Writing Sci-Fi,

Fantasy, & Horror

by Rick Dakan and

Ryan G. Van Cleave, PhD
foreword by Ann VanderMeer
Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies®
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Contents at a Glance
Foreword. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii

Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Part 1: Getting Started: The Basics of Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
CHAPTER 1: Taking Journeys into the Imagination. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
CHAPTER 2: Creating Characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

CHAPTER 3: Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

CHAPTER 4: Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Part 2: Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds. . . . . . . . . . . . 79

CHAPTER 5: Building a World Like No Other. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
CHAPTER 6: Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
CHAPTER 7: Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

CHAPTER 8: This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

Part 3: Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future . . . . . . . . . . 129

CHAPTER 9: Answering “What If?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
CHAPTER 10: A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship. . . 139

CHAPTER 11: Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear. . . 157

CHAPTER 12: It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence. . . . . 171

CHAPTER 13: Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories. . . . . . . . . . . 185

Part 4: Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . 197

CHAPTER 14: Bringing
Wonder to Your Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
CHAPTER 15: Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons,
and Hobbits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
CHAPTER 16: Conjuring Story Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
CHAPTER 17: Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters. . . . . . . . . 241

Part 5: Horror: Journeys into Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253

CHAPTER 18: Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
CHAPTER 19: Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
CHAPTER 20: Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors. . . 287
CHAPTER 21: Lurking in Every Shadow: Where Horror Resides. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
Part 6: The Journey from Writing to Publication. . . . . . . . . . . 315
CHAPTER 22: Revising and Editing Like a Pro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317
CHAPTER 23: Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity
Readers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
CHAPTER 24: The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343

Part 7: The Part of Tens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357

CHAPTER 25: Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
CHAPTER 26: Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror. . . . . . . . . 367

CHAPTER 27: Ten Popular Story Modes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385
Table of Contents
FOREWORD. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii
INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
About This Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Foolish Assumptions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Icons Used in This Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Beyond the Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Where to Go from Here . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

PART 1: GETTING STARTED: THE BASICS OF STORY. . . . . . . . . . 5

CHAPTER 1: Taking Journeys into the Imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Looking Closer at the Big Three Genres. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Imagining possible worlds — Sci-fi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Imagining wondrous worlds — Fantasy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Imagining fearful worlds — Horror. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Creating Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Pursuing Writerly Success . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Revising your words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Turning to pros for help. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Focusing on the three Ps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Setting the right goals for you. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Making the Most of This Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

CHAPTER 2: Creating Characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Focusing on Your Characters’ Wants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Looking outside — External goals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Reflecting inward — Internal needs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Looking a bit deeper — Hidden desires. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Introducing the Cast of Characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Leading the way — Protagonists. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Standing in the way — Antagonists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Introducing supporting characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Managing your supporting cast — Tips and tricks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
From Whose Eyes? Choosing Point of View. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
First person. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30
Third-person limited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Third-person omniscient . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Third-person objective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Table of Contents v
 Telling “Telling Details” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Zeroing in on appearance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Digging into a character’s psychology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Trusting an inner circle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
You Don’t Say? Using Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Recognizing the types of dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Keeping track of dialogue tags . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Writing script dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

CHAPTER 3: Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot. . . . . . . . . 41

Engineering Great Drama. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42
Examining values. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Creating compelling conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Starting with Freytag. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Finding the tension. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Considering character arcs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Keeping up the pace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Building Story Structure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Understanding scenes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Using scene sequels — Action/reaction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Adding variety to your scenes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Thinking bigger — Sequences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Examining Key Elements of Plot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Beginning with a bang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Maintaining audience interest — Magical middles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Fulfilling story promises — Knockout climaxes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Finishing strong — Satisfying endings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

CHAPTER 4: Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Writing Prose — An Oldie But a Goodie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Novels. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Novellas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Short stories. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Writing for Screens Both Big and Small — Scripts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
TV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Podcasts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Plays. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73
Comics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Inviting Audiences to Co-create — Interactive Stories. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Video games. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Tabletop games. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Immersive experiences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

vi Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

PART 2: WORLDBUILDING: JOURNEYS
TO OTHER WORLDS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
CHAPTER 5: Building a World Like No Other. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Creating Worlds Worth Exploring. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Making your place interesting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Knowing how your world works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
This place is awesome! — Your pitch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Building Worlds for Conflict. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Finding a problem around every corner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Creating characters from conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Focusing on What’s Important — The Iceberg Rule. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Show the characters and conflicts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Don’t show everything . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90

CHAPTER 6: Letting Your Research and Imagination

Run Wild. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Start with Earth: Inspiration and Adaptation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Tapping into the power of piggybacking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Controlling cognitive dissonance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Using Research to Balance Science and Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Striving for accuracy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Casting a wide net when researching. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Heading straight to the sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

CHAPTER 7: Showing the Explosion: Exposition

That Thrills!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Showing Your World at Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Making memorable first impressions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Letting actions bring the world to life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Relying on Narrative Exposition: Stories That Explain
and Entrance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Telling a tale within a tale. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Writing exposition that causes conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Getting to the point with point of view. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
Trusting and Provoking Your Reader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Solving a puzzle: 1+1. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Giving characters revelatory actions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Sending systemic signals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Storytelling at Every Level of Engagement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Level 1: Bold strokes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Level 2: Fine nuances . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Level 3: Hidden depths. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Level 4: Beyond the text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Putting the levels all together . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Table of Contents vii

 CHAPTER 8: This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds
Are Characters, Too . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Recognizing That Worlds Want Something. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Reacting to your characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Maintaining ecosystems and equilibrium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Upholding the societal status quo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Wanting equilibrium. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Building Spaces and Places for Drama. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Making maps memorable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Navigating story spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123

PART 3: SCIENCE FICTION: JOURNEYS

INTO THE FUTURE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
CHAPTER 9: Answering “What If?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Asking Big Questions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Looking closer at your questions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
Provoking curiosity and imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Answering questions with characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .134
Inventing the Big New Thing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Understanding what the Big New Thing is. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Distinguishing between hard and soft sci-fi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
Asking Key Questions about Your Sci-Fi Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

CHAPTER 10: A Spaceship for Every Occasion,

an Occasion for Every Spaceship. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
Voyaging Far from Home: Vessels for Isolation and Adventure. . . . . 140
Launching the ship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Meeting the crew. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Completing the mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
The Physics and Drama of Space Travel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Obeying the speed of light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Traveling through space faster than light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Considering other speculative technologies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
1, 2, 3, 4 — I Declare a Space War! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
War as storytelling by other means . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Activating weapons of war. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Deploying systems of defense. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154

CHAPTER 11: Encountering Aliens That Audiences

Want to Know, Love, and Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Making Sense of Alien Metaphors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
Discovering differences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
Alienating audiences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Relating aliens to your audience. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

viii Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 Playing Their Part: Alien Dramatics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Alien enemies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Alien protagonists. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Alien allies and rivals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Alien mysteries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Alien obstacles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
Creating Alien Emotions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
Rousing wonder — Sublime aliens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
Provoking revulsion — Grotesque aliens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
Creating unease — Uncanny aliens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Inspiring hope — Power fantasy aliens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Producing smiles — Adorable aliens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Introducing audiences to your aliens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

CHAPTER 12: It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots

and Artificial Intelligence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Creating Artificial Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Asking questions of meaning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Contemplating questions of responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
Treating Artificial Life as Characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
Automated roles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
Computers are (sometimes) people too . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Building Your Own Beings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Determining its purpose. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Figuring out what it thinks about that purpose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Finding similarities and differences between creators
and their creations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Establishing its range of emotion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Identifying the limits it operates under . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
Recognizing society’s strong feelings about it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

CHAPTER 13: Constructing Planetary Plots and

Earth-Changing Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
Exploring Other Earths. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
Remembering a different past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
Thinking about the near now. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
Worrying about the looming future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
Voyaging to a whole new world. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
Imagining a different future. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
Traveling through time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
Making Everything Worse (or Better). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Envisioning your story — Dystopian fears and utopian hopes. . . 192
Punks, punks, punks! Writing sci-fi with attitude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
Using steam, sun, and cells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

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 PART 4: FANTASY: JOURNEYS INTO
THE IMAGINATION. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197

CHAPTER 14: Bringing Wonder to Your Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199

Creating Wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
Understanding the meaning of wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
Most wonderful yet believable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
Matching magic to the mundane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
Using the MMMaM Index of Wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
Going High to Low with Fantasy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Distinguishing between high and low . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Employing fantastic elements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Choosing a Fantastical Point of View . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
Portal — Moving from the real world to a magical world. . . . . . . 208
Immersive — Inhabiting the magical world. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
Intrusive — Moving the magical world into the real world. . . . . . 211

CHAPTER 15: Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants,

Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Adapting Myth and Legend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Making myths and faerie tales your own. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Start with Middle Earth? Not Exactly . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .218
Genre-defining characters and creatures — Wizards,
hobbits, and elves, oh my!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Getting indulgent with worldbuilding. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
Generating deep history and wondrous geography . . . . . . . . . . . 221
The now-classic quest narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
Understanding Tolkien and Dungeons & Dragons. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 224
Losing hit points and gaining character levels in games. . . . . . . . 224
Starting with the Forgotten Realms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
Making Deep History in Record Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
Basing your story in reality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
Making your own myths. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
Identifying different people and places. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
Enhancing conflict. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228

CHAPTER 16: Conjuring Story Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

Grasping the Role of Magic in Storytelling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
Taking the Reader on a Magical Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230
Making Magic Dramatic (in Every Sense of the Word!) . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
Heightening dramatic stakes with magic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
Being aware of magic’s dramatic limitations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232

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 Setting the Rules and Costs of Magic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
Playing by the rules. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Sticking to the rules of magic in video and 
role-playing games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Assigning costs to your story’s magic — Precious Things. . . . . . . 235
Forging Enchanting Artifacts and Objects — Items
Designed for Magic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Magic items as objects of desire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
Magic items as character traits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Magic items as obstacles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Magic items as characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Magic items as worldbuilding elements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240

CHAPTER 17: Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically

Real) Monsters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Understanding What Monsters Are . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
What makes a monster a monster. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
Monsters serve the story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
Making Monsters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
Making your monster realistic or fantastic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
Defining your monster’s characteristics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246

PART 5: HORROR: JOURNEYS INTO FEAR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253

CHAPTER 18: Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255

Imagining the Worst about Everything. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
Equipping your toolchest — The horror writer’s tools. . . . . . . . . . 256
A formula for fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
Providing climax and catharsis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
Feeling Fearful Feels. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
Fear and worry. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
Pity and sorrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Disgust and revulsion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Disoriented and discombobulated. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
Fascination and wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
Triumph and relief. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264
Schadenfreude. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
Identifying Sources of Horror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Gothic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Spiritual. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Monstrous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
Cosmic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
Homicidal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
Societal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268
Environmental . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268
The unexplained . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268

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 CHAPTER 19: Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes. . . . . . 271
Who Goes There? Characters Who Journey into Darkness. . . . . . . . . 271
Controlling knowledge through point of view. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
Creating creepy and creeped-out characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273
Plotting Your Host of Horrors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
The discovery plot — Unearthing dread secrets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277
The overreach plot — One step too far. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277
The trespass plot — You shouldn’t be here. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278
The pursuit plot — The hunt is on . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278
The contest plot — Facing your fears. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
The breakdown plot — It’s all gone to hell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
The weird plot — What the heck is that?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
Creating Fear with Narrative Flow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
Mixing and matching flows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
Shifting the narrative — Thrilling and chilling revelations. . . . . . . 283

CHAPTER 20: Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters

and Human Horrors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
Mixing Up Your Monsters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288
Threatening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288
Disgusting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Humanish. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Animalistic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290
Heightened. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
Unnatural. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
Corrupting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
Captivating. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292
Making Metaphors Monstrous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292
Societal flaws personified. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
Voice for the voiceless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
Personal flaws made manifest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
Deep difficulties turned terrifying. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
Universal experiences mutated. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
Positive characteristics taken too far . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295
Interpreting the Classics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295
Aliens and cosmic entities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295
Cryptids and creatures. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296
Demonic and supernatural threats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296
Experiments and evil scientists. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Ghosts and evil spirits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Golems and constructs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
Lycanthropes and shapeshifters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
Vampires and the undead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299

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 Hunting Down Homicidal Humans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299
Confronting all too natural-born killers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
Solving dramatic and mysterious murders. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
Exposing deadly cults . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
Winning the duel of wits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302

CHAPTER 21: Lurking in Every Shadow: Where

Horror Resides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
Constructing Environments That Raise Dread . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
Isolated or inaccessible. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
Intimidating and foreboding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
Uncanny and unsettling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308
Assembling Haunted Houses and Other Lairs of Fear. . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
Recognizing the types of haunted houses — What
lies within. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
Welcome, foolish mortal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311
Tapping into what came before . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
Sizing up the scene . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312
A ghost will follow you home . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313

PART 6: THE JOURNEY FROM WRITING

TO PUBLICATION. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315

CHAPTER 22: Revising and Editing Like a Pro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317

Creating a Revision Plan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
Putting on your reader’s cap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
Remaking the outline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319
Going high tech . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 320
Going low tech. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 320
Answering first-draft questions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321
Using second opinions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
Revising First, Editing Later . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
Figuring out who this story really is about. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
Discovering what this story really is about. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .323
Focusing on Theme — It Isn’t Just for Eighth-Grade
Book Reports. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Understanding what theme is. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Finding an elusive theme. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
Revising for theme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 326
Buffing, Polishing, and Shining — The Final Edit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328
Trusting your ears. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328
Editing your way to a better story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328

Table of Contents xiii

 CHAPTER 23: Getting Second Opinions: Editors,
Experts, and Sensitivity Readers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Receiving Good Story Feedback . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
Making the most of a critique group . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
Cultivate a golden reader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335
Hiring freelance editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335
Supporting Your Story with Expert Help . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337
Talking to subject matter experts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
Tapping into the universe of universities. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Using sensitivity readers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Using cultural consultants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
Looking beyond your own experiences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341

CHAPTER 24: The Three Ps: Publication,

Pitching, and Promotion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Teaming Up: Agents, Editors, and Producers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Recognizing what an agent does. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344
Figuring out whether you need an agent. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344
Landing an agent: The how and where . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
Pitching Like a Pro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347
Crafting the query. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347
Breaking down the three-floor elevator pitch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 348
Identifying the challenge before you . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
Going It Alone: A Self-Publishing Success Plan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350
Answering whether you can really do it all . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
Succeeding in self-publishing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
Putting the crowd to work for you . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
Promoting You and Your Work — Making the
Most of Marketing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353
Standing high on a platform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354
Making the most of conferences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356

PART 7: THE PART OF TENS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357

CHAPTER 25: Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . 359

Extra, Extra — Reading Story Headlines. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .360
Taking a Ride on the PPE Story Machine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 360
Writing to Free Up Your Blocks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
Noodling in Notebooks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
Taking a Field Trip. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 362
Figuring Out What the Story Is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
Answering the Great “What If?”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
Blending, Stirring, and Mixing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
Beginning with an Idea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
Using Someone Else’s Words. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365

xiv Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

CHAPTER 26: Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi,
Fantasy, and Horror. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
Putting Surface before Substance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .368
Overrelying on Coincidence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368
Worldbuilding with Endless Details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368
Not Reading Enough. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
Reusing Aliens/Werewolves/Elves. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Embracing a Richer Worldview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Following Trends Too Closely . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Overusing Fantastic Language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Forgetting the Promise of the Genre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
Utilizing Clichés . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372

CHAPTER 27: Ten Popular Story Modes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375

Danger at Every Step — The Adventure Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376
“It’s the End!” — The Apocalyptic Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376
Gags, Sketches, and Snark — The Comedy Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377
Capers, Cons, and Heists — The Crime Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 378
Doom and Gloom — The Dark Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
The Grandest of Scales — The Epic Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380
The Power of the Past — The Historical Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381
Fighting on the Frontlines — The Military Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 382
Sleuthing Out the Truth — The Mystery Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
The Heart of the Matter — The Romance Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 384

INDEX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385

Table of Contents xv
Foreword
Y
ou can discover many available books on the craft of writing, including
specialty writing books that focus on works of science fiction, fantasy, and/
or horror. Some of those books pick one of these genres, and many of these
books are excellent. So why would anyone feel the need to buy and read yet another
one? Well, let me tell you why. Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies is dif-
ferent from all the rest in a few different ways:

Firstly, this book tackles all these genres at once. Oftentimes there is a crossover
or melding of these genres, and so having a book that directly speaks to each of
these genres individually as well as collectively can only benefit you, the writer.

Secondly, this book explores many other ways of creating beyond short stories
and novels. Here you can find out more about writing a screenplay, collaborating
on graphic novels, designing video games and/or tabletop games, and even creat-
ing a real physical haunted house. You can express science fiction, fantasy, and
horror in many ways, and this book takes you on all these journeys.

Furthermore, this book provides brilliant examples in all these genres when
exploring characterization, plotting, setting, and worldbuilding. Included are dis-
cussions on how to imagine monsters, aliens, other worlds and magic systems.
Clear and precise examples help illustrate how you can do it effectively. Indeed,
the examples are clever and imaginative and very entertaining!

You receive advice on seeking and receiving feedback and the editing process as
well as the best use of subject experts and sensitivity readers. The book also offers
information on the business of writing and creating, including how to submit your
work, how to pitch a story idea, and the what the pros and cons of self-publishing
are. Sections throughout deal with methods to overcome writer’s block and how to
jump-start the creative process.

In addition, you have the benefit of all of the real-world experiences of Ryan Van
Cleave and Rick Dakan, who have spent years helping writers navigate the waters
of creativity. They also have plenty of writing credits, so they clearly know what
they’re talking about.

Foreword xvii
 I first became acquainted with Ryan and Rick when I was asked to speak at a Visit-
ing Writers Forum virtual event with the creative writing department at Ringling
College of Art and Design in Florida. I was honored to be asked and immediately
said yes. This invitation came to me in 2020, when we were all staying home dur-
ing the pandemic but still trying to move forward artistically and keep our sanity
and sense of humor.

I had a blast during this event. Typically, these programs feature a writer, so as an
editor, I was doubly honored to be asked. Presenting the editor’s point of view to
up-and-coming writers was important because too often they haven’t had much
experience with the editorial or publishing process. Ryan and Rick asked thought-
ful and engaging questions, and I was struck by the depth of their knowledge, not
just for my own books, but for the wide range of interest they have all over the
writing spectrum. You can tell they have a pure love for all speculative genres, but
more importantly, they’re knowledgeable about things outside of genre as well.
And clearly, they’re passionate about sharing their knowledge and nurturing other
writers. This only serves to improve the guidance they present in this book. More
importantly, although the business of writing is serious, Ryan and Rick approach
it from a more playful place, which makes this book such a pleasure to read and
enjoy.

— Ann VanderMeer

xviii Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

Introduction

W
riting a successful fantasy story is far more than just whipping up a
regular story and dropping in an elf on page 13. It often requires
comprehensive worldbuilding, cool magical beings, and other wonder-
making efforts that, taken together, propel readers into an exciting realm that’s
never been imagined before.

That’s true for science fiction and horror as well. Readers want stories that are
informed by the time-honored conventions of those genres, but manage to avoid
the boring tropes, stereotypical characters, and super-familiar plots.

