific goal in mind.
Are you trying to create intimacy or control?
Urgency or reflection?
The best choice is what feels natural to use.
And if you can’t decide, then write a few phrases, and experiment with each POV and tense, until you land on the one that clicks…
Then you’ve found your way.
The structures
Now, which structure is the best one?
There is no single best structure out there, but you must use the one that feels closest to your intention.
Whether you’re building a novel or a quick story, the framework you choose controls the very bones of the narrative.
These are the essential architectures that built millions of successful stories.
They work because they appeal to our most fundamental understanding of narrative.
For the first one, it’s…
1. The Three-Act Structure
This is the most fundamental and widely used structure.
It’s the “beginning, middle, and end” of storytelling, but with a framework.
It’s clean, effective, and works for almost any genre.
Act I: The setup (The first 25%)
The world: Introduce your protagonist and their normal life. Show, don’t just tell, what their world is like.
The inciting incident: A crucial event happens that shatters the protagonist’s normal world and forces them into the main conflict. This is the moment they get pulled into the story.
The first plot point: The protagonist makes a choice or a commitment that moves them out of their old world and into the world of the story. There is no turning back.
Act II: The confrontation (The middle 50%)
Rising action: The protagonist faces a series of escalating obstacles, challenges, and conflicts as they pursue their goal. The stakes get higher with every scene. This is where most of your story’s action, character development, and world-building happen.
The midpoint: A major turning point at the halfway mark. The protagonist often moves from being reactive to proactive. They’ve learned something crucial, and they take control of the situation.
The second plot point: A climactic event or revelation that leads to the final act. It often feels like a defeat or a point of no return.
Act III: The resolution (The last 25%)
The pre-climax: The protagonist prepares for the final showdown. All their lessons and alliances come into play.
The climax: The most intense, final confrontation. All the major conflicts are resolved here. It’s a make-or-break moment.
The denouement: The story winds down. You show the aftermath of the climax and the new normal. All loose ends are tied up, and the story provides a sense of closure.
The second structure is…
2. The Hero’s Journey
Based on Joseph Campbell’s analysis of world myths, this is a powerful archetypal structure, especially for fantasy, sci-fi, and adventure stories.
And it’s all about transformation.
The ordinary world: Shows the hero’s normal life before the adventure.
The call to adventure: An event that disrupts their world.
Refusal of the call: The hero hesitates, fearing the unknown.
Meeting the mentor: A wise figure provides advice, training, or a tool.
Crossing the threshold: The hero commits to the journey and enters the new world.
Tests, allies, and enemies: The hero faces challenges, finds friends, and learns who to trust.
Approach to the inmost cave: The hero prepares for the story’s greatest challenge.
The ordeal: The hero faces their greatest fear or a moment of metaphorical death and rebirth.
The reward: The hero seizes an object, a lesson, or the knowledge they need to succeed.
The road back: The hero begins the journey home, often with the villains hot on their trail.
The resurrection: A final, climactic test where the hero proves their transformation.
Return with the elixir: The hero returns to their old world, bringing back new knowledge, power, or a change that helps their society.
And for the exciting one…
3. The Non-Conflict Narrative (Kishōtenketsu)
This is a powerful structure from East Asian tradition that proves a story doesn’t need conflict to be compelling.
And it’s for when you want to create a sense of wonder or reveal, rather than a confrontation.
The concept: A four-part structure that focuses on a progression of an idea, not a problem. It builds a narrative by creating a turn or twist that gives the story a new perspective.
How to go about it:
Introduction (Ki): Introduce the setting and the characters. Establish the baseline for the world.
Development (Shō): Elaborate on the setting or characters. Show their day-to-day life or habits. This builds familiarity.
The twist (Ten): This is the crucial turn. A sudden, unexpected event or a new perspective changes everything. It’s not a conflict, but a revelation that shifts the narrative’s direction.
Conclusion (Ketsu): The result of the twist. Show how the new information or change affects the world or characters, and bring the story to a close.
A structure is just a container.
You have the Three-Act Structure for linear storytelling, the Hero’s Journey for character depth, and Kishōtenketsu for subtle revelation.
Understand that these are just standards; you don’t have to follow them precisely.