If that sounds intimidating, it is . . . or at least it would be if you didn’t have a book
like this in your hands!

About This Book

Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies is equally about demystifying the
writing process and revealing exactly what it takes to create successful genre
stories. Everything we share in this book is informed by decades of college-level
teaching, writing, editing, and — perhaps more important — reading.

Our goal with this book is to give you a strong foundation that prepares you to
write genre stories that stand out from the crowd. And along the way, we share
advice and tips on the publishing industry so you know what to do with those
stories after they’re ready for audiences.

We envision that you’ll use the ideas and techniques in this book to deliver story
in one of three main ways:

»» Prose (novels and short stories)

»» Scripts (film, TV, comics, and graphic novels)
»» Interactive (video games, roleplaying games, and other immersive experiences)
To keep things simple, we refer to the story’s “audience” throughout this book,
but by that, we mean reader, viewer, gamer, and so on as the case may be for the

Introduction 1
 medium you choose. Just remember: Each medium has its own inherent strengths,
so when writing fiction, for example, really embrace the world of a character’s
interiority. With a film script, forget dialogue tags and lovely descriptions and
instead focus on external action, sound, and dialogue. With a video game, you
need to build amazing worlds that are ripe for conflict so a character  — the
player! — can have agency over the story’s plot.

Here’s good news: At the center of these modes of experiencing stories is the same
core set of fundamental principles and reader expectations. As soon as you famil-
iarize yourself with those, you can apply them to any storymaking enterprise that
you see fit.

Foolish Assumptions
With 30-plus combined years of college-level teaching and running workshops at
writing conferences, we’ve found that students of all ages often believe one or
more of the following:

»» You’re either born a writer, or you’re not.

»» Writing comes easily to everyone but me.
»» I should wait for inspiration to strike before writing.
»» Good writers don’t have to revise.
»» Writers need to work in solitude.
»» Getting published is more about who you know than what you write.
»» Editors will fix the “little stuff” (like spelling and grammar) for me.
»» I don’t have enough time to write a novel/film script/TV series.
Plain and simple, each of these is false. We won’t address why here because we
cover all of these topics within the following chapters, but trust us to tell you the
truth and make the appropriate arguments when it’s time.

We do our best to reward your trust on every page. We promise.

We confess that we’re making a few assumptions of our own about you as well,
dear writing friend. In no particular order, they are as follows:

»» Whether you’re new to writing or a lifelong scribbler, you want to improve

at writing.

2 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 »» You really like genre stories, especially science fiction, fantasy, and horror.
»» You want to write original stories that resonate with readers.
»» You want to be on the pathway to publication.
If any of these sound like you, then the information in this book is specifically
designed for you.

One more thing: We don’t expect everyone to know every single story ever created
or every author who ever wrote. We certainly don’t know them all! So, we avoid
referencing specific stories and authors in general, yet from time to time, we
couldn’t help ourselves. We’re teachers, after all.

If you don’t know a reference that we mention, that’s fine. Ogres aren’t going to
bust down your door and pummel you with French dictionaries or anything. We
swear. Just consider adding these stories and authors to your might-check-out-
someday list because they have a lot to offer.

Icons Used in This Book

Books in the For Dummies series include helpful icons to ensure that key aspects, ele-
ments, and ideas get special attention. Without further ado, we use the following icons:

This icon notes the kind of thing that frequently produces an “Aha!” moments for
writers. If you’re looking for actionable ways to improve your writing, put these
to work right away.

This icon alerts you to something worthy of extra consideration. If you’re skim-
ming, make sure to slow down and really dig in when you see this alert.

This icon highlights bonus in-depth things that you can skip and still be fine. But
if you’re serious about writing, this insider information can help.

This icon helps you steer clear of problem areas. The last things we want are for
you to waste time, get frustrated, or smash face-first into a dead end.

This icon points out hands-on activities you can try to spark your inspiration and
start working on different elements of your written work.

Introduction 3
Beyond the Book
For most readers, this book has all you need to succeed. But if you find yourself
yearning for more ideas, insight, and inspiration, we have you covered!

Here are three additional resources beyond this book:

»» Cheat Sheet: Go to www.dummies.com and search for “Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy,

& Horror For Dummies Cheat Sheet” to locate a handy reference guide for all
three genres included in this book.

»» Double down with Dummies: Couple this book with Writing Fiction For
Dummies by Peter Economy and Randall Ingermanson and Writing Young Adult
Fiction For Dummies by Deborah Halverson, or any other For Dummies title
that grabs your interest. We won’t be offended! The tips, tricks, and advice
from our writing colleagues who’ve created other For Dummies books can
absolutely support your journey to writing success.

»» Work with us: Both of us teach, present at writing conferences, and do a bit
of freelance writing, editing, and coaching. Visit us at www.rickdakan.com or
www.ryangvancleave.com to see if any of those options work for you!

Where to Go from Here

If you’re totally new to writing, we suggest you begin with the basics of story
construction (Part  1). Part  2 on worldbuilding contains valuable advice that
informs all three genres — you’re more than welcome to go right into whichever
specific genre or craft concerns that you most. Or if you’re not sure where to start,
scan the Table of Contents or flip through the index, find a topic that piques your
interest, and turn to that chapter.

Remember, Dummies books are modular, so you can read any chapter in any
order. Ultimately, this book is set up to reward you whether you dive in at Chapter 1
and read straight through, or you skip around as you see fit. Treat this book like a
reference. Use it when needed, but be open to putting it aside and doing what
writers want to do most — write.

4 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

1
Getting Started:
The Basics
of Story
IN THIS PART . . .

Build interesting, three-dimensional characters that

genre-loving audiences will hope and fear for.

Select the best point of view to showcase the conflicts

and themes in your story.

Plot your story with a focus on dramatic action and

character arcs.

Create a seamless narrative by linking scenes through

cause and effect.

Use high-powered story tension to keep audiences

hooked.

Discover the best medium for your stories and use its
inherent strengths to your advantage.
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Meeting the genres: Sci-fi, fantasy,

and horror

»» Creating characters born for drama

and story worlds built for conflict

»» Succeeding as a writer is about more

than writing

Chapter 1
Taking Journeys
into the Imagination

T his is a book designed to help writers tell stories better.

It’s as simple and as complex as that.

Teachers, librarians, parents, and other fans of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror may get
a lot from this book, too, but our goal is first and foremost to help writers tell their
stories. Our areas of focus are the craft aspects and foundational considerations
that increase a writer’s ability to create sci-fi, fantasy, and horror stories that
matter.

Because good stories matter — we firmly believe that.

Every well-told story is a wondrous journey into the human imagination. Stories
are a shared enterprise that brings joy to authors and audiences. A symbiotic
experience, we might suggest.

This chapter serves as your portal to the world of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror
stories. If you want to create written works of these three genres, then you’ve
come to the right place.

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 7

Looking Closer at the Big Three Genres
Three of the most popular creative writing classes we teach are Writing Science
Fiction, Writing Fantasy, and Writing Horror. And in the other classes we offer, we
frequently attract students who are looking to write and talk about stories with
dark elf thieves, robot assassins, or hooded axe-wielding maniacs. Sometimes all
in the same story!

Some people choose to group these three genres under one far larger umbrella
called speculative fiction, which is a type of story that could’ve been generated from
a “what if?” question because these stories include elements and aspects that
don’t exist in consensus reality (the things people generally agree on about how the
world works). That’s a fairly basic definition, but the term itself is slippery. Plenty
of writers don’t fully agree on what it means, which is one reason we don’t use it
in this book.

Even though other authors may be satisfied to lump sci-fi, fantasy, and horror
together, we find it more useful to examine, understand, and appreciate the dif-
ferences in each as a way to improve your ability to write effective stories. The
lines between these genres do blur and overlap, but that’s okay — we handle them
separately in this book to keep things clear for you.

And although the three genres do have clear distinctive characteristics, some of
those characteristics can overlap in lots of interesting ways. Visit Chapter 27 for
more ways to mix, match, and blend story elements to good effect.

One thing all these genres share is an emphasis on the art and craft of worldbuild-
ing, which we cover in detail in Part 2. Chapter 5 explores the idea of creating a
very specific world for your story. Chapter 6 combines research with imagination,
and shares secret worldbuilding advice from Kenneth Hite, a top gamemaker.
Chapter 7 helps you find ways to engage audiences on multiple levels versus stick-
ing to a formula. Worlds can be so rich and robust that they’re practically a char-
acter, too. That’s the idea behind Chapter 8, which explains how worlds actively
want something.

The following sections take a closer look at the three genres.

Imagining possible worlds — Sci-fi

Sci-fi stories offer audiences possible other worlds. It’s based in or at least inspired
by scientific reality as people know it at the time of the writing. The genre goes
beyond that, however, to ask “what if?” questions about the future, new tech-
nologies, and humanity’s place in the universe.

8 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Before writing your sci-fi story, answer the following questions:

»» What’s the Big New Thing? At the heart of a great sci-fi story is a science-
based development that’s vital to the narrative (that’s your Big New Thing).
What ideas do you have for a cool Big New Thing?

»» How would it change the story world? Whether it’s new tech or a scientific
breakthrough, the world should be affected by its creation or use. If not, your
Big New Thing probably isn’t big enough to carry your story.

»» Who would care? At least some people can’t ignore the Big New Thing. They
should be in awe, be fearful, or have some other significant reactions that will
drive them to action.

»» What conflicts emerge? Someone wants to corner the market, change the
world, oppress those who need oppressing, or just make a quick buck. If
someone wants something, someone else is going to try to stop them from
getting it, and the Big New Thing should be central to resolving that conflict.

To blast straight into writing sci-fi, visit Part 3, which explores the other possible
worlds of science fiction. From the huge “what if?” at the center of every sci-fi
story (see Chapter 9) to spaceships and space travel (refer to Chapter 10) to aliens
and every type of artificial life (flip to Chapters 11 and 12), it’s all here. We even
investigate ways to create other planets in general and other Earths in particular —
that’s Chapter 13. We also get into the idea of dystopias and utopias, two possible
futures that audiences like to see come alive through stories.

Imagining wondrous worlds — Fantasy

Fantasy stories give audiences impossible other worlds. In the wondrous worlds of
fantasy, consensus reality is shattered to exciting and entertaining ends, which
makes room for magic spells, ancient artifacts, and fantastic creatures.

Here we explore a few questions to help you write fantastic fantasy stories:

»» What’s the impossible thing? One of the things that makes your story
fantasy is the inclusion of something that’s impossible for the real world.
Unicorns exist. Lightning bolts can be triggered from wands. All brown-eyed
people can read minds. Start with one impossible thing and build from there.

»» What rules does it break and follow? Thanks to being impossible, it can
break all sorts of real-world rules, like physics or the need for sleep. But it can
and should have its own rules. What cost does casting a spell require? What
weak spot does the otherwise invulnerable dragon have? Limits make the
impossible more interesting and dramatic.

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 9

 »» How does your main character encounter it? How the impossible thing
manifests needs to matter. Does your character move from a mundane world
into one rich with wonder? Is the wondrous all around from page one? Or
does the wonder come barreling into the character’s normal world, which
really mucks things up?

»» How does the impossible thing relate to your antagonist? If it’s powerful,
an antagonist surely wants it. Or maybe it’s something that was simply theirs,
and they want it back. In any event, wonderous, impossible things should only
be included if they have meaning to characters and the story world. They
shouldn’t just be flavor text or props.

To transport audiences to carefully built worlds populated with rich characters

and potential conflicts, fly on over to Part  4 where we peer into the wondrous
world of fantasy. How do you get to the fantastic? Portals, intrusions, and immer-
sions (see Chapter  14). How the @!#$! do you create a magic system? Think in
terms of rules and costs (go to Chapter 15). Those fantasy worlds are intimidating,
so how do you create a good one? The key is to think of what makes a story-rich
world (refer to Chapter 16). What about those wild monsters and creatures they
have? We cover those brutes in Chapter 17.

Imagining fearful worlds — Horror

Horror stories offer audiences terrifying worlds. Sometimes the scary stuff in a
horror story could indeed happen (serial killers, plagues, cults, and ruthless cor-
porations), whereas in some horror stories, it couldn’t (demons, ghosts, zombies,
and witches). Regardless of the pathway to terror a writer chooses, a quality hor-
ror story will make audiences quake with fear and plead to keep the lights on at
night. Just in case.

Here are some questions to get you thinking about a prevalent horror story type —
the discovery plot:

»» What’s the mystery that launches the story? The key discovery of this
mystery (a missing child? a murder? a stolen artifact?) launches the characters
into a larger story where they need to confront and survive a horrible truth
they’ve uncovered.

»» How does the mystery connect to your character’s core want? An easy
way to do this is to make it personal — the missing child is their niece. Or the
murder happened on their property. Or the artifact is their family heirloom.
Regardless of your specific choices, the character should only be able to
ignore it at great personal cost.

10 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 »» How do clues and discoveries create a sense of dread? The deeper your
characters go into the story, the more foreboding and menace they should
encounter. Really amp up the fear. Audiences know the protagonists have no
choice but to plunge ahead (thanks to that core want driving them along).

»» What terrible thing happens? It’s a horror story, after all, so audiences
expect something terrible. A death cult wreaks havoc on a seaside commu-
nity. A demon is summoned from beneath the museum of antiquities. What
do your characters do in response?

To find out more about crafting hair-raising stories, we dare you to step into
Part  5 that introduces you to the world of horror. We start with core audience
reactions — dread, fear, and terror (see Chapter 18). We then focus on the emo-
tional sources of fear, which includes a look at the cathartic effect of being scared
(refer to Chapter 19). We face menacing monsters and equally menacing human
horrors (head to Chapter  20). We investigate the many environments where
unsuspecting folks may encounter horror, from haunted houses to vampire lairs
to abandoned moon colonies to Himalayan mountain caves to the weird house
three down from yours in Chapter 21.

Creating Characters
What people tend to remember most about stories are the characters they love.
Chapter  2 reveals all you need to know to create characters worthy of great
stories. Minor spoiler: Characters need to have a goal they’re willing to work hard
for, and they need to be flawed. No one’s that interested in reading about perfect
people who’ve got their act together.

What audiences want is to follow along with a character who’s relatable and
who’s doing things that matter. They want engaging characters they can hope
and fear for all the way to the end. That only happens when characters are
interesting. Chapter 2 also offers advice on picking the best point of view, using
telling details, and crafting strong dialogue. It’s a one-stop shop for all your
character-making needs.

Great characters need great conflicts. And conflicts are the engine of story  —
making those is what Chapter 3 is all about. We examine the DNA of story conflict,
showcase effective pre-existing story structures, and make an argument for the
importance of character arcs. We also share our best tips for pacing, explain the
various types of scenes, and look at beginnings, middles, and ends (and how to
create them, of course).

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 11

Pursuing Writerly Success
We want more for you than just helping you become far more knowledgeable
about sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. That’s worthwhile, of course, but to be a suc-
cessful writer means you regularly do things that professional writers do. That’s
where Part 6 of this book comes into play.

These sections give you an overview of what you can do to be a better writer.

Revising your words

No one’s perfect, and you shouldn’t have that level of expectation for yourself on
a first or even an early draft. But when it’s time to get those words under control,
we recommend that you do the following:

»» Read your work aloud. Whether you’re doing the reading or someone else is,
your ears will catch things your eyes somehow miss.

»» Take notes. When rereading your work, make a to-do list of things to work on
later versus fixing issues as you find them. Trying to fix it all as you go is too
overwhelming.

»» Track themes. Use highlighters, sticky notes, or a color-coded spreadsheet to

keep track of your themes. Do they really say what you intended to? Are there
places for them to be elevated and enhanced?

»» Revisit characterization. Make sure that every character is consistent and

believable. Are the descriptions effective? Do they have their own way of
speaking, acting, and thinking?

»» Know when to stop revising. There’s a point where you’ve done all you can,
and further work isn’t making things better — just different.

Chapter 22 shows you how to revise and edit like a pro. Doing that is a must if
you want your work to be published or presented to an audience. We discuss
revision plans, revising for theme, editing your scenes, sentences, and words,
and much more.

Turning to pros for help

Although doing everything on your own may seem important or even glamorous,
that’s not how most stories are made. Writers are definitely expected to do a lot,
yes, but they should know when it’s appropriate to bring in outside help.

12 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Here are just some of the types of pros they turn to for expert guidance and input:

»» Developmental editor: These story gurus specialize in improving the

structure and content of your story. They also have marketplace insight and
use that to ensure you’re able to make the best story possible.

»» Proofreader: These folks go way beyond your software’s spellcheck features

and ensure your writing is free of typographical, grammatical, spelling, syntax,
and formatting errors.

»» Sensitivity reader: If you’re writing about members of any marginalized

group, a sensitivity reader can scrutinize your story for insensitive, incorrect,
offensive, or out-of-date portrayals. Even if you’re a member of that group, a
fresh perspective can still be quite useful.

»» Subject-area experts: These people do and know things few others can
appreciate . . . until you need that information for a story. Think NASA
astrobiologists, forensic anthropologists, and prosthetists.

»» University researchers: Even though these experts may not be in the field,
they know as much — or more! — than those doing so. And they love to talk
about what they’re researching, teaching, and writing about.

Getting quality outside assistance and guidance is often invaluable in helping you
get your work to its highest level. Turn to Chapter 23 for more details.

Focusing on the three Ps

The three Ps are important parts of your writing journey. In no particular order,
they are as follows:

»» Pitching: A pitch is the bite-sized, most compelling version of your story in verbal
or written form. It’s often called an elevator pitch because you should be able to
deliver it in 30 seconds or less (about the duration of a normal elevator ride).

»» Publication: This is your goal with writing stories, whether publication is book
form, live performance, audio production, or any of the other main delivery
options to get your work before audiences.

»» Promotion: Selling yourself as a writer and your work as worthwhile is a skill

all on its own. Those who develop this gift really reap the rewards.

Chapter 24 explains the three Ps in much greater detail. We’re really getting into
industry stuff here, which is something you don’t need to worry about much until
you’ve got a complete draft of a manuscript that you’re extremely proud of, and
you want to get it out in the world. Until then, agents and publishing house editors
aren’t something in which you should invest much time.

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 13

 Setting the right goals for you
Your success as a writer is going to be different than that of another writer. You may
share a few common goals with others, but some specific goals are uniquely theirs.
Set your own goals and figure out what you want to do with your stories. To help get
a handle on your relationship with writing, consider the following questions:

»» Why do you want to write?

»» What can you write that nobody else can?
»» What type of writing do you find most rewarding?
»» Does it matter who — or how many people — connect with your writing?
»» Is writing a hobby, a part-time thing, or something you want to do as a
full-time career?

»» If people read your stories, does it matter if your writing makes money?
One mistake we see students and early-career writers make is solely thinking
about big picture success, like writing a blockbuster movie, penning a bestselling
book, or creating the next Netflix hit series. We hope those outcomes are in your
future, but for most, they’re still a long way off. If that’s your benchmark of suc-
cess, you may feel like a failure because you may feel as if you’re making little to
no progress because the target remains so far away.

Instead, we suggest you create a series of goals that are organized by the amount
of time and energy they require, such as:

»» Short-term goals: Finish reading this book. Practice 30 minutes of morning

journaling for a week. Come up with five story ideas. Select one idea and
create an outline for the entire story. For five days straight, write 300 words of
that story each day.

»» Medium-term goals: Revise, deepen, and enhance the story outline. Write
300 words of that story each day for a month. Repeat for the next month. And
the next. And then the next one after that.

»» Long-term goals: Complete the entire first draft. Enlist two smart readers to
give thoughtful feedback on your story. Revise the story draft in response to
their comments, with the goal of cutting 10 percent of the total word count.

Having a series of measurable goals like these  — that you celebrate when you
achieve! — helps you avoid burnout, create accountability, and track your progress.
Add in your own motivation and passion, and you should be well on your way toward
making writing stories a meaningful part of your life, whatever that looks like.

14 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 THREE TYPES OF SUCCESSFUL STORIES
The incredibly prolific children’s author Jane Yolen — who also writes a lot of science fic-
tion and fantasy stories — talks about the three different types of books she writes:

• Head books: She creatively chews on a problem or idea that interests her.
• Heart books: She engages with something she’s deeply passionate about.
• Pocket books: These are books she knows will be highly commercial.
If you wrote a head story but made little or no money on it, would that be okay? What if
a heart story also brought you little or no money? Is there a way for you to write a head
or heart story and have it be a pocket story?

The only good answers are the honest ones you tell yourself. Make sure you create a
bull’s-eye that’s right for you as a writer. Then keep it in sight as you work on your craft
and write the best stories you can. If your goals ever change, that’s fine. Adjust as
needed, and then keep writing. It’s also smart to review your goals at least twice a year,
if not more.

There are many ways to be successful, and we want you to pursue the ones that make
sense for you and you alone. That’s the correct route to take.

When creating goals, think about the acronym SMART: Each goal should be spe-
cific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and timely. Do that, and you’re well on
your way of generating ideas, writing stories, and hitting deadlines.

Making the Most of This Book

We spent a lot of time contemplating how to ensure this book is useful from the
first to the final page. Our goal was to create a fluff-less writing how-to book. We
think this is it.

One way to engage with this book is to read it cover to cover, from start to finish.
We’d be more than pleased if you did exactly that. There’s a lot packed into here
that can help new, intermediate, and advanced writers. In one big bite or many
smaller meals, devour it all if you will.

But we also realize you may wish to focus on certain things first. That’s a fine
option, as well. Feel free to review the table of contents and plunge into the parts
you need on a case-by-case basis.

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 15

 You can also mix and match parts of this book to tailor-make a learning situation
to suit a specific goal. For example, if you want to write your own urban fantasy (a
story where supernatural/magical elements occur in a real-world city setting),
you can build a reading list like this:

»» Chapter 2: How do you create a main character who goes where she
shouldn’t and engages in activities others quite reasonably avoid? Give her a
powerful reason to seek an audience with a fairy criminal underboss.

»» Chapter 7: What’s the best way to show how dangerous these fairies are? Put
them in some kind of violent altercation so the main character — and the
audience — can witness it and say, “Wow, those fairies are bad*ss!”

»» Chapter 10: What type of society do the fairies have? Let the interpersonal
dynamic options of a spaceship’s crew offer suggestions for how fairies might
interact in close quarters with each other as they stay out of sight of normal
humans.

»» Chapter 16: How does fairy magic work in a modern world? For a story where
magic is quite rare, develop a magic system that has dramatic, interesting
costs that justifies why magic isn’t more prevalent.

»» Chapter 20: How can the fairy court be as unnerving as possible? Let them
personify and fully embody a societal flaw.

If you’re more inclined to try your hand at creating an untraditional haunted

house story, such as an abandoned spaceship recently discovered in orbit around
the third moon of Saturn, the following is an ideal reading agenda:

»» Chapter 2: No one travels way out in space alone, so who should accompany
the main character? Provide companions to support, protect, and serve as
confidantes as things get weird way out there in space.

»» Chapter 6: How can the derelict ship itself be uniquely interesting? Make it
like every other spaceship that audiences know of, yet change one big thing
that fits the mood and themes of this story.

»» Chapter 10: In what way can the ship be inhospitable and unwelcoming? Take
away the comforts most ships offer, such as artificial gravity and a functioning
life support system.

»» Chapter 17: What role might the monsters — whatever they are — play on
this abandoned ship? The monsters may serve as obstacles to answering the
larger more deadly question of what happened to the crew.

16 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 »» Chapter 21: How may the ship itself be a fear-generating environment? Use
shifting structures to keep the main character (and whomever is still alive at
this point) unsettled.

Our intention is for this book to have what you need for you to write great sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror stories. Taken as a whole, the book is a comprehensive take on
exactly that, but the individual parts are versatile and can work together to trou-
bleshoot a specific problem or create a particular type of story or story effect.

CHAPTER 1 Taking Journeys into the Imagination 17

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Allowing desire to drive the story

»» Casting the right characters for

the job

»» Making point of view matter

»» Crafting a character detail by detail

»» Cooking up red-hot dialogue

Chapter  2
Creating Characters

I
f you think about your favorite movies and books, chances are that although you
may be fuzzy on some of the specific details about what happened, the main
characters remain crystal clear. That’s not a surprise. Characters are what make
stories linger in your head because audiences connect with them. They worry
about them. They root for them. They imagine what it’s like to live in their
shoes . . . or space boots . . . or winged sandals!

Compelling characters are the reason people reread books and rewatch movies.
Audiences want to spend more time with characters they’ve come to care about.
Those audiences don’t believe or care about? There’s simply no need to revisit
their lives.

On the one hand, audiences know that fiction is a form of make-believe. As much
as they may wish it to be otherwise, the heroes from a beloved space opera or fan-
tasy epic aren’t real. But on the other hand, audiences enter a new story like peo-
ple on a first date. They’re hopeful. They’re eager. They want to make a meaningful
connection.

As a writer, your goal is to make that literary love happen by creating characters
who are worthy of your audience’s time and attention. This chapter gives you the
basics on how to do exactly that.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 19

 Characters are meant to look, feel, act, talk, and even smell real. That means you
can do a lot of firsthand research all on your own by carefully paying attention to
your own life and the lives of those around you. Pro writers do this all time. Jot
down things you notice and consider incorporating some of those real-world
details to make your characters appear more believable.

Focusing on Your Characters’ Wants

Human beings want things: A pair of shoes. A college degree in marketing.
A chance to meet their birth mother. To be the first person to step foot on Mars.
To win a reality TV contest.

Some desires are far less important to a story than others. Getting hold of a new
spiked club, for example, doesn’t mean much to a barroom brawler who already has
an entire arsenal in the attic above the bar that they call home. But for a homeless
elf who dreams of finding a way to stop the town bullies from stealing his food?

In the first case, no one cares that much whether that brawler gets their 20th lethal
weapon or not. Honestly, the brawler likely doesn’t care much either. But that poor
elf is yearning for something meaningful. Getting a sword so he can finally defend
himself might mean the difference between survival and starvation.

After you know what your characters really want, figuring out how they’re going
to respond to story events is much easier. The following sections on goals, needs,
and desires reveal a lot about your character’s key wants.

People are complex; they often have conflicting desires that battle within them-
selves. For example, an undead hunter’s No. 1 guiding principle may be to slay
vampires. In certain cases, though  — perhaps as this character develops and
grows throughout the course of a story — she may be in situation where saving
the life of the innkeeper’s shrewish wife is more important than ramming a stake
through the cold, black heart of a fanged monster that’s been decimating the
town’s vital sheep population.

Give your characters room to experience inner turmoil. Put them in a tough spot
and see how they reveal their true inner character. Situations and context can also
have a profound effect on what a character ultimately chooses to do, as well.

Here’s another fun wrinkle related to desire. What a character wants doesn’t
always make them happy. Sometimes people want something that’s downright
bad for them, like another drink or more dark magic. Consider how that idea man-
ifests in real life, and then see how much mileage you can get out of this concept

20 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

in your story. Another way of saying this is that old chestnut: “Beware what you
wish for — you just might get it!”

Looking outside — External goals

The most obvious kind of story desire is purely external. External goals are things
your character want from the world. These are popular choices for writers to
include because it’s just so clear to audiences what the prize is and how close the
character is — or isn’t! — to getting it.

External goals should be clear and specific. They should have intrinsic value, too,
even if it’s only valuable to the main character, like one’s sentimentality for a
broken shotgun given to them by their grandfather. Getting that back may be as
important to this specific character as stopping the zombie apocalypse, or
nearly so.

Here are a few examples of external goals:

»» I want to retrieve the Sword of Zyzzyz from the goblin king’s hoard.
»» I want to earn enough space bucks to buy a C-581 deep-space mining ship.
»» I want to stop the zombie apocalypse plaguing Ecuador.

Reflecting inward — Internal needs

Internal needs may well be less obvious than external ones, but that doesn’t mean
they don’t matter. Internal needs are basically a character’s hopes, dreams, and
fears. They may be less tangible than outdueling a former teacher or a pilfering
from a lich’s treasure mound, but they can be extremely potent motivators that
push your character into action.

To give characters depth, make sure they have one or more external and internal
goals. This prevents them from being too one-note, which helps keep your audi-
ence engaged. No one likes boring, obvious people.

Consider these examples:

»» What might a fallen priest do in order to reclaim their once-sterling

reputation?

»» How far will a swordswoman go to prove her worth in her disapproving

adventurer boyfriend’s eyes?

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 21

 Looking a bit deeper — Hidden desires
Even though a character has external goals that are clear to the audience and
internal needs that are perhaps less overt, many of the most interesting charac-
ters have a desire or drive that’s hidden to everyone, including themselves. Hidden
desires are the type of things most characters wouldn’t know about themselves
without $20,000 of therapy . . . or a story like yours to force them to these key
realizations.

For example, perhaps a tough childhood left the city’s exorcist with a terrible
sense of self-worth. The little voice in her head constantly whispers, “You’re not
good enough, you’ll never be good enough.” So, she dates losers and drinks to
excess no matter how much she insists to the few people left in her life that she
truly just wants to be happy.

That poor exorcist can’t figure out what their problem is. She likely blames others
or bad luck. Yet the truth is buried behind layers of psychological angst, denial,
and misdirection. But the story happenings will reveal it to them, often in or
around the story’s climax. Chapter 3 on plot gives you what you need to make your
story’s climax memorable.

Introducing the Cast of Characters

With characters in stories, your audience gets to know some far more intimately
than others, and that’s okay. In fact, that’s almost always the best way to go. By
design, not all characters are created equal.

The word “create” is key here. You’re not ordering them out of some wholesale
writer catalogue or using a mystic summoning circle to whisk them from the Land
of 10,000 Dreams. You’re building them, top to bottom, through a series of crea-
tive choices that you’re deliberately making.

Tailor-making them to be exactly who you need for the story you want to tell only
makes sense. Think about major conflicts and scenes in your story, and, if you
know them, the climax and story ending. What type of character is required to
make those story moments work? Well, that’s who you should create. Don’t settle
for anything else, no matter how cool or interesting those others seem. Save them
for another story — or a different story role — best suited for them.

You may not know enough plot details yet to engineer the perfect character.
That’s okay. Until the story is published, it’s a work in progress. Let the revision
process — we cover it in Chapter 22 — help you revise your character to ensure
they’re the right person for the job.

22 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

In the following sections we explore the key character roles in stories, including
the seemingly less-vital ones that often elevate a story from the mundane into
something truly special.

Leading the way — Protagonists

Whether you call them the leads, heroes, main characters, principals, central figures, or
protagonists, they’re pretty much same thing — they’re the stars of your story. The
story revolves around them. It’s their actions that drive the plot forward. Just like
how some real-world celebrities feel the world revolves around them, the world of
the story does revolve to a large extent around your protagonist.

The idea of a true hero doesn’t feel believable today in the same way that it did
decades or centuries ago. One manifestation of this is how so many of today’s
superhero stories feature gritty, flawed figures who are markedly different than
the larger-than-life, shiny, perfect superheroes of the past. That’s not necessarily
a bad thing — it certainly makes the character more fleshed out!

Here we examine what makes a protagonist really work on the page.

Sharing what makes your protagonist tick

Because audiences spend more time with your main characters than any other
person in the story, audiences need to connect with them at the highest level.
Plenty of writers believe that audiences get to know protagonists even better than
they know their dearest friends.

What kinds of things do audiences want to know? The list is potentially massive,
but thinking about first-date or job interview questions — with a heavy dose of
psychological sharing — is a good way to start. Beyond the basics of age, name,
height, weight, current home, current job, marital status, and the like, asking the
following questions about your character can help them grow into the job of Main
Character of Your Story:

»» What do they want? Note that the question is “What do they want?” and not
“What do they need?” because the answers are almost always different. The
gap between those answers is rich story material, though it’s the want that
motivates what the character does for most, if not all, of the story. No want
equals no story. Make their want profoundly important to them, and then
watch how hard they go after it.

»» What’s their moral code? What will it allow them to do (and not do) in order
to get what they want? Whether stated aloud or not, everyone has hard limits.
It only makes sense that your characters do, too. So, give them a hard limit,
whether it’s “I never lie!” or “Killing is only justified in self-defense.” If you

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 23

 challenge yourself by limiting what a character can or will do, the results can
be terrifically original and interesting.

»» What is more important than what they want? For some characters, the
answer is nothing. For dramatic reasons, however, it’s usually more useful for
them to believe in and value something(s) more important than themselves,
whether it’s religion, country, family, duty, or something along those lines. The
tension between their own wants and the obligations of a belief system or
institution make for wonderful story conflict.

Ultimately, audiences need protagonists they’re interested in and care about

enough to spend lots of time with them because that’s what a story asks audiences
to do. Discover what’s interesting, special, or unique about your characters and
share it. Give them complexity and depth. If you do that effectively, audiences will
come along for the ride, even if a character has a fairly noticeable flaw or two.

Looking for growth

The idea of growth is key. Stories are about characters who experience meaningful
conflict and end up changing as a result. Determine what kind of changes your
character will undergo.

Consider the following types of character growth:

»» Change/transformation arc: A regular person grows into a true hero, savior,

or Chosen One.

»» Maturation arc: Someone becomes a better version of themselves through

physical, spiritual, or emotional improvement, though with less of a complete
overhaul as the transformation arc requires.

»» Tragic arc: A person makes choices that ultimately doom them, and, perhaps, others.
»» Redemption arc: A not-so-great character learns the error of their ways and
commits to living a better life while they make amends for all the damage
they’ve done, as best they can.

Other options exist, but key to all character arcs is change, even if you subvert things
along the way with a dose of irony or satire. Change is good. Few audiences want
stories that are static or flat. They want to witness characters face the impactful
consequences of their actions. That’s what brings people to stories.

You may be inclined to argue that some iconic characters — such as certain super-
heroes or a detective hero — don’t change. You’re sort of right. That type of figure
is roughly the same at the end of the story as they are at the beginning, save for
fresh bruises and thumps, perhaps. But change still happens — it’s just shifted
from internal character change to external change.

24 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

These iconic heroes enact change upon the world around them, restoring order as
they solve a mystery, lock up a bad guy, or right some horrid wrong.

All other main characters in stories, however, do undergo meaningful personal

change as a result of facing and overcoming all the conflicts and forces of opposi-
tion the story throws in their way. How could they not be affected by such momen-
tous things?

If you’re intrigued by this idea of iconic characters, check out Robin D. Laws’ Beating
the Story: How to Map, Understand, and Elevate Any Narrative (Gameplaywright), which
explains the concept in great detail.

Standing in the way — Antagonists

Your story needs someone — or something — to thwart the desires of and oppose
your protagonist. Enter the antagonist — perhaps more than one. Here we take a
closer look at what antagonists are, what they’re up to, and what makes them
awesome.

Appreciating the range of adversaries

Whether it’s a mighty ogress rampaging through the countryside, a group of
bandits stealing priceless paintings from a monastery, a malicious space empire
bent on destroying every asteroid mining company that doesn’t join with them,
an apocalyptic global snowstorm, a magic curse targeting an entire family tree, or
a shadowy alien entity with a thirst for your specific DNA, the story needs an
adversarial force to get in the way of the protagonist and their goals. Again and
again and again.

Note that we didn’t say villain. Even though a pure-evil villain can serve as a
perfectly acceptable antagonist, many stories do quite well without pitting a pro-
tagonist (The Good Guy!) versus a classic villain (The Bad Guy!). An antagonist can
just as easily be a relatively good person whose goals are simply in opposition to
those of the protagonist. And it can also be something other than a person, such
as a comet blasting toward earth, a nefarious organization, or an alien.

Motivating an antagonist
Most villains don’t see themselves as villains. They don’t believe they’re evil.
From their perspective, they’re doing the right thing and likely think the protag-
onist is the actual “Bad Guy.” Although these villains actively oppose and under-
mine the protagonist, in their eyes they’re doing it for defensibly good reasons.

Regardless of what type of antagonist you use, give them the same level of devel-
opment expected for a protagonist. If you skimp, you run the risk of letting your

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 25

 antagonist become a one-dimensional caricature. Use the same set of questions
we present in the section, “Sharing what makes your protagonist tick,” earlier in
this chapter to help uncover more relevant aspects to your antagonist.

Even more than a protagonist, your antagonist needs a clear moral code to limit
their mayhem, murdering, and madness. Perhaps the serial killer clown only
sneaks into bedrooms at night to slit the throats of philandering husbands — she
always lets the wives, children, bystanders, and faithful husbands live. This kind
of framework helps make the antagonist more sympathetic. If you can find a way
to make audiences love or root for antagonists, go for it. Give them a flash of their
humanity, pain, or complexity.

The most effective antagonists undergo their own character arc and should be
formidable in terms of power, capability, and drive. In fact, antagonists should
be the strongest force in the story, which makes audiences question whether the
protagonist will ever be able to win. Antagonists should also have a knack for
attacking the protagonist’s weak spot, whatever that is. They know just how to
bring the pain.

Confronting an antagonist
If you’re inclined to use an antagonistic force that’s more abstract, such as a
curse, the supernatural, nature, or a physical condition, try to embody it within an
actual character to allow for direct confrontation. Don’t just give audiences an
anonymous wasting curse; give them the three-eyed cave witch who cast it
because she was snubbed for the job of the General’s Mystic Counsel. Don’t just
give audiences a category 5 storm tearing up Miami. Give them the people who are
hoarding supplies to sell at a huge markup in the aftermath. Give them the jerks
who sit on rooftops off Interstate 95, mocking the fools in gridlock as they try
to  flee to Jacksonville. (Read more about world  — and nature  — being its own
character in Chapter 8.)

The more direct and concrete a conflict is, the easier audiences can engage with it.
Putting a face on a problem makes it more real. But if it’s not something you can
reason with, characters will have to find another way to triumph.

Introducing supporting characters

Your story has some — if not a lot — of other characters who get their fair share
of time on the page or stage. These are supporting characters. Note the key word
“support.” They have a function in the story, and that’s to support and comple-
ment the more important characters — the protagonist and antagonist. If that’s
not happening, demote these characters to minor roles or give them the editorial
boot entirely. If you can’t easily create a relationship diagram that includes them,
out they must go!