Break the rules to make your own, my dear.
The most compelling stories weave multiple frameworks together.
But the structure only provides the bones.
To bring in the heat and make the narrative truly sing, you need to master the subtle moves that happen inside the framework.
Writing is about the psychology of rewiring the human mind into the words.
It’s how you hook and re-hook the reader back in, again and again.
But before we look at the tactics, you must accept a harsh truth: You cannot produce genius if you don’t consume it.
Why you need to read & write
You’ve got two fundamental paths that must always run parallel.
You shouldn’t choose one.
Your mind wants to consume.
It wants to read widely, absorb ideas, and feel what a great story feels like.
That’s your instinct, and it’s a powerful one.
It gives you the what, shows you what’s possible, and what’s worth fighting for.
Your mind, however, wants to create.
It wants to start writing, put the words on the page, and build the world that lives in your head.
This is your action, where you learn the how, and that the ideas in your head are nothing until you can translate them onto the page.
The gap you’re missing isn’t in the ideas or the techniques.
It’s in the synthesis.
The great failure of most advice is that it treats these two acts as separate.
They’re not.
They’re a feedback loop.
And this loop is the engine of your development.
Reading is how you reverse-engineer the success of the best stories, and how you absorb the cadence, techniques, and subconscious rhythm that defines great work.
Reading: You absorb the cadence, techniques, and execution. It’s the essential input.
Writing: You process, adapt, and make those techniques your own. It’s the necessary output.
If you don’t read, you’re just reusing your own limited vocabulary.
So, you must seek out the best work to understand the full potential of the medium.
Phase 1: Reading
The mission: Your first task is to read, but not passively. You’re not a consumer. But an analyst you are. And you’re reading to deconstruct, reverse-engineer, and steal the tactical secrets of the masters.
The objective: Read for at least 30 minutes a day. But here is what you actually need: when you read, do so with a pen and a notebook. When you come across a sentence, a character, or a scene that makes you feel something, stop.
Ask: Why did this work? What specific words did the author use? How did they build tension? What was left unsaid?
Analyze: You’re looking for the hidden mechanics, the “how“ behind the magic. You’re reverse-engineering the success, and identifying the specific, subtle moves that bring the narrative to life—seeing the open loops, the foreshadowing, and the subtext we will discuss in detail later.
Phase 2: Writing
The mission: This is where you apply what you’ve stolen. You’re not writing a novel in this phase. You’re training, and your goal is to get your hands dirty learning how to build.
The objective: Don’t focus on a full story; only on the isolated exercises.
Daily drills: Write a 100-word drabble every day. Force yourself to be concise.
Scene practice: Write a scene of dialogue where what is said is not what is meant (subtext).
Sensory exercise: Go to a public place, observe a stranger, and write a paragraph about them using only sensory details. If you can’t go outside, the solution is the internet.
Outline challenge: Take a story you just finished reading and try to build a beat sheet for it.
Phase 3: The integration
You’re never just a reader or just a writer.
You’re always both, and your roadmap is a cycle:
Read like a strategist: Analyze the masters’ moves.
Write like a student: Practice the techniques in isolation.
Then, write your story.
The biggest trap is trying to write a full story when you haven’t trained in the fundamentals.
You need to read for ideas and read for technique.
You need to write to get your ideas out, and you need to write to practice your craft.
Don’t wait to “learn everything;” the learning is in the doing.
You will never feel ready, so the only logical move is to start.
And the moment you put your first word on the page, you’ve already begun the virtuoso’s journey.
The techniques
These techniques and tactics are how you seize their attention and never let go.
They’re for any written work, from a short story or memoir to a script or blog post.
1. The strategic Hook & Re-hook
This is how you master the art of engagement, especially in posts and non-fiction.
It’s about starting with a bang and then strategically re-engaging the reader’s attention.
The concept: A hook is the first sentence. A re-hook, however, is a sentence you place at a point where the reader’s attention might be starting to wane.
How to get into it:
Write the hook: Start with a statement that challenges an assumption or asks a direct, provocative question. “He knew the truth about the algorithm. That’s why they came for him last night.”
Use chapter titles or part dividers as re-hooks: Every structural break in your narrative must serve as a re-engagement point.