26 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

The best supporting characters have their own medium-level backstory
(information about their life prior to the launch of this particular story). They’re
three-dimensional, having genuine strengths, weakness, motives, dreams, and
flaws. Perhaps more important, they need a clear reason to be there, whether it’s
relating to the main plot or a subplot. That means they’re providing yet another
opportunity for story conflict. Hooray. It’s almost impossible to have enough
conflict (see Chapter 3 for more on conflict). In simple terms, think of supporting
characters as falling in one (or more!) of three camps:

»» Those that help

»» Those that antagonize
»» Those that inform
The following examines some of the main ways supporting characters can earn
their place in your story.

Representing a theme
Some writers like to use supporting characters as metaphorical representations of
story themes, such as the barbarian chieftain’s thieving brother who represents a
refusal of family obligation and honor, or the cybernetic Megacorp CEO’s body-
guard whose actions show her struggling with the question “Can I have honor
while serving a tyrant?”

If this kind of thematic move intrigues you, layer that in. Just do it with subtlety
versus hanging a flashing neon This Is A Symbol sign around their neck. Audiences
are smart. They’ll figure it out.

Acting as the BFF — The companion

The companion is an often-necessary supporting character who can serve the role
of friend, guard, sidekick, confidante, or even love interest. Having companions
play multiple roles such as the talented sorcerer’s apprentice who acts as a sound-
ing board for his master who likes to bounce a lot of ideas around before commit-
ting to any action is efficient. That apprentice can also be a protector, fiercely loyal
to the point that things come to magical blows if anyone disparages the master’s
magic or motivations. Perhaps your story has a trustworthy squire who knows and
keeps the protagonist’s deepest, darkest secret while also acting as their moral
compass. Maybe your story needs a companion who serves a necessary supporting
character role right up until they die, giving extra oomph to the hero’s desire to
defeat their nemesis.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 27

 Contrasting with another character — A foil
A foil is another key type of supporting character — a person who puts a spotlight
on the attributes of another character through opposing traits. This character may
be a friend, like a fireball-chucking frenemy who handles everything with magic
overkill whereas the protagonist may save their magic and use it judiciously in
small, clever ways. Or the foil can be the antagonist, whose motto might be “I can
never have enough magic because there’s always more of it.” The differing view-
points or approaches create an interesting contrast that deepens both characters.

Providing guidance — A mentor

A mentor figure makes fine supporting characters because they’re so good at
helping and informing. The galactic sheriff who shares his hard-won knowledge
with anyone who’ll listen. An ancient dwarven librarian who always knows the
right book to recommend. A mentor can also serve as a barometer for the protago-
nist’s growth. What better way to dramatize change than a student who no longer
needs the mentor, or at least they don’t need them in the same dependent manner
they once did?

Standing in direct opposition — The rival

Although not a proper villain, a rival is one of the forces of opposition working
against the protagonist because their goals are mutually exclusive. Perhaps your
protagonist yearns to become the leader of a suborbital strike team and another
equally qualified soldier has the same goal. In this world, suborbital strike teams
only have one leader, so one of these two isn’t going to get what they want.

The story may also have a true villain antagonist who is secretly trying to kill off
the protagonist for other reasons. That’s yet another force of opposition that’s far
different than the rival, who simply wants to follow their own dreams. The rival
can easily be a very likable, honorable person who still represents a more immedi-
ate and significant problem for the protagonist than the murderous villain lurking
in the shadows.

Being at cross purposes — The adversary

One of our favorites, the adversary is someone who, like the rival, isn’t a villain,
but somehow manages to get in the protagonist’s way over and over again. Con-
sider an overprotective demigod mother, a snoopy, rule-following robot butler, an
ogre who’s smitten with the protagonist and won’t leave his side, though his
brutish size and fangy frown has every sheriff and all the townsfolk on edge. This
type of character has oodles of comic possibilities, if you want to go that route.

28 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 Managing your supporting
cast — Tips and tricks
Creating three-dimensional supporting characters is a great way to give your
story a sense of reality. If you’re successful, then these characters can complete
your story world. If not, they can cause your story to crash and burn. Here are
some other pointers to remember when assembling your supporting cast:

»» Consider using supporting characters who are the yin to your main
character’s yang. Opposites often attract. The contrast can be interesting,
believable, and effective in terms of showcasing facets of both characters.

»» Avoid the temptation of populating your story with as many characters

as you can dream up. You want exactly as many characters as the story
requires, and not one more. Combine them. Cut them. Do what you have to in
order to end up with a modest-sized cast that audiences — and you! — can
keep track of. It’s more than twice as hard to care about a dozen characters as
it is to care about six.

The world of your story is going to be filled with minor characters who don’t
even get their full 15 minutes of fame. These folks look up at the supporting
characters with envy. That’s okay. It’s just their lot in (story) life.

»» Make your supporting characters realistic. Even though minor characters

come and go fairly quickly, they still need to have some personality and
description beyond the cliché. The bearded old wizard doesn’t have to be a
doddering, forgetful fool. The mad scientist doesn’t have to be obsessed with
playing God. The nameless woman trying to flee from a monster doesn’t have
to keep tripping over her own feet.

Don’t go overboard, but it’s better to err on the side of development than to
surrender to clichés, stereotypes, and tropes.

From Whose Eyes? Choosing Point of View

Point of view (POV) is the perspective through which the events of the story are
presented to the audience. This typically happens through a narrator who may be
a participant in the story, but they can just as easily be a distant observer or even
someone far removed from the events. A narrator like the grandfather in The
Princess Bride has a clear opinion about the story he’s telling. Other narrators are
nearly invisible, and they may be sharing the story with a calm, almost journalistic
detachment.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 29

 TWO LITTLE-USED POINTS OF VIEW
These are valid ways to use point of view, though they’re uncommon for good reason.
For that reason, these two may work better in shorter stories than in novel- or film-
length works:

• First-person plural: This POV allows a collective presence — a group, team, family,
or community — to share a single voice. By virtue of having more than one person
attached to the voice, the audience may get a richer story. But the “we” can get
tedious, so perform a cost-benefit analysis before giving this one a shot.

• Second person: Using a second person point of view in fiction — meaning “you” —
generally comes across as gimmicky. It’s only used occasionally because it forces
the audience into the role of a character participating in the story. But the audience
doesn’t have agency, which means the writer decides what they act, think, and say.

Only use these two POV if you have a solid story-based reason to do so, like
N.K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy (Orbit). Spoiler: “Hey, this would be cool to try!”
isn’t a terrific reason beyond attempting something as a narrative exercise or a
challenge.

Regardless of what type of narrator you choose for your story, the following
sections are the main forms of POV available to you.

First person
If you want your main character to be a huge part of the narrative action, choose
first person. Audiences get an incredible sense of immediacy and intimacy because
the story is entirely filtered through the narrator’s mind in the form of “I.” What
better way to create audience connection with a character than this, right?
Hearing from someone directly makes the story seem credible. First person also
easily allows the character’s opinions to influence the story in a subtle and
powerful way.

First person limits the audience to only knowing what the narrator thinks, feels,
says, knows, and does. If something cool is happening a few blocks away, oh well,
the audience can’t witness it. Not unless the first-person narrator does.

For a story with mystery, first person is a great way to keep audiences in the dark
until the big reveal happens. So long as the narrator doesn’t know something, it’s
fair game for audiences not to know it, too.

30 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Third-person limited
Third-person limited — which uses he/she/they or the character’s name — has a
lot in common with first person. Because third-person limited sticks tightly with
one person, it mirrors the intimacy created by using first person. Often it’s so
linked to a person that it feels almost like first person.

We sometimes think of third-person limited as having a portable camera strapped

to a character’s head. The audience sees things from their perspective and gets a
pretty good sense of their thoughts and feelings, too.

Where third-person limited shines is its ability to back away from the focus
character and give a wider perspective. In properly handled first person, audiences
never get outside the character’s head. They’re stuck in there. With third-person
limited, you can employ that useful distance to reveal biases, mistaken assump-
tions, or the character’s unreliability. You can also shift POV from one person to
another person as needed — often at section or chapter breaks.

An added benefit is that you really can’t have a first-person narrator tell a story in
which they die. With third person, you absolutely can!

Third-person omniscient
Writers appreciate third-person omniscient because it allows Godlike access to any
aspect of your story. Need to follow a villain engaged in dark sorcery rituals in
Venezuela? You can be there. And in the following chapter, you can instantly
follow the President and her mystical entourage in Air Force One flying high over
the Arctic moments before they greenlight an assault upon an alien strike team.
Want to sneak in some foreshadowing about a murderous cult preparing to take
over the Capitol building in that same scene? Can do.

Third-person omniscient gives you two benefits:

»» Because you know everything, you can deliver information to audiences

without filtering it through any character’s perspective. This POV allows you to
create dramatic irony — the tension that comes from audiences knowing
things that characters in the story are ignorant of.

»» You’re using your own narrative voice versus that of a character, which adds
another potential layer to the story. You can now comment directly on things,
perhaps to comic effect.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 31

 Third-person omniscient works quite well for stories with a lot of characters and/
or a complicated plot. It’s also a fine match for stories that span worlds or cover
large periods of time.

Don’t let omniscience go to your head! Yes, you can be in anywhere at any time,
but don’t give audiences whiplash. Moving around too much leaves audiences
feeling like they’ve been subjected to hours of those super jerky, shaky home
movies. It can leave one feeling queasy and confused.

Third-person objective
If you want to have a true fly-on-the-wall perspective to your story’s events, third-
person objective is an option. The key word here is objective: You can observe all you
want, but you can’t get into the head of anyone. Their thoughts and feelings are
entirely off limits. With this option, the narrator can’t tell the audience anything.
They have to show it and trust audiences to make their own interpretations.

Some call third-person objective dramatic point of view because it’s constant
action. With this choice, you don’t need to spend time trying to create character
interiority because your audience doesn’t have access to it. The problem with it,
though, is that it works against one of the main reasons people come to fiction —
to deeply inhabit the lives of others. Keeping the audience at a distance like this
makes connecting with characters extremely challenging.

Films typically offer a form of third-person objective. Audiences looking at screens

are kept external to the characters they see on those screens. They don’t have
access to character thoughts and feelings beyond what can be inferred from their
words, actions, and nonverbals, or what characters reveal in dialogue. Writers
who don’t figure out how to overcome this challenge find themselves on the
receiving end of a top-three reason for rejection from Hollywood script readers —
“I don’t care.” That’s code for “I’m not emotionally invested enough.” And that’s
largely a point-of-view issue.

Successful screenwriters argue that scripts should try to be more subjective,

meaning they follow the main character often and closely enough that audiences
are squarely within their emotional perspective. If you’re looking down on char-
acters from above, you feel the awkwardness of that distance. To fix that problem,
get in tight. Stay close. Emotional connection, and caring, will follow.

32 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 PRESENT OR PAST TENSE? THAT’S THE
QUESTION. . .
Another important choice writers make in addition to choosing point of view is selecting
the when of the story. Are you going to use present or past tense?

Compare these two versions:

• Present tense: Cohn eases into the back of the hearse. He smells the stink of grave
dirt on the driver’s breath.

“Just drive,” he whispers to the leering ghoul behind the steering wheel.

• Past tense: Cohn eased into the back of the hearse. He smelled the stink of grave
dirt on the driver’s breath.

“Just drive,” he whispered to the leering ghoul behind the steering wheel.

Most audiences argue that present tense creates more immediacy, as if the actions are
unfolding right in front of the audience’s eyes. There’s an elegant simplicity to it. Some
people think it’s also more cinematic.

However, most stories are written in past tense, and it’s been the more popular option
for centuries. Hence, audiences are so familiar with it that they might find it easier
to read.

Present tense also has a logical hiccup. The story proposes that things are literally
happening now, but audiences know that’s not the case because the events have to all
be completed already for the book about them to have been written. For some, that’s a
real sticking point.

Regardless, you’re going to be okay no matter which you choose. We recommend you
try a few pages in each and see which feels and sounds right for your story. Just be
consistent — some writers slip between the two, and it’s very jarring to encounter that.

Telling “Telling Details”

Because audiences want to know characters well, writers have to deliver that
information. You want to create characters that audiences can root and fear for
and that they’ll care about enough to invest their time and energy into the story’s
journey.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 33

 Use the following different methods of characterization to let audiences know
more than the surface details. Just be sure not to halt the story’s progress to do so.
Find ways to insert this welcome information into the ongoing action.

Zeroing in on appearance
Maybe not, but looks do matter in the world of stories. They tell audiences a lot
about a person’s age, health, socioeconomic status, and much more. Are they
well-groomed or slovenly? Muscley or wiry? Do they have distinguishing marks
on their body such as scars, tattoos, or birthmarks? Do they spend more on cus-
tom tailoring each month than most do in a lifetime? Audiences will read a lot into
what they literally see, so choose visual character details carefully.

Give your character a definitive feature or two to help them stand out as individu-
als. The android training to be the Oracle of Kermos’ replacement? She practices
talking about herself in the third person to disassociate her consciousness from
her bodily form. The disgraced space pirate who used to be the Starlord’s cham-
pion? His hair turned white as spider’s silk after that tangle with the warp worms
that also cost the Starlord’s nephew his life.

The larger your cast of characters, the more important you want to help audiences
remember who’s who with a gentle visual cue. Audiences don’t need all the infor-
mation you’d pack into an online profile — just pick the things that are most rel-
evant or distinctive.

This sounds simple, but it’s worth saying plainly — character names are one of
the most effective ways to cue audiences about which character is which. Yet too
often, writers don’t bother to create distinguishable names. No Jan, Jen and Jill,
please! Don’t overcompensate here, but at least don’t let them rhyme and don’t
start with the same initial letter or letters, if you can help it.

Digging into a character’s psychology

Everyone has hopes and fears. Your characters should, too. You don’t need to
imagine the answers to a Myers-Briggs test for each for your characters, but def-
initely think about basic psychological traits. Are they fundamentally honest or
not? Moody or easy going? Do they prefer solitude or being around people? Are
they careful and conscientious or sloppy and aloof? Do they have anything note-
worthy about how they speak, such as an accent, a specific tempo, a noticeable
pitch, or pet phrases?

34 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

The way a character handles conflict can tell a lot about them. Figure out how they
respond when they’re uncomfortable. Do they squirm away from the slightest
resistance, or will fists fly at the first sign of opposition? What does that little
voice in their head say when things get truly dangerous?

We find these questions particularly useful in terms of really getting to know your
character:

»» What is your deepest secret?

»» What is your greatest fear?
»» What is your deepest regret?
»» On what occasions will you lie?
»» What is your most treasured possession?
»» How would you describe yourself in one sentence?
»» How would a friend describe you?
»» How would a someone who doesn’t like you describe you?
»» How would someone you just met describe you?
After you know who your character is — that is, you know what motivates them
and why they do the things they do  — you’ve got what the vital information
required to keep their actions, beliefs, and voice consistent. For example, if you’ve
got a ghost hunter who’s learned the hard way not to try to fit in because they’ll
never belong anywhere, it makes perfect sense that they violently resist joining
the increasingly strong advances of the city’s new undead hunter’s guild. If the
hunter’s deepest secret is that they were once possessed by a ghost, well, that’s
yet another reason for them to keep turning down offers of help even when the
ghost they’re chasing is maybe too much for any single hunter to handle.

Trusting an inner circle

The people that your characters choose to surround themselves with reveals
something about them. Sometimes like seeks like  — hence the cliques in high
school. Sometimes people create a group that delivers what they psychologically
need  — often acceptance, deference, or admiration. Sometimes the group’s
makeup reveals other useful things about its members.

From family to friends to classmates to club members  — who your characters

associate with is yet another way to help reveal more about them without having
to come out and tell audiences those things directly. They’ll see it for themselves
and make their own judgments.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 35

 If your story has an intergalactic bounty hunter with an inferiority complex, odds
are that they choose weaker, less capable shipmates so as to always remain the
most dangerous person in the room. Now that may be an issue for them if they
encounter real trouble because the team isn’t as strong as it might be, but on a
day-to-day basis, the bounty hunter is probably pretty happy with the status quo
because there’s no doubt about who’s in charge.

You Don’t Say? Using Dialogue

Dialogue is far more than just a transcription of what a character says. Done well,
it reveals that character’s character, creates conflict, advances the plot, and gives
useful information  — sometimes all four at once! Aspire to accomplish at least
two of those tasks with every line of dialogue.

Dialogue is never a transcription of what people say in real life. Why not? Because
people are inefficient in how they speak. The “umms” and “errs” and “you
knows” alone would be infuriating to read on the page. That doesn’t even take
into account the nothings people say to each other about the weather, sports, and
equally vacuous things.

Here are some things to consider when writing dialogue for your story.

Recognizing the types of dialogue

You have four types of dialogue, which we discuss in the following sections, when
you’re writing text. The question isn’t which one you use, but rather why some
writers use only one type over and over again? Our guess: They didn’t have a top-
level writing teacher or read a book like this one!

Giving the full story — Direct dialogue

Direct dialogue is the one you’re sure to know. In fact, we see plenty of student
stories where 100 percent of the dialogue is direct dialogue. Direct dialogue is
offering audiences exactly what’s been said.

Here is an example of this type:

Zerbit said, “Take the loot and scram. I’m done with you.”

You’re essentially in the room with Zerbit as he tells off Mugmug once and for all.
You’re witnessing it unfolding through your eyes and ears. That’s a terrific tactic
to create a sense of story happening on the page.

36 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

The drawback? You’re hearing every single word. Sometimes characters  — or
real-world people! — go on and on and on and don’t really say anything impor-
tant. Audiences don’t have time to listen to all that. They only want to know
what’s important to the story.

Use direct dialogue as you see fit, but if things get long/speechy/boring, employ
other dialogue types as needed. Audiences will thank you for it!

Boiling it down — Summary dialogue

If you want to share what someone says in the style of a brief report to the audi-
ence, summary dialogue is a fantastic choice. This tactic is really efficient and keeps
things moving.

Check out this example:

Zerbit told Mugmug that their adventuring days together were now over.

The limitation of summary dialogue is that audiences don’t hear any actual words
that were uttered by Zerbit. That means they don’t really get a sense of flavor,
texture, or voice. They also can’t judge diction because the spoken words are
absent. Is Zerbit a low-brow dock worker or a fancy magic researcher who loves
intimidatingly large words? Audiences can’t tell.

Wait to use summary dialogue until audiences know the characters and have heard
them talk a bit. After that’s happened, they know them, and they know their voice.
That helps make any subsequent summary dialogue richer and more effective.

Offering the gist — Indirect dialogue

Indirect dialogue falls right between summary and direct dialogue. With indirect
dialogue, there’s more of a sense and feel of what’s been said, but it’s not offering
up every single word verbatim.

Witness it in action:

Zerbit said he couldn’t stand Mugmug’s greediness, that he was just a selfish ogre,
that he’d always been a selfish ogre, and not just because he never once asked if
Zerbit wanted first pick of the magic wands they looted from the bodies of all those
dead magicians.

See the difference? Indirect dialogue doesn’t give audiences actual spoken words,
but they have a far more robust sense of what Zerbit thinks and feels. We’ve
got  enough information to infer Zerbit’s tone. There’s even a strong sense of
texture here.