For a post, this is a subheading that promises a new idea.
For a story or a narrative essay, this is a chapter title or a part divider.
This title promises the next escalation of the threat or the beat shift in the narrative. It’s a moment of structural elegance that forces the reader to wonder: “What happens when we get there?”For a post: “The Myth of the ‘Overnight Success’ is Your Most Expensive Lie.”
For a story/narrative essay: “The Second Man Who Saw the Keyhole Was the First to Vanish.”
Use bolded sentences: This is a structural injection designed to re-engage a drifting reader. In any long paragraph, strategically bold a single sentence that serves as a pivot point or a defining realization. This line must be a high-stakes realization, a plot pivot, or the core wisdom of the paragraph. It gives the reader an immediate new point of focus and a compelling reason to continue.
For a post: “The greatest leverage point in any negotiation is the moment you decide you don’t actually need the outcome.”
For a story/narrative essay: “He didn’t just understand the risk; he realized he had been calculating the wrong variable all along.”
Now, we’re starting with the most overused, hated, and non-negotiable rule in writing.
You probably thought I would skip it.
I’m not going to skip the foundation.
This is the key to bringing the heat inside the bones:
2. Show, Don’t Tell
This is the golden rule of all writing.
It’s about letting the reader experience the story through their senses, not just telling them what’s happening.
CJ, how do I go about it? In short.
Ease up, we still have more to go about it.
Which will be discussed as you continue reading.
The concept: Instead of telling the reader something, you show them. Instead of telling them a character is angry, you show their knuckles turning white as they clench their fists.
How to get into it:
Engage the senses: Describe what a scene looks, sounds, smells, tastes, and feels like.
Use specific verbs: Instead of saying “he walked,” use “he strode,” “he stumbled,” or “he crept.”
Focus on character action and dialogue: Let your characters’ actions and what they say (or don’t say) reveal their motivations and emotions. The unsaid is often more powerful than the said.
Example:
Telling (weak): “He was completely losing control of the negotiation because he was panicked and overwhelmed.”
Showing (strong): “The only muscle he could feel was the one flexing in his jaw, and the water glass sat untouched because his hand wouldn’t stop the tremor.”
(The wisdom: You don’t tell the reader the character is panicked; you show the internal pressure manifesting as physical dysfunction. This makes the reader judge the character’s state of mind, giving them ownership over the tension.)
But this isn’t all.
I’ll provide context for this at a later point.
Don’t worry, you won’t miss it.
I control the timeline here.
Because the next tactic is…
3. Pacing (The art of the Push & Pull)
This is how you control the reader’s emotional state, and it’s about strategically speeding up and slowing down your narrative.
The concept: Pacing is the rhythm of your story. A fast pace creates excitement and tension. A slow pace builds that burn and the atmosphere, allowing character development.
How to get into it:
For fast pacing: Use short, punchy sentences. Limit descriptions, use action verbs, and dialogue to move the scene forward quickly. A fight scene, a chase, or a high-stakes conversation should be written with a rapid-fire rhythm.
Example: “The file hit the marble. He snatched it, pivoted toward the side exit, and let the chaos erupt behind him; the only sound that mattered was the latch clicking shut as the security team dove for the empty space he’d just vacated.”
(The tactic: All action. We compress three different actions—the snatch, the pivot, the escape—into two driving sentences, maintaining the velocity of the scene.)
For slow pacing: Use longer sentences and more complex descriptions. Lean into a character’s internal thoughts and observations. This is for moments of introspection, a quiet conversation, or building a sense of dread before a major event. Control this rhythm to manipulate the reader’s emotions, making them anxious in one scene and relaxed in the next.
Example: “She watched the rain streak down the massive glass wall, and in the distorted reflection of the city lights, she saw the outline of her own mistake—the insidious erosion of every principle she thought was non-negotiable, a decay that had been happening slowly since the first handshake.”
(The tactic: We lean into description and internal observation. The long sentence structure forces the reader to slow down and absorb the character’s reflective dread, building tension through complexity.)
4. The Open Loop & the Closed Loop
This is the most fundamental tactic of all.
It’s how you hook a reader and keep them coming back.