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 37

 Using all your options — Mixed dialogue
Mixed dialogue isn’t so much a distinct type of dialogue, but rather a combination
of the three options used together to control the pace of the scene.

Consider this example:

Zerbit listed Mugmug’s faults — all of them. “Plus, you couldn’t skewer a goblin with
a twenty-foot spear without me to tell you where to aim.”

Zerbit whipped out the Party Dissolution document the monks from the Red Tower
had drawn up, and he read all twenty-two clauses aloud since Mugmug wasn’t able
to read it for himself.

Imagine if this were all rendered in direct dialogue, and audiences had to actually
hear all that monk legal mumbo-jumbo. No thanks!

Keeping track of dialogue tags

In scripts and games, you don’t have to worry about dialogue tags. In fiction, dia-
logue tags are vitally important because they alert audiences about who says what.

“That is the worst fireball I’ve ever seen.”

Who said that? Audiences have no idea. They’re forced to skim back over what
they just read and try to find a character’s name, and then hope that’s who voiced
this complaint. Adding a dialogue tag clarifies things so they can keep reading
ahead.

Here are three common ways to use dialogue tags. (Note where the punctuation
goes! That’s an issue many writers run into.)

»» Put a dialogue tag at the end. “That is the worst fireball I’ve ever seen,” said
Urbok the Great.

»» Put a dialogue tag at the beginning. Urbok the Great said, “That is the worst
fireball I’ve ever seen.”

»» Put a dialogue tag in the middle. “That,” said Urbok the Great, “is the worst
fireball I’ve ever seen.”

If a scene only has two characters in the scene and it’s evident who’s talking, you
may drop the dialogue tags because your audience can easily figure out how an
A/B conversation goes. However, if there’s any doubt about who’s speaking, go
ahead and utilize those dialogue tags.

38 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

If you’re inclined to get fancy with the verb in the dialogue tag, don’t. Sure, you
can “reply,” “note,” “explain,” “yell,” or “accuse.” The default, though, is
“said.” If you’re concerned about overusing “said,” don’t be. It’s the default for a
good reason.

Audiences learn to almost ignore the word “said” — it sort of fades away. But they
surely notice when someone “declaims,” “vociferates,” or “asseverates” their
words. And audiences laugh. Rightly so!

Stay away from sticking adverbs onto dialogue tags. For instance

“I had a great day!” Zerbit happily said.

“This makes me so mad!” Zerbit said angrily.

If you’re worried audiences won’t get the meaning, pick better words for the
dialogue part. Skip the modifier. To paraphrase Stephen King, the road to hell
might indeed be paved with adverbs.

Writing script dialogue

The dialogue options we mention in the section “Recognizing the types of
dialogue,” earlier in this chapter, is effective choices for fiction. However, for
scripts, you have one choice — direct dialogue. And the direct dialogue is always
written without dialogue tags, too. Sure, you can put in notes to direct how an
actor should conveys the lines, but that’s not the same thing as including all that
handy exposition and nifty action around the words within quotation marks.

Don’t assume that writing script dialogue is any easier or harder than fiction
dialogue, however. It’s just different. You simply have to invest more time into
making sure that the dialogue words themselves do all they can to reveal a char-
acter’s character, create conflict, advance the plot, and give useful information. If
you can do more than one of those things at the time, so much the better! In
scripts, dialogue needs to carry as much weight of the story as does the action.

Here are some good ways to get better at writing dialogue for scripts, though these
tips can also help with fiction dialogue:

»» Less is more. Pare things down to only what matters. If you can’t immediately
find two reasons for what’s being said, cut, cut, cut. With film, a lot can be
done by sound, image, or action. Use those, if you can.

»» Use subtext. People rarely say exactly what they’re thinking and feeling. Let
people be evasive, contradictory, or passive aggressive. On-the-nose dialogue

CHAPTER 2 Creating Characters 39

 is boring and feels fake. Trust that professional actors will know how to make
the complexities of subtext come alive.

»» Skip what’s known. If anyone ever says, “As you know . . .” what comes next
is 100 percent unnecessary because everyone already knows it.

»» Break it up. In real life, people aren’t grammatically sound. They don’t always
finish sentences because . . . Sometimes they answer the wrong question. And
people interrupt. A lot. Employ just enough of that to make your film dialogue
feel real.

»» Sound natural. Nearly everyone uses contractions, so it’s odd when dialogue
doesn’t. “It is such a beautiful morning. Do not be afraid to enjoy it.” Weird,
right? Unless the speaker is a snooty professor-bot or bowtie-wearing wizard
with a formal air to all they do, text without contractions comes across as
inauthentic and clunky.

»» Avoid dialect. Using dialect without sounding absurd or offensive (see

Chapter 23 on appropriateness and representation in stories) is really quite
difficult. If suggesting an accent is vital, avoid the “Is ‘zis ‘appening?” strategy
or spelling things phonetically. Instead, try strategic word choices and syntax.
Sentence fragments can help, as can simply saying, “Her accent was thick as
Xandatorian cheese.”

»» Don’t speechify. Lots of films have a great monologue or speech, but those
instances should be rare. Keep things moving in all the other moments.

»» Remember that silence matters. Strategically placed silence can be as

powerful — or even more so — than words.

»» Read aloud any dialogue your write. Even better, enlist some friends to do
it while you shut your eyes and carefully listen. It’ll quickly become apparent
whether the dialogue is working or not.

The late Oscar-winner Mike Nichols once said there were three types of scenes:
a fight, a seduction, and a negotiation. Even though we can think of other types
of scenes (see Chapter 3 to read all about scenes), his three categories do a very
good job of summing up the bulk of dialogue exchanges. What his ideas have in
common is that people want something. Get clear about that, and let the dialogue
work toward that goal, whether it’s yelling, smooth-talking, or arguing with
logic.

40 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Creating drama

»» Structing stories for success

»» Looking at key plot moments

Chapter 3
Laying the Foundation —
The Power of Plot

W
ith characters your audience cares about in hand, you’re ready to put
them into action. That means plot, which is the framework of a story.
And it also means scenes, which are the fundamental building blocks of
plot. Here’s a quick definition of both you can refer to again and again as you read
this chapter:

»» Plot: At a basic level, it’s what happens in your story. However, plot is a good
bit more than that because the what-happens occurs in a specific way — it’s a
dynamic chain of causes and effects. One thing leads to something else, and
then that leads into something else. Nothing is random, coincidental, or
without story purpose.

We frequently return to this clearer definition: Plot is a series of story events

that are deliberately arranged so as to fully reveal their dramatic, thematic,
and emotional significance. To create a plot is to decide what to put in a story
as well as what to leave out.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 41

 »» Scene: As for scenes, they’re the building blocks of those plots. Scenes are
meaningful moments of dramatized action that move a story forward. Think
of them as miniature plots because, like plots, scenes take place in a specific
time and location, they have both a conflict and a resolution, and they include
a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Scenes, like plots, are causally connected to the scene before and after. In a
good story, nothing happens in isolation.

This chapter helps you discover plot and scene techniques that successful writers
use to create a well-structured story that engages audiences from page one to
The End.

Many people use the term “story” and “plot” interchangeably. That’s fine in the
same way that the world doesn’t end when you say a bumblebee is a “bug” when
it’s actually an “insect.” Still, you should be aware of the difference between story
and plot. Story is the overall experience. It’s the sum total of character, setting,
action, emotion, and everything else that an audience takes away from the narra-
tive experience. Plot is a machine — a purpose-built structure — that creates this
powerful narrative experience.

Engineering Great Drama

Whether you call it the dramatic question or the story question, every story fun-
damentally asks this question: Will the protagonist do X or not?

That’s it. Laid out bare, that’s what people want to know from a story. Will the
hero solve the mystery of the bizarre interstellar signal? Will the hero survive the
deadly meteor swarm? Will the hero overcome their inner demons to become the
much-needed Chosen One?

In our teaching, we rely on this sentence to get students thinking about dramatic
questions and their built-in conflicts:

In a world where _______ wants ______, they can’t get it because of

________.

That setup has built-in drama, and those tantalizing blanks just ache to be filled
in with creative answers.

42 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

FRAMING YOUR STORY IN ANOTHER WAY
You can use other ways to frame important story questions that get at the possibilities of
drama. The late beloved writing teacher Gary Provost used a popular four-sentence
prompt to help students uncover the dramatic possibilities tucked away in their story ideas.

“Once upon a time, in a world where things just felt wrong, something happened to
someone, and she decided she would pursue a goal. So, she devised a plan of action,
and even though there were forces trying to stop her and she’d made other plans for
her life, she moved forward with the help of a companion, because there was a lot at
stake — both for her and for her world. And just as things seemed as bad as they could
get, she lost something precious to her, she realized something important, and that
understanding led to her triumph. But when offered the prize she had fought so hard to
gain, she had to decide whether or not to take it, and in making that decision, she satis-
fied a need that had been created by something in the past.”

Wow, those vague story elements just beg to be made concrete, don’t they? How
many stories that you love and admire fit terrifically well into this dramatic mini-
questionnaire? How well does your story idea fit into this?

Provost’s prompt addresses what audiences desire from stories, and it lays out the key
story moments in a cause-and-effect setup called plot. He’s not breaking new ground
here. He’s just reminding you of plot fundamentals and inviting you to bring your own
characters, settings, actions, and ideas to make the story uniquely yours.

To engineer great drama, feel free to go beyond the main dramatic question
because audiences ask all manner of less-vital-but-still-worthwhile story ques-
tions all the time. For example, “If the Chupacabra King knows that the scientists
from Los Alamos are stealing Chupacabra eggs for terrible medical experiments,
why doesn’t it just smash through the walls of the research facility and gobble up
every nerd in a lab coat?”

Great question! So, make sure your story offers an answer that satisfactorily
explains why the Chupacabra King doesn’t go bonkers on Los Alamos. Uncovering
answers to reasonable questions will help you write and revise the story, plus they
might open up even more possibilities for drama, conflict, and audience enjoyment.

Here we take a good look at how to create great drama through the use of struc-
ture, pattern, and values.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 43

 Examining values
Another good way to think about stories is how they put core human values in
conflict. Love versus hate. Knowledge versus ignorance. Justice versus injustice. A
dramatic question may be “Will the two merfolk ever get together?” The key con-
flicts in this story then would challenge the value of love. Is love worth it? Are they
a good match? Can anyone truly give themselves unconditionally to another?

Depending on what actually happens in the story, writers may run across other
vital questions about love. Does a mother’s love have limits? Does love trump
greed? Is love more important than duty?

Whichever way this merfolk story goes, the climax and subsequent resolution
becomes a commentary on the value of love as dramatized in the story. Even
though this comment on love may not be true for all love in all places and all
times, it’s absolutely true for these characters in this story.

Quality dramatic questions highlight values that inform the lives of audiences.
Good genre stories are so much more than snarky dialogue, interplanetary war-
fare, and magic rings. Yes, genre stories should be exciting, but for them to have
lasting impact on an audience, they need to engage with things that matter more
than pyrotechnics and CGI. That boils down to values, those things people believe
are vital to the way they live.

Creating compelling conflict

At the heart of every plot is conflict. Some writers find it hard to write conflict and
it’s easy to see why. All their lives, they’re told at home, at school, and at work to
avoid conflict. Don’t yell! Don’t argue! Don’t fight! And now here we are, saying to
go against years of constant messaging that conflict is bad.

SETTING THE STANDARD WITH SCENES

At some point in the writing process, you need to make sure that every scene contrib-
utes to the story in a meaningful manner. That means you’ll likely have to throw out or
change a lot of what you wrote. That’s why most writers plot at some level before they
write. It increases the likelihood that your scenes are properly linked by cause and effect
and that you’re not wasting time on pages that are bound for the recycling bin.

What happens if your scenes aren’t rich with dramatic and emotional texture? Or if they
don’t combine to create a seamless, logical storyline that we call plot? You already know
that answer. Audiences will walk away.

44 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Conflict in life is bad. Conflict in stories is good. More than good, really — conflict
is necessary. Conflict in stories is when two or more opposing forces clash in the
service of a narrative. Conflict is more than random squabbles and low-grade dis-
agreements. It gets audiences connected emotionally because the stakes are high.
A sense of urgency must exist to move the story along. And no stakes are higher
or more urgent than death.

“Wait! I want to write an easy-breezy dark elf rom-com! There’s no death here!”
we can hear you saying. Fair enough. We absolutely don’t recommend that bodies
must hit the floor in every sci-fi, fantasy, and horror story. However, think about
what death represents  — it’s the ultimate loss. That’s what we mean by high
stakes. Characters must be in danger of losing something valuable, all the way up
to potentially being murdered by a troop of nectar-soused pixies.

Here are the different ways that high-stakes loss can show up in your story with
brief examples for each:

»» Professional: For most people, suffering a major setback at work or losing

one’s job has huge ramifications — as in your career as an intergalactic spy is
over because you’ve been publicly outed by a spiteful ex-colleague.

»» Spiritual: For someone who believes in God or a religious system, a spiritual

blow may be devastating — as in seeing the aftermath of the Great Goblin
War left you unable to pray to your deity, Dazorr, the God of Fangs.

»» Psychological: All people are subject to emotional loss, mental anguish, and
fear — as in witnessing a tentacled horror devour your paranormal investiga-
tor partner has you unable to leave the supernatural safe room in your
high-rise apartment.

Conflict doesn’t mean much if the stakes aren’t sufficiently high, so let loss be
your guide. And if it makes sense for your story, give your protagonist the ultimate
stakes and watch how quickly audiences perk up.

With conflict, someone’s going to lose something they don’t really want to, and
someone else is going to gain. Conflict is about imbalance and a shift of power. If
there’s only one laser sword to be had and two people desperately want it, tough
luck to one of them. Yes, that person loses their chance to own the coolest weapon
ever, but along with that, they may lose their self-respect, their honor, or their
left hand. It might’ve been quite the struggle!

Because everything in a story is causal, these losses can launch the next story
event — the character trying to redeem themselves by taking action in response
to these setbacks. Perhaps going on a holy quest fixes their honor deficiency.
Challenging that laser-sword wielder to a duel might win them the sword. What
else might they do to overcome one or more of these losses? The wrong answer is

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 45

 “Nothing.” Whether they embark on a wise action or a foolish one, the key is that
they act. Passive characters aren’t crowd pleasers.

Starting with Freytag

Way back in the 1800s, a German writer named Gustav Freytag created a visual aid
to help understand ancient Greek drama and the plays of Shakespeare. It proved
so useful that we’re still using it for its clarity and simplicity to talk about all kinds
of stories. This visual aid is called Freytag’s Pyramid or Freytag’s Triangle, and we
discuss what you need to know about the Pyramid in the following sections.

Breaking down Freytag’s Pyramid

Here are the relevant parts of Freytag’s Pyramid (the numbers correspond with
Figure 3-1):

FIGURE 3-1:
Freytag’s
Pyramid.
© John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

1. Exposition: Also known as the introduction or pattern, this is the main charac-
ter’s life and world prior to the story beginning. It’s the norm, the pattern, the
general routine of their life. Because it’s so flat, you don’t want much of this in
stories, but you need to have a good sense of it such that the events of the
story are seen in the proper context.

2. Inciting incident: This is the external change that lifts the main character out
of their everyday world into a new situation full of tension and important
stakes that unfold via a chain reaction of events. The strongest inciting
incidents are dramatized with action or movement — someone having a
realization is far less impactful.

3. Rising action: As the story progresses, each complication and conflict leads to
another complication and conflict — a constant cause-and-effect chain of
increasing importance and stakes. You can think of this upward-slanting line as
a narrative tension barometer with moments of relief that then rocket forward
into new complications and conflicts. Everything runs hotter and hotter until . . .

46 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

4. Climax: This is the turning point of the story. It’s the moment of highest intensity
that’s dramatized by powerful action. If there’s a BOOM in the story, look for it here.
5. Falling action: This action presents the immediate impacts of the climax’s
outcome. Because the tension and stakes are decreasing fast, this part should
be far shorter than the rising action.
6. Resolution: Here the primary story problem is resolved, and all dramatic
questions are literally or metaphorically answered. The main character will now
settle back into the new norm of their life — for good, bad, or otherwise.
Well-intentioned writers sometimes prefer the word “denouement” here, which
is French for untying knots. But Freytag didn’t use that word, so neither shall we.
7. New pattern: Also known as the new norm, this is the world of your story after
the character has undergone their arc of change. Here’s where any final
questions or issues are handled and sequels are set up, if you’re planning
sequels. The new pattern suggests what the character’s new life will be like after
those meaningful events of the story. Audiences don’t need nor want to see a lot
of this — just a whiff, a taste. Don’t defuse the narrative power of your ending by
going overlong. Trust the audience to infer beyond what little you include.

Freytag’s Pyramid helps identify key points in your story and remind you of the vital
important of escalating tension and stakes. It’s not a one-size-fits-all solution, but
it remains an important tool for helping you think through and organize a story.

Here we delve a bit deeper into the elements of Freytag’s Pyramid.

Committing to cause and effect

Take a closer look at the rising action part of Freytag’s Pyramid (refer to the fol-
lowing figure). From a distance, it looks like a steady, straight line. Get a bit closer,
and it actually has little dips after each big upward movement that represent the
beginnings and ends of scenes. The rising action should be a series of actions and
reactions at the scene level that collectively build toward that whiz-bang climax
your story promises to deliver.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 47

 Stories are more than just taking your characters out for a wild rollercoaster ride.
What audiences see is the result of a writer allowing characters (through goals and
desires) to forge their own path, and then reap the rewards or other consequences.

In well-made stories, things don’t happen in isolation. When talking about scenes
and plot, use words like “because” and “therefore” because those words acknowl-
edge a story’s causal relationship. One domino falls because the one before it fell,
therefore it falls into the next one, which tumbles because it just got thumped. And
so on. That’s what the rising action line of Freytag’s Pyramid is trying to help
you see.

Steering clear of online pyramids

Because you’re really squinting hard at Freytag’s Pyramid here, we need to point
out something else beyond that denouement sham. Freytag’s Pyramid is com-
monly depicted as an equilateral triangle online. The point at the top sits dead
center. What 300-page sword-and-sorcery epic novel has the big-fight climax at
page 150? What werewolf movie has the top lycan get dropped with 50 minutes left
to watch?

Freytag was thinking specifically about old, old drama, plus he had a different idea
of what the story climax was. Just ignore those other versions — what we’re shar-
ing here is more relevant for the type of stories being made and enjoyed today.
Don’t be duped by what you see online.

Finding the tension

While conflict is the engine of stories, tension is the fuel that runs the engine. As
a noun, tension is the state of being stretched tight, perhaps to the point of dis-
comfort or pain. It’s also mental or emotion strain. As a verb, tension is the appli-
cation of force to something  — or someone?  — that stretches it. For stories,
however, tension is narrative stress that creates the anticipation of potential
consequences.

Audiences feel this anticipation when they’re spellbound by the tension crackling
between characters. Yet audiences can be equally engaged by a heap of tension
within a single character that’s paralyzing them with fear or motivating them to
action. Are you able to leave the audience breathless with anticipation because
they know more about the appearance of a dark, mysterious box than a character
in the story? That’s a first-rate use of omniscience or having more than one point
of view character (refer to Chapter 2 for more about point of view).

Here are some ways to make the most of story tension.

48 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

USING OTHER POPULAR STORY
STRUCTURES
“Using a story template guarantees a cookie-cutter, boring, cliché piece,” some warn. Not
at all. All a template does is remind you of key structural opportunities and connections
that make an effective story. It’s just a way to give you something to start with. Seeing all
the blank spaces in the charts or graphs has a way of firing up the creative juices.

Here are four popular story templates that you might find useful:

• Save the Cat: Created by the late Hollywood screenwriter Blake Snyder, this is a
variation of the three-act structure. Its two main features are the intuitive 15-beat
structure and its articulation of the ten amusingly named genre types (like “Dude
with a Problem”) that articulate the must-haves for each genre.

• The Hero’s Journey: Inspired by Joseph Campbell’s idea of the monomyth — which
suggests common storytelling patterns in world mythology — you can easily see
this framework in movies like Star Wars, The Matrix, The Wizard of Oz, and Avatar. The
most prevalent iteration of The Hero’s Journey is a simplified version created by
Disney executive Christopher Vogler.

• The Story Circle: Dreamed up by Dan Harmon (of Rick and Morty and Community
fame), this distills Campbell’s monomyth into eight stages of a plot that occur in a
circular process. The Story Circle guarantees change — it’s baked right into its DNA.

• The Plot Clock: Created by literary agent Joyce Sweeney and writing coach guru
Jamie Morris, this template looks similar to Dan Harmon’s Story Circle in that it’s cir-
cular like the face of a clock. Its four-act structure is designed to ramp up the action
and help writers power through middles.

Many free or inexpensive resources are available to help you make the most of any of
these story structures. See what you can find on YouTube and supplement with articles
and books as you see fit.

Embracing different types of tension

Audiences aren’t the only ones feeling and responding to tension. Characters feel
their own tension — anticipation or stored potential story energy — through con-
flicting wants. Tension is created when someone wants something but faces formidable
resistance. Two opposing forces clashing together generates a back-and-forth of
tension up until one side wins out. Those battles are the conflict we’re talking
about in stories. Physical, mental, emotional, or otherwise, they drive things for-
ward and have consequences that matter.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 49

 Examining the source of tension
Story conflict always comes from somewhere. Before things get to the point of
open conflict worthy of dramatizing in a scene, characters have a host of low-
grade tensions informing their lives. Stories build upon existing tensions in the
world, in the scene, in the character that expand as the story unfolds. Here’s an
example of how long-standing tensions erupt into current-scene conflict in a
years-long cause and effect.

Bram the robot repair assistant hears someone scream, “Stop, thief!”

The audience knows that back when he was at the Sunrise Orphanage, the other
kids pushed him. Mocked him. Stole his blankets, rations, and tablet. Always he
wanted to do something . . .but little Bram was too scared. There were too many of
those bullies, and they were big and mean and awful.

Now fully grown, Bram still has nightmares.

“Stop, thief!” he hears. And when he sees the thug running down the street, Bram
sees the face of the lead bully and he’s paralyzed. It’s him — the bully!

Yet Bram is sick and tired of being scared. He reaches deep within himself and
manages to summon courage he didn’t know he had. Bram leaps from the
shadows and punches that bully right in the face. Boom, down.

This single action that seems potentially out of a character for a quiet, gentle robot
repair assistant makes sense, given the long-standing tension and built-up emo-
tion. Push anyone hard enough, and they’re going to respond. Eventually.

Because audiences know stories work from a cause-and-effect relationship, this

scene isn’t just about Bram finally saying “No!” to past injustice. The bully-thief’s
stolen bag of data crystals falls to the ground and spills into the sewers and is lost
in those dark waters. The head of the Ripper Gang who needed those data crystals
for nefarious purposes is furious. Even now, a pair of thieves is en route to burn
down the repair shop and give Bram a beating.

What will Bram do when he hears them step over the squeaky boards on the deliv-
ery dock the next morning? The thieves are Tromborii and Bram is half-Trombor,
and in this particular story world, Tromborii hate impure bloodlines, as in hate
hate hate them for centuries-old reasons. Given that long-standing inter-species
tension, they decide a beating isn’t good enough for the abomination that is the
assistant. In their view, Bram deserves death.

Conflict leads to conflict leads to conflict. And it’s all informed by underlying,
powerful tensions.

50 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Thinking about tension in terms of Freytag, set up key tensions as part of the
character’s exposition, which is to say their backstory. When audiences see that
and watch the character’s current behavior, there’s an aha! moment. It all clicks
into place, as it did when audiences see Bram finally stand up for himself after a
lifetime of disempowerment.

Considering tension and psychology

The only psychology audiences know is that of humans. If your character is an
alien, a robot, a dwarf, or a shadow creature, audiences will use human psychol-
ogy as a vehicle to understand their actions. If the characters are playing by dif-
ferent mental rules, devise a way to clue audiences in or they might feel their
actions are weird or random since humans wouldn’t act that way.

For a horror story, weirdness and randomness may be extra creepy (see Part 5 for
how they might work to good effect). For sci-fi and fantasy, we require a better
understanding because audiences want to connect with those characters more
than with a horror monster.

Considering character arcs

Chapter 2 examines character arcs, which are how a character changes in funda-
mental ways over the course of a story. Plot is the arena in which you see those
character arcs play out. Realizing this, you can use plot to highlight and comple-
ment a particular character’s arc. You do this because stories are about character
change, of course, and because change is often internal, audiences require plot to
help visually dramatize it.

Freytag’s Pyramid can help because it maps out actions and reactions via rising
action. At the same time, it also tracks changes to the character as well as show
how they interact with the world, because rising action is all about characters and
growth. Whether it’s how they relate to the world, how the world relates back to
them, or how they seem themselves in the world, this is change. What makes it a
proper arc is the transformation from one state at the story’s beginning all the
way to another by the ending.

Here is an example: We explore how that idea plays out in a maturation story
about Sirith, a young swordsman in training. He’s enjoyed the security, structure,
and protection of a military academy for years. Strip that from him by having a
trio of specters rage through the campus while Sirith had snuck out into town to
carouse  — an immature act of minor rebellion. Just imagine the agony he felt
upon climbing back through a propped-open window to discover his classmates
and teachers all slaughtered.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 51

 For someone on the cusp of adulthood in terms of age, experience, and obliga-
tions, this is a crucible moment. Through dumb luck, immaturity saved Sirith’s
life. Now he has a chance to be reckless and charge after those murderous specters
to avenge all those deaths and likely cause his own demise because he’s not ready.
He’s not fully trained, and even if he were, the combined skill of his teachers was-
n’t enough to stand against their foes. Look, the proof is all that blood on the
academy floors.

Plot positions Sirith to make a choice related to maturity. He decides to find a new
weapons master, complete his training, and only then embark on his quest for
revenge. Along the way, he’ll shed his childish views about the world as he grows
internally while he becomes more powerful externally. Plot must give ample time
and opportunity for Sirith to slowly develop into a competent swordsman. That
kind of transformation doesn’t happen in a blink.

Or does it? Perhaps in your version of this story, the training isn’t as important as
what happens next. If so, you can fast forward by letting all that reading, studying,
learning, and practicing happen offstage by using narrative summary, which is to say
telling audiences about those activities versus showing them in fully developed scenes.

Maybe your version tackles maturity in a different manner. Perhaps after coming
back to the massacre, Sirith is so shaken that he vows to never to lift a sword again
because violence now seems unconscionable. Or maybe he arrives at the academy
just in time to encounter one of the specters who then attacks him but leaves him
alive, though badly hurt. Is Sirith so injured that he’ll never be able to properly
wield a sword despite desperately wanting to? Does that mean he’ll study to be a
priest or wizard instead and use the powers of one of those callings to find revenge?

Keeping up the pace

Pace refers to the speed and rhythm of one’s story experience. If the plot of a story
is a 20-room mansion, pace is how fast audiences move through the various
rooms. What follows are ways of thinking about and using pace more effectively
in stories.

Identifying pace in your story

To spot the pacing from a bird’s-eye view, follow these simple steps:

1. List all the major actions, reactions, and revelations that happen in your
story.

2. Add in the times when audiences learn information that casts the central
character’s conflicts and their stakes in new light, too.

52 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

3. Mark the page number for each of these vital story moments.

4. Determine when the first arrives.

Does it happen more than 10 percent into the story? If so, that’s a slow
beginning.

5. Identify the gap between the others.

Smashing scenes too closely together is as much of an issue as having too wide
of gap between them.

Picking up the pace

Generally, you want the pace to pick up in a story, but that’s especially true after
audiences pass the midway point of the story. You want your story to grab hold of
the audience’s interest and not let go until the story’s end.

Here are a few ways you can pick up the pace if it’s lagging:

»» Write the scene to be more essential to a character. The pace revs higher
when a scene is important. Have your character consider the outcome of the
scene to be important. Audiences will pick up on that and believe it.

»» Pare back language. Getting rid of chunks of exposition or even trimming

back modifiers can make a section read more swiftly.

»» Cut scenes. An effective way to control pace is dealing directly with scenes
themselves. If a scene is dragging, consider deleting it.

»» Swap scenes. So long as you don’t confuse the narrative, swapping scenes
can create interesting effects, which include affecting the story’s pace.
Consider how scenes work with the scenes before and after them.

»» Use cliffhangers. Cliffhangers are a plot device that leaves something

important unresolved. If the outcome is unknown, audiences will plunge
ahead to find out what happened. That’s a trick episodic TV writers figured out
decades back and have been using to good effect ever since.

»» Write short chapters and scenes. James Patterson does this all the time in
his zippy, quick-read novels. You can do the same thing with sentences. Dump
the long-winded, drag-on sentences that we see oh-so-often in fantasy novels
so thick that they can double as a doorstop. Instead, go short. Get punchy.
Pump things up. Yeah, baby!

If you need to slow things down, do the opposite (though 90 percent of all pacing
problems are about things being too draggy, not too zippy).

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 53

Building Story Structure
Some writers insist they’re a “pantser” versus a “plotter” — meaning they write
“by the seat of their pants” without an outline, plan, or preliminary plot work.
Can they write and publish stories? Absolutely. But without doing serious plotting
as part of their storymaking process, pantsers run into unnecessary problems
such as focusing on the wrong point-of-view character, getting lost in the details,
losing overall narrative cohesion, or writing themselves into a dead-end from
which they can’t see a solution. Plot is a story’s infrastructure. Avoid it at your
own peril.

Stories require a good foundation, the same way a skyscraper or any building
needs a proper foundation. If that foundation is lacking, weak, or ill-conceived,
you’re in trouble.

The sooner you get a strong foundation in place, the sooner you can build mean-
ingfully atop it. Here we explore some ways to build a story from the ground up.

Understanding scenes
Scenes are so important to structure that many writers don’t do chapter-
by-chapter outlines — they go scene by scene instead and insert chapter breaks
later in the manuscript itself. We prefer to write outlines by chapters, but the other
option is perfectly valid and may work better for you. Try both options out and see.

Scenes offer narrative moments rendered in dramatic fashion. What makes a

thing scene-worthy? It shows meaningful change. That’s it. That’s the bare mini-
mum. Although a scene can advance plot, reveal information, offer characteriza-
tion, and deliver humor, fear, or surprise, those things are secondary. Valuable, of
course, but not a must.

No one likes flat scenes, those parts in stories where stuff happens, but none of it
appears to matter all that much. It just burns up time. The antidote to this is mak-
ing sure that every scene shows change.

These sections examine the three effective ways to ensure your scenes incorporate
change. In all three cases, you have meaningful change that necessitates action
and offers loads of opportunity for your character to act in ways that reveal who
and what they are (their character arc). See Chapter 8 for how the story world can
become a character.

54 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Option One: Changing characters
Track a scene’s effect on the focus character of the scene (a character who is the
star of the scene, though they may not be the star of the entire story). Ask yourself
two important questions:

»» Where are things at for the character at the start of that scene?
»» By the end, are things worse or better?
If you can honestly answer yes to the second question, congratulations, you have
change.

When our students finish the first draft of a novel, we insist that they write every
individual scene onto its own notecard and then lay them out in a linear fashion
to ensure sure adequate movement from scene to scene as well as to assess the
overall mood of the story. Is it mostly down? Up? Does it build nicely right up to
the key story parts, such as the climax or the resolution?

Option Two: Changing stakes

The stakes can literally change from one thing to another. Because the stakes are
different, the importance and meaning of what’s happening necessarily changes,
too. For example, at one point, a character may covet becoming the richest pho-
thyst miner on X-47, only to later learn that shaft-mining phothyst — the only
viable way to do it — causes sinkholes, so their goal shifts to saving the environ-
ment by campaigning to make all mining illegal.

If two characters in a fistfight stop pummeling each other and both draw knives,
that’s some stake-upping that works for any audience. Just remember to vary the
types of conflict and use both internal and external stakes to keep things fresh.
Audiences appreciate it when a character is affected in some internal way when
they engage with external problems. Characters like that phothyst miner aren’t
mindless creatures after all.

Option Three: Changing the world

Even though the majority of change audiences expect to see is in the character as
they undergo their character arc, the setting can change, too. The moment a story
environment changes, you’ve literally created meaningful change that characters
must deal with. An errant wizard’s lightning blast may set fire to a crop field,
which establishes the groundwork for a future food crisis. Or the world may be
more active, such as when a melting glacier hits the tipping point and millions of
gallons of water suddenly flood the underground capital city on Regula Five. Or
the character starts a revolution that overthrows the Priest-King, only to find
themselves responsible for filling the sudden leadership vacuum.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 55

 UNDERSTANDING STORY BEATS
Hollywood people like to talk about story beats in films, which are an even smaller unit
of story. They have their own unique definition, too, which we won’t go into here. For
most non-Hollywood writers, a beat is a small story part that shows a small change. A
scene that changes from overall positive for the character to less positive could incorpo-
rate three or four story beats that could be mostly positive, but the last one may carry
enough oomph to shift the overall scene value downward.

If the idea of beats feels too in-the-weeds, that’s okay. Just ensure that each scene
shows change and you’re on the right track.

In the world of film and TV, most writers think of a scene as a location. Move to a
new location? That’s a new scene. Yet a scene is fundamentally about change that
comes as a result of conflict. Until that scene’s conflict is resolved and change
occurs, it’s the same scene, regardless of whether the participants travel to a new
location or not.

Using scene sequels — Action/reaction

When a scene ends, characters shouldn’t always just rush to the next scene with a
new goal and its related conflict. Sometimes they need to react to what happened
in the previous scene, especially if it ended in failure. Welcome to what some call
the scene sequel. It’s basically another way of thinking about the next part of the
story, the reaction to an action. Among other uses, it’s a way to insert emotion,
which is easy to neglect when the zombies are swarming, space blasters are firing,
and magic summoning circles are alight with malignant energy.

Sequels provide a chance for characters to learn and grow. They also provide wel-
come variation to the scenes and give the audience a breather. Even the best page-
turner can’t be all go-go-go action. A little contemplation is both reasonable and
believable.

Keep the following in mind when adding a scene sequel:

»» Your character has to react to what just happened. They have to feel
those feelings! Let them. But not for too long, because it’s boring to watch
people wallow, and, after all, your character has moxie. They’re no quitter.
Even though they’ve encountered a setback, they have a large overall story
goal that’s driving them, and they won’t get there by giving up at any point
along the way.

56 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 »» Your character has to face their current setback. They’ve got a dilemma
here. Allow them to consider their options, and then make the best choice
available, likely with the help of a companion, mentor, or another supporting
character. From that, they have a new goal that launches the next scene which
might or might not end better for them. Who knows?

»» Your character has a negative-to-positive change. A scene sequel almost

always has the character moving from a state of failure to one of hope and
promise by virtue of having a new plan that’s intended to advance them
toward their ultimate story goal.

You can use more than one type of scene sequel. Sure, having a think/feel moment
is okay. Sometimes, however, the reaction moment that’s most authentic to your
character or the situation is to punch back at something, literally or figuratively.

Adding variety to your scenes

Even though scenes mostly fall neatly into the action-or-reaction category, a
numerous specific types of scenes are worthy of looking at more closely. Here
are some:

»» Interrupted scenes may begin one way but then something interrupts it,
which dramatically changes its goals and conflicts. Interrupting scenes is a
jarring technique for characters and audiences alike because there’s no
closure to the original scene goal. Only try it when the stakes are high enough
to keep audiences engaged beyond the awkwardness of nonclosure. For
example, a trio of security bots appear and take position outside the door
your character needs to go through. Or a rival can’t finish a vital debate with
your character because a subspace message about ship vandalism has them
rushing to the hangar.

»» Scenes within scenes are similar to interrupted scenes, except the initial
scene conflict resolves. The scene within the scene delivers new information
or changes character motivation, which alters how the initial conflict plays out.
Keep the interrupting scene short so audiences don’t lose track of the initial
scene.

»» Multiple-goal scenes have multiple conflicts and character wants in play

simultaneously. A classic example is a fighter dueling away with an opponent
while keeping up charming banter on a love interest who’s watching the fight.
Or imagine a heist situation with a team of thieves who each have different
personal agendas they’re pursuing while working together to crack the bank
vault. Multiple-goal scenes are thrilling and rewarding when they come
together, but they take careful planning because so many extra elements are
happening at once.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 57

 »» Dream scenes only work if they’re not a cheat, meaning that audiences know
it’s not a dream, and that it’s reflecting a character’s interiority versus deliver-
ing crucial plot development. The dream environment is just a different way of
them working through fears or tensions. Keep the dream scene short and
sweet unless you’re writing a fantasy story where dreams are the predomi-
nant mode of magic or something equally vital. In that case, set up your rules
and have at it (take a look at Chapter 16 for ideas on how to handle magic).
Otherwise, employ dreams only to reveal character.

»» Flashback scenes stop the present story and explore the character’s history
to provide backstory. A flashback scene is most often part of a reaction scene
as the character dives into their past to summon knowledge that will help in
the present. Flashbacks work best when they’re brief, vivid, and relevant. They
can also create tension in the present moment while the narrative storyline
moves away.

»» Flash forward scenes are the opposite of the flashback. A flash forward is a
less common device that gives audiences a sneak peek into the future, often
to the moments before the climax or even after the story’s end. Using a flash
forward at a story’s beginnings can work to hook an audience by promising a
powerful ending will come later. In every case, it creates useful narrative
tension that makes audiences eager to know more. The best flash forwards
use foreshadowing to hint at something without giving it all away.

»» Prologues are introductory sections to provide context and offer background

details that prepare audiences for what’s to come. They’re extremely common
in sci-fi and fantasy because writers think, “Hey, I’m doing all this worldbuild-
ing, and how can anyone appreciate my story without knowing how the cat
wizards lived 6,000 years ago?” (Let Chapter 7 help you manage the challenges
and opportunities inherent in worldbuilding.)

Prologues are problematic because so many industry gatekeepers hate them.

Quite a few agents and editors who see a prologue instantly pass on the story
altogether. That may not be fair, but it’s the truth and you need to know it.

Too often, prologues are long, loosely connected to what follows, and/or
written in a different voice or style than the rest of the book. If they’re better
than chapter one, that creates disappointment. If they’re worse than the rest,
that’s a bigger problem. Often, they’re an info dump. Plus, they rarely start
where the real story begins.