The concept: An open loop is a question, a mystery, or an unresolved tension that you introduce. A closed loop is when you finally provide the answer or resolution. Smart writers open a loop and then don’t close it until much, much later, keeping the reader on the hook.
How to get into it:
Open a loop: Start a chapter with a question or a cryptic statement.
Example: “He knew what was hidden in the basement, but he never spoke of it.” Now you’ve created a question in the reader’s mind.
Delay the close: Instead of immediately explaining it, move on to something else. Show a seemingly unrelated scene, e.g., talking about a character’s mundane routine. The reader won’t forget the open loop. They will keep reading, waiting for the answer.
Strategically close it: Provide the answer or the reveal when it will have the most impact, often in a moment of climax or high tension. The satisfaction of the closed loop is what makes the experience addictive.
Example: “His opponent stared down the barrel of the ultimatum, convinced he held the final leverage. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. ‘You never asked why I didn’t care about your threats,’ he whispered. ‘The files in the basement weren’t evidence against me. They were the blueprints for your failure, and I needed you to think they were still a secret until this exact moment.’”
5. Foreshadowing
This is the art of hinting at future events without revealing the secret.
It’s how you build suspense and a powerful sense of inevitability.
You may already know this, but if you need the steps for remembrance, then pay attention:
The concept: Foreshadowing is a subtle warning or suggestion of what is to come. It can be a passing comment, an eerie image, or a dream.
How to get into it:
Use subtle clues: A storm on the horizon before an argument, a character with a recurring nightmare about an event that will later happen, or a quiet, unsettling statement from a seemingly harmless character. The options are endless.
Build an atmosphere: Foreshadowing should build a sense of unease or anticipation. It tells the reader that something is coming, but it doesn’t tell them what. This creates a powerful tension that pulls them forward.
Example: “He checked his watch—a costly thing that always ran three minutes fast. It was an intentional flaw he’d never fixed, an unsettling reminder that in any room he entered, he was always operating outside the shared time of his rivals.”
(The tactic: The watch is an immediate and high-status clue. The small, constant inaccuracy (the three minutes) is the element of unease, suggesting the character is not just ahead of the game, but playing by a totally different and self-imposed timeline. It foreshadows a coming deviation from the norm.)
6. The Rule of Three
This is a cognitive hack used in jokes, speeches, and all forms of narrative.
The human brain loves patterns, and three is the perfect number for satisfying them.
Lovely tactic, wouldn’t you agree?
The concept: You present information or a series of events in groups of three. This creates a rhythm and a sense of completion.
How to get into it:
For pacing: A character can face three escalating challenges. The first two are difficult, but the third is a true test. “The door rattled, the glass cracked, and the final key broke silent in his hand.”
For humor: Use a setup, a second setup, and a punchline. “There are three undeniable truths in life: good ideas, bad decisions, and the absolute necessity of a locked door.”
For emphasis: Say something in three parts to make it feel more complete or powerful. “They came. They saw. They conquered.” The third element lands with finality and impact.
And no, this isn’t attributed to AI structure.
It’s a real tactic that exists.
Shocker, right?
7. The Cliffhanger
This is the leverage over the reader’s mind.
It’s pure execution of suspense on the page, and how you guarantee that the reader cannot stop and will not put your work down until they find the resolution.
It’s self-explanatory.
The concept: You end a scene, a chapter, or an entire work at a moment of peak tension, right before a major revelation or a consequence of an action. You literally leave your character hanging in the air.
I stated this briefly here, but never went into full detail.
So, how to get into it?
Build to a climax: Raise the stakes until the character is in a moment of extreme danger, has just received a shocking piece of information, or is about to make a crucial decision.
Cut the scene: As soon as the tension is at its highest, you end the scene. You don’t show the result; you move to the next chapter or fade to black.
Leave the audience hanging: The unresolved tension forces the reader to keep going. So their mind is stuck on that moment, and they won’t find peace until they turn the page.
Example: “He finally slid the encryption key into the mainframe, the red clock counting down the final three seconds on the detonation sequence. The access panel went green, and the system immediately displayed a new instruction: Override initiated by secondary user.”
(The tactic: You built to the climax—the successful key entry—and then immediately cut the result with a shocking pivot. The character succeeded, only to find the game was already being controlled by a superior rival. The question is “Who is the secondary user?”—forcing the reader to turn the page for resolution.)