Unless you have a very good story-based reason to use a prologue, steer
clear. If you can’t help yourself, maybe write that prologue, then cross off the
word “prologue” and write “chapter one.” Often, that does the trick.

»» Epilogues appear at the very end of the story and have the purpose of
providing closure. You only see epilogues on long-form stories, and even then,
they’re rare for good reason. If you handled the climax and ending well, the
epilogue isn’t needed because audiences already have closure.

58 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Thinking bigger — Sequences
Change doesn’t only happen in individual scenes. You can connect a series of
scenes into a larger unit of character change called a sequence. A sequence can
entail one chapter or many. However, the bigger the sequence is, the more signifi-
cant the change must be. The change that occurs at the end of a single scene may
be quite small and only loosely related to the overall narrative arc, like a space
freighter captain haggling a junkyard owner into a great deal for a replacement
hyperlathium generator.

A sequence change is much more connected to the larger story, such as the captain
hearing a rumor about the secret identity of their nemesis, then getting into trou-
ble with the Nightskull Syndicate while following up on that rumor, and then
ultimately discovering that secret, which creates a whole new set of connected
problems going forward, which is the next sequence of events.

This sequence of scenes is just part of the whole-story arc that offers this basic
question — will the space freighter captain defeat his nemesis?

The concept of a story sequences can be expanded further by looking at story acts.
String together two or more related sequences, and you’re in the realm of acts —
the biggest story units other than considering the entire story as a single narrative
entity.

An act is series of sequences that culminates in a significant change. These changes

must come with more profound consequences than the changes audiences see at
the sequence or scene level.

For example, an act-level change can be that the space freighter hero from the
above example realizes he can’t defeat his nemesis alone, so he swallows his pride
and asks for help from his estranged father, who puts his son through a series of
challenges before finally agreeing to help. That act ends with father and son will-
ingly joining together toward the same goal for the first time ever. Will it be
enough to defeat the nemesis? Perhaps. Regardless, the space pirate has taken a
huge step toward maturity and a commitment to justice that he wouldn’t and
couldn’t have made at the story’s beginning.

A popular way to plot stories is with the three-act structure. Entire books have
been written about this one idea, and lots of definitions and examples are availa-
ble for free online. In general, though, it hearkens back to Aristotle, who wrote
about it in his Poetics. His argument was that a story consists of three parts  —
beginning, middle, and end — which can be summed up as setup, conflict, and reso-
lution. That’s grossly underestimating all that goes into it, but in terms of the
function of each act, it’s fairly accurate.

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 59

 For those who like numbers, most Act 1s and Act 3s each tend to make up a quarter
of the story, which leaves Act 2 to deliver the other half of it. Variations on this
structure exist that use four, five, six, or even more acts.

Examining Key Elements of Plot

The two most dangerous moments in an airline flight are the takeoff and the
landing. The middle of every flight? It’s long and boring.

Stories are pretty similar, minus the in-flight pretzels. Whether you’re writing a
novel or a short story, a movie or a graphic novel, beginnings and endings are
problem areas, and middles have a huge potential to be boring.

Here we look at the opportunities, challenges, and conventions of each of those

parts. We also examine climaxes because they deserve special attention because
that’s where the key battles happen.

Beginning with a bang

Beginnings are the most important part of a story because if they don’t work,
audiences quit. The rest of your story could be brilliant, but no one will stick
around long enough to know.

The way to make beginnings work is to know what audiences have been taught to
expect from them thanks to watching a zillion Disney movies, oodles of TV, and
reading however many books and stories. People may not have the specific terms
handy, but they have a shared understanding of what beginnings must do.

Freytag’s Pyramid says that beginnings should do the following (refer to the sec-
tion “Breaking down Freytag’s Pyramid,” earlier in this chapter):

»» Present external change that launches the protagonist outside the

comfort and familiar routine of their normal life. This change can be overt,
such as moving to Jupiter Prime for a dangerous job you can’t afford not to
take, or it may be far more subtle, like getting an email that a distant relative
has died and you’re the executor of the will. The key is to get the protagonist
uncomfortable. Show that things aren’t an everyday occurrence.

»» Reveal the pattern of the protagonist’s life by suggesting its regular

features. Don’t show their daily work routine and home life in full scenes. Just
show them bored at their desk and, later, smiling inside their VR helmet.

60 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 »» Showcase a sense of the protagonist’s character. Audiences don’t need a
resume, home movies, or a battery of psychological tests, but give them
enough to infer how the protagonist may act in most situations. The broad
strokes will suffice for now.

»» Start as near to the story’s action as possible. The inciting incident should
occur in the first scene, unless you have a very compelling reason for not
getting the story rolling right off.

»» Familiarize audiences with the style, tone, and pace of the overall story.
Teach audiences how to read this story and what to expect from it in terms of
your narrative style. Use a representative style, tone, and pace from the start
so audiences can get acclimated. Don’t begin with a jokey all-text-message
scene if the rest of the story isn’t that funny nor does it use text messages
again. That’s misleading. And weird.

»» Hook the audience through tension, immediacy, and energy. Make them
want to keep reading. That’s the No. 1 goal here. If you’re not successful with
this, it’s all over.

One strategy that can work well is to begin a story in medias res, which is Latin for
“in the middle of things.” If laser swords or arrows are zinging in the first para-
graph, that’s in medias res. Your audience can’t possibly know who they should
root or fear for, but by gosh, stuff is happening, and it’s so exciting that they’re
happy to just go with it for now with the assumption they’ll puzzle out the other
stuff later. Yeah, audiences love action that much.

A benefit of in medias res openings is that they skip all the info dump inclinations
writers have, along with the throat clearing and slow warmups. Audiences are
plopped right into action. The story has already begun.

Trust your gut. If you’re not sure how to start, ask yourself what’s most impor-
tant? What’s most interesting? Or consider how if your story were a film, what
would be the strongest possible opening scene?

The beginning of the story is never the true beginning of desire or conflict. Those
are already in place well before page one. What the beginning does is activate
desire and conflict via dramatic action. The best editors are usually able to draw a
line across the page to show where the story really begins. That’s a good exercise
for all writers to try.

If you honestly can’t decide how to begin, just start any way you can. Revision is
part of the process for a reason. Do what you have to in order to get a complete
first draft, ugly as it may be. Then go back and adjust as needed, which can include
beginning differently than with the first moment in the chronology of your story.
Making that decision is far easier after you have a full draft than when you have a

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 61

 blank page and too many ideas. If you need to know more about revising your
story, head to Chapter 22.

Maintaining audience interest —

Magical middles
If middles make up about half of your story, it’s no wonder that writers struggle
to keep the audience’s interest. With beginnings, things are new. With endings,
things are wrapping up. Your audience is intrinsically interested in those parts.
Middles often feel like something to slog through to get to the good stuff like the
climax and ending.

Every part of the story should matter, and nothing should feel like a throwaway or
appear noticeably less good than the rest. Here are some of your best options for
strengthening your middle:

»» Introduce a subplot. A well-considered subplot puts the spotlight on second-

ary characters for a moment, while perhaps allowing a wider exploration of
your story world. You can use a subplot to adjust the pace of your story,
weaving it in and out to keep audiences guessing at how it will play out while
adding a bit complexity to your story. The larger your story, the more room for
subplots you have, so long as none of them overshadow the main plot. Echo,
yes. Run parallel, yes. Enhance similar themes, yes. Just don’t compete.

»» Embrace failure. No, not your failure as a writer, but let your protagonist fail.
Most audiences covertly love to see a hero crash and burn because the stakes
just get higher as they pick themselves off the ground with renewed purpose.
Failure generates audience empathy.

»» Speed it up. Shorten deadlines. Instead of having a week to locate the lost
stone of Anyxia and return it to the high priest, the hero now has three days.
Or 24 hours! Less time equals higher stakes. Crank up the pressure.

»» Kill someone off. Nothing says stakes like having a beloved secondary
character take a dirt nap.

»» Fake that climax. Give audiences a big scene that, in the moment, seems like
the real story climax. The only challenge here is that the real climax that
comes later must deliver even more. But that’s a problem for later. Right now,
you’re trying to get through that middle.

»» Take a left turn. The ending you planned isn’t set in stone. If you sense a
dramatically interesting possibility, take it. If you’re shocked and pleased by
that unexpected move, audiences will be, too. Yes, the rest of your story may
now need rethinking, but an exciting turn is an exciting turn for every
audience member. And excitement keeps audiences going.

62 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Fulfilling story promises —
Knockout climaxes
Your story’s biggest obstacle is finally here. The stakes, emotions, tension, and
fears are at their highest point. It’s really intense! So, what now?

The climax should be as much about the values at play in the story as any type of
conflict or action, even if the protagonist and their opponent are settling things
with magic swords, blasters, or ghost minions. The climax should also answer the
dramatic question and fulfill, challenge, or deny the characters’ wants.

Because climaxes are so vital to an effective story, here are three common ways to
get them right:

»» Find the right speed. A blast of adrenaline only lasts for a bit, and the same is
true for the audience’s ability to engage with such a high-stakes scene. The
pace needs to be brisk. But you can’t go too fast either because audiences
have waited the entire story to witness the climax. They want to savor it,
whether the protagonist succeeds or fails. Given that, what’s the solution?
There’s a sweet spot in the middle where things are thrilling and richly told,
yet nothing feels draggy or superfluous. Give it your best shot, and then enlist
outside readers to get firsthand reports about whether your climax zings and
zooms or falls flat. See Chapter 23 for details on outside readers for help.

»» Make them work for it. The climax should test the protagonist more fully
than any other point in the story. Make sure they reveal who and what they
are and what matters most to them. Giving characters an easy out is a cheat,
and you won’t be fooling anyone. The audience came to see someone tested
to the max, so push that protagonist further than they’ve ever been pushed.
Make it hurt.

»» Consider the implications. The ramp-up to the actual climax needs to have
preparatory thrills, perhaps facing temple guards or crawling through an
underground sewer to find a hidden crypt the big baddie’s using as a lair.

You usually can’t ignore the aftermath. After defeating the temple’s dreadlord,
minions are still fighting, plus the roof is collapsing. Or that crypt is being
flooded by the nearby lake, and the only exit is through the rat swarm
blocking the single tunnel leading out. Think through the logic of the moments
before and right after the big showdown. If there’s something to deal with, let
it be part of the wonderous experience of a memorable story climax. If there’s
nothing to deal with, move on!

CHAPTER 3 Laying the Foundation — The Power of Plot 63

 Finishing strong — Satisfying endings
Endings should seek to enmesh audiences in the story’s outcome to the point that
they can’t stop reading, regardless of the real-world time or situation. In addition,
make sure your endings do the following:

»» Endings should fully resolve the central conflict, one way or another.
»» Endings should also resolve the character arc, regardless of what type of arc
it is.

»» Endings should feature your protagonist front and center, acting with a sense
of urgency as their character arc comes to a close alongside the narrative arc.

Together, these should provide a satisfying moment. And after you’ve

delivered that, you’re done. Don’t add anything after the end of your story.

A common mistake writers make with endings is the impulse to surprise, as if

there’s a deep fear that audiences will be mob-level angry and disappointed unless
there’s a Mardi Gras spectacle to those final pages. Ending this way comes across
as a desperate way to get an emotional reaction from the audience.

If you have an intricate juggling act going with a slew of ideas and themes in the
narrative, those things are already in play. Your audience has seen flashes of them
all throughout the story. All they need know is to get them to land safely, not toss
more things into the air.

The whole story should feel in alignment. That’s why revision is vital, and why
you should do it only after you’ve a complete draft so you know all the individual
parts as well as the entire thing.

Yes, you can leave things open-ended to set up a sequel, so long as audience still
feel an appropriate amount of closer with this story. The key is to satisfy
audiences — not necessarily to answer all questions and wrap things up in a neat
little package. And even if you aren’t planning a sequel, it’s nice if the audience
wants to continue to be in the world you created with your characters. In other
words, leave them wanting, but just a bit. Give them enough so that they can
imagine for themselves what might happen next.

64 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Exploring prose

»» Surveying scripts

»» Imagining interactive stories

Chapter  4
Crafting Many Worlds,
Many Media

T
his chapter helps you consider how to share your stories with the world.
Good news! There are more excellent options to reach audiences than ever
before. Writing big genre novels may be a tried-and-true choice, but it’s
only one pathway among many that you can take on your journey to success.

The audiences are out there, and they’re hungry for well-written, exciting original
genre work in all kinds of media. Deliver that in any of the media we discuss in
this chapter, and they’ll respond.

Chapter 24 addresses the logistics of submitting work to agents, publishers, and

producers. In this chapter, though, we look at what your story options really are.
We also share tips and best practices for each.

Writing Prose — An Oldie but a Goodie

When writers talk about prose, they mean traditional fiction — text on a page that
tells a made-up story. Reading fiction creates and sustains connections that get
firmly into the hearts and minds of other people. Along the way, fiction delights,
instructs, and charms. Few things have the cultural capital or sheer entertainment
value of well-written fiction.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 65

 The strength of fiction is character interiority  — the thoughts, feelings, and
reactions of a character (see Chapter 2 for guidance) — and a limitless ability to
handle setting, which is both time and geography (see Chapter 3). In short, you
never need to worry about a budget because all the worldbuilding happens in the
heads of your audience. Fiction also supports a lot of different shapes, sizes, and
styles, which make it flexible enough for nearly any story you want to create.

No matter what you do, let your story dictate how long it needs to be. Then you can
figure out how to make it work for publishers and audiences through using one of
the following formats.

Novels
Novels are a book-length fiction narrative. “Exactly how long?” you ask. It
depends. A book’s size isn’t solely related to story needs — it involves industry
factors like the cost of paper and ink, or audience expectations for page count.
Consider how long some of the following examples of novels are:

»» Middle grade — 40,000 to 60,000 words: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the
Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis is about 40,000 words.

»» Young adult (YA) — 50,000 to 90,000 words: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld is about
87,000 words.

»» Adult — 75,000 to 125,000 words: The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin
is about 85,000 words.

Some published books clock in well past the upper limits (witness Diana Gabaldon’s
Outlander at 305,000 words or Stephen King’s It at 445,000!), but those are excep-
tions. When you’re a bestselling author or you have your own Netflix series, go
ahead and write novels as big as you choose. For now, see if you can keep it less
than 100,000 words because anything more requires a bigger financial commit-
ment for a publisher.

Novels are great because you have ample narrative real estate to work with. Want
to write a cradle-to-grave story of a fireball-chucking Chosen One? Want to create
a zombies-versus-unicorns battle that takes place across three dimensions? Want
to explore an idea like “secrets are essential to a happy marriage” through the
lives of passengers on an intergenerational ship? A novel gives you the space (pun
intended) for all those things.

The novel format expands to offer you as many creative opportunities as you want.
You can explore complicated plots and subplots and go deep and build a world
with many levels. You can have multiple points of view, an ensemble cast of main
characters, a handful of themes, and much more.

66 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

We can’t ignore the strong tradition of sequels and series in genre fiction. If your
vision is expansive, you might absolutely need a quintet of novels or a shared-
world spinoff series to fully reveal the depths of your imagination. In horror,
sequels and series aren’t as common, but they sure are a thing in sci-fi and fan-
tasy. Having a built-in, ready-made audience for your next book  — because
they’ve bought previous one(s) in the series — is a welcome thing, too.

Because of its size and complexity, writing a novel isn’t for the faint of heart. It
often requires a year or more to write and revise one. Be realistic in your timeline
and expectations if novel-writing is the route you choose.

Although some novelists enjoy flashy Netflix and Hollywood deals where their
stories get adapted to the screen, writing novels isn’t a guaranteed path to those
outcomes. Yes, it can happen, but it’s not the norm. If you really want to see your
work on the screen, refer to the section “Writing for Screens Both Big and Small —
Scripts,” later in this chapter, which may be a better fit for you.

You should only write novels if you want to write novels. Simple as that.

Novellas
If a novel seems like too much, no worries. One step smaller is the novella, which
falls between 17,500 and 40,000 words. For the longest time, it didn’t get a lot of
love. Publishers avoided them, which made writing novellas an unattractive option
because one of the primary goals to write something is to have it find its audience.

Thanks to changes in the marketplace, novellas are now viable. Traditional

publishing houses are finding ways to make money with 100-page books. And
digital publishers have no issue with stories of any size because the production
costs are roughly the same whether it’s a 9-page short story, a 99-page novella,
or a 999-page novel.

Novellas have the compression of a short story — a good thing! — paired with the
opportunity to explore that long-form fiction provides. It may be just be the best
of both worlds. It’s sizable enough to have a complex plot, rich characterization, a
deeply explored theme, and a subplot or two. You’re even able to use multiple
points of view while keeping the pace brisk and lively.

A novella’s the sort of thing one might devour in a lazy Saturday afternoon of
poolside reading. The single long-session readability allows for resonance and
reflection that could be lost in the longer (novel) format. Novels insist that you
explore the world and setting, whereas the size of a novella can keep it intensely
character focused.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 67

 Don’t be a creator unless you’re a consumer. If you want to write novellas, read
some first. See how other writers operate in the space considerations of the form.
Make sure you like novellas before saying, “Yes, I choose this  — this is what
I want to do!”

Short stories
The short story is one of the oldest types of writing, with examples on papyrus
dating back thousands of years. Even though short stories have changed since
then, the length hasn’t. Their strength remains in the ability to read the entire
thing in one short sitting, so 1,000 to 10,000 words feels about right. Writing
fewer than 1,000 words is called flash fiction or short-short stories — these little
tales often work more like a poem, mood piece, or comic moment than a
proper story.

Why write short stories? They offer audiences a powerful story experience that
occurs in a concentrated narrative time frame. There’s no time to ramble or wax
overly philosophic. Writers must get right to it. These babies deliver the goods,
then wrap it all up nicely and send you on your way.

Short stories often begin close to their endings to keep things laser-focused. They
rely on a single plot and conflict to drive the action — no subplots here, or if they
exist, it’s only one, and it’s super basic. The cast of characters, too, is limited, with
perhaps only two or three characters of real significance in the story.

WRITING A SHORT STORY IS DIFFERENT

THAN A NOVEL
Some people think that short stories are just practice for novels. They believe they’ll
build up their story chops and pay their dues by banging out a few short stories before
graduating to a novel. Although both are indeed fiction, they’re as different as an urban
muralist who paints seascapes on the walls of buildings and sculptor who creates
miniature bicycles in bronze.

Writing a novel and writing a short story are different skill sets that can inform each
other, but each requires unique attention. After you find which form you work best in,
put the bulk of your writing energy and focus there. Trying new things, sure, is always
refreshing, but you’re better off finishing works and sharing them with the world than
dabbling in lots of areas and never moving to the next level with any of them.

68 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 Endings always matter with any work of fiction, but with short stories, the ending
is a make-or-break situation. A novel or novella can deliver a range of pleasures
along the way such that if the ending is just so-so, audiences may be okay with it.
With a short story, you have to stick the landing. If it’s not a satisfactory conclusion,
the story doesn’t yet work. In short (pun intended!), the specific language you use
becomes more important the shorter you piece is. That’s why poetry is so exact!