The playbook is packed, and we’re not even nearly done.
So if you want all that I stated in this post, from the structures to the tactics, plus the unmentioned ones that complete the list…
Then be sure to get in.
Warning: Every second you hesitate, your story remains exactly where it is now: unfinished.
Now, is…
Every action a revelation?
This is a question every writer faces, and the answer is simple: No, not every single action your character takes needs to be a deep revelation. But every action should be a choice.
The mind of a reader is a tactical space.
They’re looking for patterns, clues, and meaning in everything you give them.
If you fill your story with meaningless details, you erode their trust.
You shouldn’t include clutter.
Every element, decision, and movement on the page is there for a reason.
There are two types of actions a character can take:
The action with meaning: These are the actions that reveal a character’s true nature, foreshadow a future event, or directly advance the plot. When a character compulsively checks their phone or hesitates before answering a question, it tells the reader something important. These are the moments you should expand on. You introduce them briefly, and then you pay them off later by connecting the dots. These are your revelations.
The action of necessity: These are the actions that simply move the scene along. A character has to walk across a room, open a door, or pour a cup of coffee. These actions have no hidden meaning, and you should not give them any. Write them with a purpose and then move on. They’re simply part of the necessary motion of a scene.
Your job is to distinguish between the two.
If an action shapes a character or the story, give it weight.
If it doesn’t, write it and let it pass.
Every move should feel intentional, whether it’s the moment that changes everything or the small step that gets you to the next scene.
The final decision every serious writer faces is the investment of time and energy.
For those who struggle with the scope of their own ideas, this is the clarity you need.
When to go short, when to go long
The question isn’t whether you should write your novel long or short.
That’s a false choice.
The real question is: What is the right vessel for your story?
The length of your work is determined by the scope of your world and the depth of your characters. And the form of the story should be dictated by its content.
Understanding these established containers is how you avoid wasting time building a mansion when all you need is a sharp statement.
The forms of narrative
Microfiction
Concept: A narrative told in a single sentence or a very short paragraph. It’s a test of showing rather than telling.
Purpose: To evoke an entire world or a complex emotion with just a handful of words. This is where you master subtext, inference, and the unsaid. You show the tip of the iceberg and let the reader infer the rest.
Word count: The most common ranges you will see are:
Standard Microfiction: 50 to 300 words.
Ultra-Microfiction: Sometimes less than 100 words (which puts it even shorter than standard flash fiction).
Drabble
Concept: A story told in 100 words. It’s a technical challenge that forces you to master precision and efficiency.
Purpose: To train your mind to make every single word count. It offers no room for error or flexibility, and every word must serve a purpose. A drabble proves that you can tell a complete story with absolute economy.
Word count: Exactly 100 words.
Flash fiction
Concept: A complete narrative told in a few hundred words. It’s about a single, transformative moment.
Purpose: To deliver a sharp, impactful experience. The goal is to capture a feeling, a single event, or a devastating turn in a very short space. You don’t have time for setup; you must drop the reader directly into the moment.
Word count: This is the most competitive form of concise writing. The maximum word count is often strictly enforced, typically under 1,000 words. It provides just enough space to deliver a single narrative arc, a snapshot of a moment, or a complete scene. It’s like the sweet spot between the extreme brevity of the drabble and the space of the full short story.
Short Story
The concept: This is for a singular, potent idea. It captures a moment, a flash of insight, or a contained conflict. Its power lies in its immediate impact and brevity.
How to go about it: You don’t build an entire world; you show a meaningful sliver of it. Focus on a single character and one defining event. The goal is to deliver a punch, not a sprawling saga.
Word count: This form has the widest and most common range. It’s generally between 1,000 and 7,500 words. The short story is expansive enough to accommodate multiple scenes, supporting characters, and full character development, but it still requires tight control. Its purpose is to deliver a unified effect or impression that can typically be read in one sitting.
Novelette
The concept: This is for a story that has outgrown the tight constraints of the short story but doesn’t require the scale of a novel. It’s designed to explore greater character depth or a more complicated subplot, often with a faster pace than a full novel.
How to go about it: You can introduce secondary conflicts and a small cast of supporting characters, allowing your protagonist more room for internal change. It must maintain focus; you’re building an apartment building, rather than a whole city.
Word count: This form bridges the gap between the short story and the novella, typically falling between 7,500 and 17,500 words.
Novella
The concept: This is the bridge between the short story and the novel. It’s for a plot that demands an unrelenting, deep examination of a character or a single idea. It allows you to apply constant psychological pressure without the need for the release that subplots provide.
How to go about it: Use this when your story needs to feel like a pressure cooker. It’s long enough to show a character’s complete transformation or downfall, but you must strictly limit the cast and setting to maintain that tight, suffocating focus.
Word count: This is a short novel. It’s too long to be published in a journal but too short to be a full-length book. The range is generally 20,000 to 40,000 words.
Novel
The concept: This is for grand, epic visions. The novel is your playground for complex plots, multiple character arcs, and intricate world-building.
How to go about it: A novel demands a long journey. Use this form when your story requires room for subplots, philosophical themes, and long, slow-burning tension. It’s for a narrative that needs a full, sprawling landscape.
Word count: The length of a novel is entirely dependent on its genre.
Commercial fiction: This is a broad category for fiction written for a mainstream audience. Its primary purpose is to entertain. Commercial fiction is typically plot-driven, with a fast pace and a focus on gripping events. It’s a story designed to be consumed by the masses. W.C: 50,000 to 90,000 words.
Literary fiction: This genre is defined by its focus on style, character, and theme rather than a fast-paced plot. It often explores the human condition and is a form of art designed to provoke thought and emotion. It’s typically character-driven, with a deep focus on internal monologue and psychological realism. W.C: 80,000 to 110,000 words.
Young adult, or Y/A: This is a market category, not a genre. YA fiction is defined by its target audience: teenagers and young adults. The protagonist is typically a teenager or young adult facing issues of identity, independence, and first love, but it can be in any genre, from fantasy to contemporary realism. W.C: 50,000 to 70,000 words.
Sci-Fi/Fantasy: This is a vast genre built on speculative elements. The common link is that the story takes place in a world that is not our own. W.C: 100,000 to 150,000+ words.
Sci-Fi (Science Fiction) is based on scientific principles and advanced technology. It asks “what if?” questions about the future or alternative realities. Science fiction novels typically range from 90,000 to 125,000 words. The word count is often on the higher side to allow for the explanation of new technologies, scientific principles, and future societies.
Fantasy is based on magic, mythical creatures, and often takes place in a world with different laws of nature. Fantasy novels are known for being the longest in the industry. The standard for a first-time author is a minimum of 90,000 words, but many successful books, especially in the epic fantasy subgenre, push past 150,000 words.
Memoir
The concept: The form here is dictated by life itself. A memoir is about a specific period, an experience, or a singular theme in a life.
How to go about it: The length is determined by how much detail is required to tell that specific story with integrity. Your narrative scope is a period of time, not an entire life story, so focus on the most impactful moments.
Word count: This form has no traditional word count. Its length is dictated solely by the story you’re telling. It can be a very short book or a massive volume, depending on the scope of your life’s narrative.
The commandment
You don’t choose the length of your story.
The story tells you what it needs.
Before you write a single word, ask yourself:
Scope: Is the world-changing event the core of my story, or is it an intimate, personal moment of revelation?
Characters: Do my characters require a long journey of transformation, or is their change contained within a single event?
Pacing: Does the story thrive on a single, shocking impact, or does it need room to breathe and build a slow-burning tension?
Listen to the story.
And stop thinking in binary choices.
What depth of excavation does your story demand?
If your purpose is to capture a potent flicker of insight, use a drabble or microfiction.
If your aim is to deliver a unified, immediate emotional impact from one critical event, write a flash fiction or short story.
If your story requires the depth to show a complete arc of character change over a period of concentrated time, choose the novelette or novella.
If your scope involves constructing an entire world, mapping a lifetime of truth, or tracking the fate of multiple characters, commit to the novel or memoir.
Know the right vessel for the right content.
Look at the scope of your genius, instead of the word count.
The art of the iceberg
This is about lore, subtext, and the illusion of depth.
The core question every creator faces is: How much lore should I show in my story?
The common mistake is believing you need to dump all of your world’s history and rules on the reader. You don’t.
The power of lore lies not in how much you show, but in the weight of what you hint at.
Think of your world as an iceberg.
The reader should only ever see the visible 10%—the dangerous tip.
This is the part of your history, culture, and immediate rules that’s directly relevant to your story and your characters’ conflicts.
The other 90% is submerged beneath the surface.
It’s the deep, rich history you know, the political systems, and the forgotten facts.
You never explicitly state it, but its silent presence gives weight and credibility to the visible part.
Your job is to reveal lore strategically; every piece of information must serve a purpose.
If it doesn’t move the plot forward or reveal something crucial about a character, it’s a distraction you must cut.
Control the reveal
Show, don’t tell lore: Never explain your world’s history in a long, boring paragraph. Show it through a character’s actions or a line of dialogue. A character’s fear of a crumbling old statue says more than a three-page history of the ancient conflict that destroyed it.
The right amount: You should know a thousand details for every one you show. This hidden knowledge allows you to write with confidence and consistent internal logic. The reader will feel the depth of your world without needing a full encyclopedia.
The art of the iceberg: Build a mountain of lore, but only allow the reader to see the sharp tip. This is your guarantee that the world always feels larger than the page.
The hidden knowledge is secure.
Now, it’s time to leverage that weight to set the emotional temperature…
How to write with mood
When you’re writing, the emotional tone should not be something you hope for.
You’re creating a specific emotional experience for the reader, and that requires a plan.
Many people find it hard to consciously decide on a feeling because they’re focused only on the plot, but the plot is just a series of events, and the emotional tone is the feeling those events create.
Here is a process for figuring out the feeling you want your story to carry and then applying it to your writing.
1. Pinpoint the core emotion
Before you write a scene, you need to identify the most dominant emotion you want the reader to feel throughout your story.
This is the foundation of your tone.
Don’t think about vague concepts like “darkness” or “light.”
Think about specific emotions.
Examples: Instead of “spooky,” focus on dread. Instead of “sad,” focus on melancholy. Instead of “exciting,” focus on anxiety or tension.
Once you have that single word, it becomes your guiding principle.
2. Apply the tone with elements
The emotional code of your story is built from concrete details.
Every choice you make on the page should serve that one core emotion.
Pacing: Sentence length is a direct way to control the reader’s feeling. Short, choppy sentences create a feeling of urgency and anxiety. Longer, more fluid sentences create a sense of calm, contemplation, or a slow build of dread.
Sensory details: The mood is built through the senses, not just stated.
For a feeling of dread, don’t say the room is scary. Instead, describe the sound of a distant, dripping faucet, the feel of cold, damp air, and the smell of mildew.
For a feeling of melancholy, focus on the low hum of a refrigerator, the hazy afternoon light, or the bitter taste of cold coffee.
These are tangible, real-world details that create an atmosphere without telling the reader what to feel. Turn on your seeing-the-reflection sensors.Dialogue & action: The tone is also conveyed in what your characters do and say.
For a feeling of suspense, a character’s dialogue might be terse and evasive.
For a feeling of joy, their actions might be quick and uninhibited.
The tone is in the space between the words, in the physical action that accompanies the dialogue.
To illustrate this, here are examples regarding the feelings I mentioned:
For suspense: “He finally spoke, his voice dry. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ He said the words while his eyes tracked every shifting shadow in the hallway, his hand never leaving the hidden edge of the knife.”
The reassurance is a lie; the tension is in the contradiction.
For joy: “She accepted the news, but the real tone was elsewhere. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she murmured, before suddenly kicking off her heels and dancing across the office carpet, not caring who saw.”
The joy is in the uncontrolled explosion of movement.
3. Consistency & evaluation
The most important aspect of a successful tone is consistency, and the feeling you want to convey must be present in every single scene.
A good practice is to read a scene you have written and ask yourself: What emotional chord does this strike?
If the feeling in a scene is different from your core emotion, you need to adjust it.
This doesn’t mean every scene has to be exactly the same, but they must all contribute to the overall mood you’re building.
To find inspiration, look outside of just books.
Analyze a film and notice how the music, lighting, and camera angles are used to build a specific feeling, or listen to a piece of music and try to describe the emotion it evokes.
The principles of creating a mood are universal.
Where to get your feedback
You’ve built the world, mastered the structure, and the tactics.
Now comes the most brutal step: letting someone else see your work.
Your manuscript needs to be tested, and so you need honest feedback, but from the right people.
1. The alpha readers: The foundation phase
These are the first line of defense.
They read your manuscript in its earliest form, often before the first draft is even complete. And their purpose is to tell you if the story has life.
The concept: Their job is to tell you if the premise works, if a character is compelling, or if a scene should exist at all. Alpha readers are the first; they’re the initial gut-check. And you can give them your unfinished draft—sometimes even chapter by chapter—while you’re still writing.
How to go about it: Select only your closest, most trusted circle, the ones who understand the genesis of your idea. The move here is to ask them for big-picture validation, not edits. Ask: “Does this premise hold up? Am I heading in the right direction?” You’re using them to confirm your trajectory before you invest more time in faulty architecture.
2. The beta readers: The reader experience phase
These are your second line of defense.
Beta readers are people who read your full manuscript after the first draft is complete.
They’re not professional editors, and their job is to tell you if the story works for a general audience.
The concept: They’re your audience test. They will tell you if the pacing is off, if a character is unlikable, if the plot doesn’t make sense, or if the plot has holes from an outsider’s perspective. Beta readers come after you’ve finished your first full draft and completed a round of self-editing. You give them a complete, polished manuscript.
How to go about it: Treat this like a controlled experiment. Find readers who represent your target audience and give them a surgical set of questions. Focus on their experience and reaction: “Did the ending feel earned? Did you stop caring about this character? Where did you get bored?” Their feedback is the empirical test of whether your story has the power to connect.
3. The reviewers
These are your public-facing critics.
Their role is not to help you improve your manuscript, but to give their professional opinion on the final, published work.
Their feedback is for the market, not the private refinement of the writer.
The concept: Reviewers are the final gatekeepers of public perception. They’re professionals who assess the finished product’s value and influence reader decisions. They confirm if your work landed the way you intended it to.
How to go about it: Once your final book is complete, you submit it to them to secure their initial, published critique. Their opinion is a powerful leverage point for marketing and directly shapes the public’s initial reaction and perceived value of your work.
4. The professional editor
A professional editor is your final consultant.
They will look at your manuscript with a cold eye.
And they will tell you what’s wrong and why it’s wrong, providing the roadmap to fix it.
The concept: A professional editor offers two crucial levels of insight.
Developmental feedback: This is the big picture, they assess the core functionality of your narrative (plot, character motivation, theme, and structure).
Line/copy editing: This is the detailed level, they polish the text sentence by sentence, correcting grammar, flow, and continuity.
How to go about it: This is a financial and creative investment. Do your research thoroughly. Find an editor who specializes in your genre and has a proven track record of elevating manuscripts. This is where you transform a project into a commercially viable piece of work.
The distinction is simple:
Alpha readers are for the core idea.
Beta readers are for the reader’s experience.
You may use both, but before you ever even think about a professional editor.
Now, you could go out there and find these people.
Or, you could cut to the chase and get it from someone who already knows your style, your voice, and your intent.
I’m not a model, but I see the structural weaknesses, guide the arc of your characters, and refine your final words.
I’m your assessor, your consultant, and the one who calibrates your work to meet market demand.
Every stage you just read about is handled here, by a single source.
Fortunately for you, let’s just say a professional has a side gig.
You can contact me here.
Some of you will read this, nod, and scroll away.
But the ones who really feel this—the ones staring down that same wall, hitting the same cracks—know better.
Because this doesn’t end here. It can’t.
That’s why I built out the Structures and Tactics, to hand you the frameworks instead of leaving you stuck in theory. And when you’re ready to cut deeper, the Flaw Finder is sitting right there, stripping your work bare before anyone else does.
And if you need proof that you’re not the only one who’s wrestled with the blank page, you’ll find it where this all began—my first piece, written in that same fight.
The question isn’t whether you can sustain the hustle…
It’s whether your entire trajectory passes the vibe check.