Writing for Screens Both Big

and Small — Scripts
Scripts are an exciting story format option because the media options that rely on
it have large built-in audiences. Make no mistake — scriptwriting is a very differ-
ent type of storytelling than what one does anywhere else. It may even seem
daunting at first. And it’s true that the requirements for specific media like film,
TV, plays, audio drama, and comics may differ a bit, yet all of them are built on
what makes stories work in any medium. Character. Action. Dialogue. Conflict.

The strength of film and TV lies in visuals and external conflict (see Chapters 2
and 3), whereas the strength of audio fiction is sound. Plays, too, privilege sound,
but primarily in the form of dialogue. The selling point for comics is the potent
combination of text and image — it gives audiences multiple levels in which to
engage the story.

Most scripts require others to be part of the storytelling process: actors, directors,
producers, technicians. They’ll necessarily bring their own ideas and creativity to
the project at some level. If you’re not a fan of collaboration or you want full cre-
ative control over every aspect of your story, think twice before working in the
world of scripts.

What follows are your primary scriptwriting options. Read on to see whether these
are the best pathways for your stories. If you wish to take a deeper dive into this
exciting area, we recommend the latest edition of Screenwriting For Dummies by
Laura Schellhardt (John Wiley & Sons, Inc.).

Film
Film presents you multiple opportunities to fine-tune your writing muscles. You
have two main options:

»» Writing short films: The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences calls
these “an original motion picture that has a running time of 40 minutes or

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 69

 less, including all credits.” Why go with this option? All the main reasons have
to do with it size.

Because it’s shorter, writing a short film requires less characterization, plot,
action, and dialogue to manage. For some writers, a short film allows them to
feel less overwhelmed by so many moving story parts. Short films are also
cheaper to get made because they’re short, meaning they’re cheaper to shoot.
They may be the easiest route to being able to call yourself a produced
screenwriter. Plenty of famous writer-directors — like Tim Burton and Wes
Anderson — started with shorts and eventually moved on to features.

»» Writing feature films, like those you see in movie theaters or stream
online: These motion pictures tell a complete story in 100 to 150 pages.
Features aren’t quite as expansive as novels because it takes time to show
things visually on a screen. That’s why so many novels that get adapted have
pages, character, and entire plotlines cut in order to make the film. Trust us,
100 to 150 pages for a script is more than enough to present a compelling
story and delve deep into its nuances and richness. Feature films can work
wonders even without high-tech special effects, exotic locations, and original
sound and music.

One of the best ways to study anything is to see how the pros do it. Search online
for free film scripts — you’ll find a lot of options, including freebies of all the cur-
rent Oscar winners and nominees. See what makes them so good. Ask yourself
what lesson you can learn from them and be able to apply to your own writing.

Because so many people are in love with film and there’s so much money to be
made here, producers and their script readers are flooded with screenplay sub-
missions. That means that the gatekeepers are looking for reasons to reject just to
deal with the volume, so don’t give them any. Avoid common rookie mistakes, like
having a slow first page, ignoring the industry standard format, having characters
who seem indistinguishable (look similar, speak similarly, or have similar-
sounding names), and too much directing on the page, like using SLAM CUT!
DISSOLVE TO! FREEZE FRAME! Trust that the director and cinematographer are
pros. And no pro likes someone else telling them how to do their own job.

STANDING OUT AS A SCRIPTWRITER

Film and television scripts have specialized formats that you must use to pass muster
with industry gatekeepers, who insist on such things. Using pro-level scriptwriting soft-
ware will make your life a thousand times easier. We like Final Draft and Fade In, but
some of the free ones, like Trelby or Highland 2, may serve your needs well enough.

70 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Make sure you write visually. That doesn’t mean describing the hilt of Mercenary
#3’s sword or the texture of a genie’s flying carpet fringe. It means using telling
actions and dialogue to reveal character and powerfully advance the story. This
means writing a script that shows an actor and director how to dramatize mean-
ingful emotion. For guidance on how to do that, visit Chapters 2 and 3.

TV
Breaking into TV writing requires a spec (speculative) script that’s either an
episode for an existing TV show or a pilot for your own original show. The latter
is a much newer phenomenon, which is the route we recommend. The pilot script
serves as kernel for an entire series. Match that with a story bible — a document
that delivers key information on the world and goals of your series — and you’re
on the right track. You’re presenting yourself as someone who’s put in the work
to develop the future of your concept beyond a single script.

The TV world is a tough one to break into, but with more streaming TV options
emerging, your chances improve each year. Give yourself an extra advantage by
writing a killer script that’s un-put-downable.

Need a few TV-script-specific tips? Here are four ways to stand out from the
masses.

»» Think about your first season in terms of three acts. You’re not making
eight one-hour shows, you’re essentially making one eight-hour show. Assign
your episodes the proper function of the appropriate act. The first three are
the setup, the next four are the rising conflict, and the last few are the climax
and resolution.

»» Employ cliffhangers. Don’t just use them at the end of each your first three
episodes — which you must do to get audiences hooked! — but also at the
end of season one. That’s how you sell the producers on buying season two.

»» Give main characters a break. They used to have to be in every episode. No

longer. Thanks to binge-watching, people will see them again soon enough.
Use this freedom to explore other themes, subplots, and storylines.

»» Trust your ABCs. In the TV world, a single episode runs three plots at once.
The A plot gets about 60 percent of the screen time, the B gets 30 percent,
and the C — if it’s there at all — gets maybe 10 percent. The A story is the
primary focus. The B storyline runs parallel to the A story and features
supporting characters, whereas the C story may be a small one-off moment or
set up a payoff later in the series. The A and B plots should resolve at some
level with each episode, however, though not at the season-level of impor-
tance and closure.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 71

 DIPPING YOUR TOE INTO
SCREENWRITING — WEB SERIES
If you love the idea of writing for TV, another option to break into that world is writing
for a web series. In essence, you’re writing episodic stories just similar to what you see
on TV, only these webisodes are solely meant for an online audience through YouTube
and other video services. Although web series have no set standard for length, many
individual webisodes range from three to ten minutes, which means you don’t have
multiple pages to grab audiences like you do in novels or feature films — get them
hooked in 15 seconds or they’ll click away.

Some web series have the same high production quality as anything you’d find on
TV. Others embrace a DIY mentality that can add to the fun. If you want to write for a
web series, consider launching your own. It’ll take an initial investment to get the right
cameras, lighting, and sound equipment, and you’ll need to rope in some actors. But it’s
doable, and potentially a lot of fun.

Podcasts
The field of audio drama is booming, and podcasting has proven to be the best way
to present audio stories. Even though nonfiction is still the predominant form in
podcasting, more and more fiction podcasts deliver original stories to their fans.
As a sidenote, do you know what are the top three types of fiction podcasts? Sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror, in that order.

Fiction podcasts vary greatly in subject matter, style, and length, but many run
from ten minutes to an hour per episode. They follow these two story formats
(stick to our advice about each format):

»» The first option essentially is where a standard short story is simply read
aloud — ideally with some sound effects and music, but not necessarily so.
Just write your idea as a traditional short story and submit it for consideration.
Easy enough.

»» The other option works like an old-time radio drama with multiple actors,
music, and sound effects. You’re essentially writing a short film or a TV
episode, only without visuals because listeners can’t see physical action. That’s
quite the challenge.

Sound and rhythm are key to creating audience connection and amplifying con-
flict. Generally, keep each scene to three or fewer characters, so audiences can
keep track of who is who. Also make your settings rich with sound, like having

72 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

your robot detective chase down a suspect through a bustling amusement park or
letting a pair of amateur teen paranormal investigators creep through a creaky
ancestral mansion that might or might not actually be haunted.

Because the visuals aren’t there, make the audience create them for you. Their
imagination will run wild if you just nudge it with key details. “Oh my God!”
shouts the teen in that scary house. “What’s that oozing from the eyes of that
painting? Is that . . .?” In the mind of the audience, yep. That painting is now leak-
ing blood or ectoplasm or whatever gross liquid fits the scene and story that
you’ve built up. Regardless, it’s a wonderful moment of trust and co-creation with
the audience.

Instead of submitting your writing to existing fiction podcasts, consider starting

your own audio drama podcast. It’ll take some technical know-how and money for
microphones and audio software, but nowhere near the cost of making even the
cheapest short or feature film. Having your own podcast to showcase your original
writing allows you to keep the intellectual property and potentially get Hollywood
or TV producers interested in paying you a lot of money to develop your story into
their medium. Amazon Prime, FX, NBC, SyFy, and Facebook have done this with
the most successful fiction podcasts. Perhaps you’re their next success story.
Check out the latest edition of Podcasting For Dummies by Tee Morris and Chuck
Tomasi (John Wiley & Sons, Inc.) for more information.

Plays
This option doesn’t come to mind as readily as many others, but that doesn’t
mean it can’t be a fantastic option. For one thing, live theater may be the only art
form where storymakers — writers, actors, and directors — are able to witness
the audience both receive and react to the story. That unpredictability is amazing.
As a result, little nuances of the story may change during every single perfor-
mance despite the story and script staying the same.

If you’re a fan of dialogue, then plays are an ideal form for you. Plays are about
relationships and ideas and characters engaging with them. Scenes play out in
real-time, without cuts, edits, close-ups, or any of the other tricks of other visual
media, which means the dialogue has to be finely crafted and carry much of the
dramatic weight of the action and reaction of your journey through the story’s plot.

Horror theater focuses on building dread and anticipation, the shock of the Grand
Guignol. King Arthur and Merlin found one of their most famous iterations in
Camelot. Science fiction plays can ask what-if questions about possible futures
and big ideas. The most famous word in all of science fiction comes from a science
fiction play, Rossum’s Universal Robots by Karel Čapek. It not only gives us the word
“robot,” but it also ends in science fiction’s first robot uprising.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 73

 Comics
Say “comics” and some people immediately think of those superhero comic books
that parents complain will rot their kids’ brains. We mean more than that here —
comic books have are so many styles, sizes, and subjects. In addition, here we also
mean graphic novels (longer comics that include fiction, nonfiction, and antholo-
gized work). Fundamentally, comics and graphic novels are sequential art stories.
Their main creative task is to marry words and visuals to create maximum impact
on the page.

An advantage in the comic medium is that the writer has a lot of power. In other
text and image combinations — like children’s picture books — the writer writes,
and the artist does the art. Often the two never meet or talk! With comics, the
writer writes and also directs the artist with clear written instructions on the
page  that match with the dialogue. It’s rare, but some very talented artists do
the full job.

By virtue of using panels  — those individual frames inside which the story
happens — the comic writer has a unique tool to work with. The size, shape, and
frequency of them all affects how the story works. We heartily recommend Scott
McCloud’s Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art and Making Comics: Storytelling
Secrets of Comics, Manga and Graphic Novels (both by William Morrow) to see exactly
how to use panels and the other unique elements of comics that make this such an
effective, popular story format.

If you’re interested in writing comic books, a good analogy is an episodic TV show.

Each comic book equals one episode. If you prefer to create graphic novels, those
function more like a novella or novel, with the bonus of cool visuals and fun
special effects.

Inviting Audiences to Co-create —

Interactive Stories
With interactive stories such as video games, tabletop games, and other immer-
sive story experiences, audience are active consumers. Why just read about or
watch a psychic detective chasing a possessed schoolteacher through the streets
of New York City when you could be that psychic detective yourself? Want to use
telekinesis to knock down a trash bin in front of her? Go for it. Want to yell for that
off-duty cabby to stop her? Holler away. The choices — and their consequences —
are all yours.

74 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

Here we examine the different types of interactive stories and identify what’s
needed from the writer to make these satisfying.

Video games
Perhaps the most immersive story experience comes from video games. Even
without getting into virtual or augmented reality, audiences still enjoy stunning
environments, captivating sounds and sounds effects, and eye-candy visual
details, which makes sense because the budget of high-profile video games can
rival that of Hollywood blockbusters.

In video games, players become co-authors with you, the writer. Their choices
determine the fate of the story’s characters and their actions resolve the conflicts.
There are tons of different styles of games, and writing a video game can mean
anything from creating movie-style scripts to inputting a thousand different
possible responses into a spreadsheet (honestly, it’s more often that last one).

Games with linear stories employ the straightforward plot techniques in

Chapter  3. The gameplay (shooting, running, jumping, puzzle-solving) adds a
challenge and a sense of accomplishment that heightens tension and excitement
(and sometimes, yeah, frustration), but the story is the story and as a writer you
have a familiar job.

Nonlinear stories are where video games really shine, and writing one of these
takes a lot of extra work and a whole different kind of thinking. You get to create
interesting choices that the players have to think about, pay off those choices with
equally exciting and unique outcomes, and write whole scenes and story arcs that
a player might not ever see. And the effect is unique to games: The audience feels
a true sense of responsibility for the characters, which is a powerful emotion few
art forms can offer.

Plenty of story-driven game experiences don’t require a $10,000,000 investment

and a team of 25 programmers. Audiences enjoy choose-your-plot style games on
their phone, which might have lots of still art, a couple of drawings, or have noth-
ing but text. Simple can work if the character, story, and game make sense and are
enjoyable.

Tabletop games
Tabletop games — meaning anything from card games (Magic: The Gathering and
Exploding Kittens) to board games (Settlers of Catan, Pandemic, and Risk) to role-
playing games (Dungeons & Dragons, Vampire: The Masquerade, or Pathfinder) —
typically combine traditional storytelling with interactivity.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 75

 Board and card games lean into the story world in which they take place and rely
on short pieces of writing combined with evocative art and design to convey a
sense of story. Think of the venerable chess set with its knights and queens; it
alludes to the broad concept of war but is mostly about the challenge of beating
your opponent. More narrative-rich games these days include named characters,
fictional worlds, and even small pieces of prose scattered across the cards. Writing
for these kinds of games relies on inspiring your audience and letting them fill in
the rest with their imagination.

Role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons have rulebooks longer than most
novels. They’re a writer’s dream, with tens of thousands of words to set up the
world and define its characters, monsters, and magic items. Writing for a role-
playing game means providing the players with deep reserves of setting and game
rules that inspire them in creating their own stories. Think of playing one of these
games as improvisational theater in a world built for conflict that’s filled with
wondrous props and thrilling premises. Your job is to make those props and
premises and turn the players loose.

The tabletop game industry is having a renaissance right now with more ways
than ever to break into the field. The competition is stiff, so your game has to look,
play, and read great in order to succeed. But if you have a great game, the audience
for it is probably happy to back its crowdfunding campaign on Kickstarter, allow-
ing you to bypass all the gatekeepers in other industries. See Chapter  24 on
self-publishing.

Immersive experiences
In their most lavish form, immersive experiences are theme parks like Disney
World. But you probably don’t have a couple hundred million dollars to build your
own park. Much more manageable versions are out there, and immersive experi-
ences are increasingly popular at every scale.

Here are three types of immersive experiences:

»» Escape rooms: They’re the most obvious example where a group gets to play
at being the heroes in a high-stakes deadline-intense narrative window. Will
they solve the mystery and escape danger before doom strikes?

Because an escape room has a hard time frame — usually 60 minutes — you
can’t have more than a single conflict: escape! That makes the dramatic
question: “Will the group escape with their lives or not?” With those stakes, the
adrenaline is flowing, and nerves get frazzled. Players don’t have time to focus
on subplots. Even the cool scenery won’t be of much interest unless it
connects to the main escape plot. Unlike most video games or tabletop

76 PART 1 Getting Started: The Basics of Story

 games, an escape room has a single, linear path/plot with, at most, a single
red herring (something placed to lead audiences to a false conclusion). Like
any plot, the solution to an escape room needs to be firmly based in a
cause-and-effect relationship or those would-be escapees will be unsatisfied.
Probably mad.

»» Haunted houses: They’re another great example of a themed experience.

Here the plot and story are even more succinct, with audiences walking
through them. You have to cram in the mood and dread and jump scares, all
in minutes.

»» Immersive theater: Immersive theater takes audiences participation to

another level by inserting them into a story that’s playing out all around them.
Freed from their seats, the audience can explore the story space and experi-
ence the story from any perspective.

CHAPTER 4 Crafting Many Worlds, Many Media 77

2
Worldbuilding:
Journeys to
Other Worlds
IN THIS PART . . .

Build a story world that offers a unique experience for

audiences.

Find out why every world should be custom-built for

conflict.

Piggyback off past and present Earth to power up your

worldbuilding.

Create the wonders of your world through exposition,

not just explosions.

Craft worlds that also are characters.

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Identifying what makes your world

compelling to an audience

»» Creating story worlds based on

dramatic conflict

»» Deciding what parts of your world to

show and what to leave off the page

Chapter 5
Building a World Like
No Other

S
ci-fi, fantasy, and horror stories all take place in fictional worlds created by
storytellers. These days, folks usually refer to this process as worldbuilding.
Dreaming up a magical realm of wizards and dragons and magic rings is
worldbuilding. Mapping out another planet with giant sandworms and interstellar
conspiracies is worldbuilding. Describing a typical suburban neighborhood where
a serial killer stalks his prey on Halloween is worldbuilding.

Wait, suburban neighborhood? Yep, worldbuilding. Anytime you’re telling a

story, you’re also building a world, even if there’s nothing fantastical or high
tech about it. Perhaps that suburban neighborhood has vampires in the base-
ments or ghosts on the playground or bitter rivals on the homeowners associa-
tion who secretly love one another. Even when your story is set in a world that
looks exactly like the real world everyone knows, it’s not. Instead it’s a story
world; it’s your story world. As its creator, you make a thousand different deci-
sions about how that neighborhood works. You’re making a world tailor-fit to
the story and its characters.

This chapter approaches worldbuilding from the way you and your audience come
together: through the story’s characters and their dramatic conflicts. We then dis-
cuss the importance of focusing just on the parts of your story world that matter
to your story.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 81

Creating Worlds Worth Exploring
Building a custom world is a lot of work and responsibility, and Part 2 helps you
through the process. Here’s one core piece of advice to guide you at every turn:
Make a world no one has ever seen before and that only you can create. Your story world
offers a unique experience for the audience built from your passions, quirks, and
obsessions. The more of you that you pour into it, the more enchanting or thrilling
or frightening it will be and the more excited your audience will be to explore it.

Here are some key techniques for making sure your story world and your audience
connect with one another.

Making your place interesting

Every story is a journey into your story world with you as the expert tour guide. As
you set out to create this spectacular new setting, ask yourself these three ques-
tions and let the answers steer you through your journey of creation:

Who is the audience for your world?

You are the first audience for your world, but who else do you want to share it
with? Designers start their process thinking about their customers, and world
builders benefit from thinking up front about their audience. The whole world
isn’t going to experience your story, and trying to please everybody ends up thrill-
ing nobody. Instead, focus on the audience who will dive headfirst into your story.
Give them a world to explore that excites them and they’ll be the first ones to tell
their friends to jump in after them.

Perhaps your audience are fans of a certain genre like urban fantasy or cyberpunk
or ghost stories. Maybe they share a specific interest, like space exploration or the
history of a particular city or sword fighting. Some folks love a good caper story,
no matter the genre. Others find a special frisson from romance across cultures or
comedies of manners. Think about the audience you’re most excited to reach and
keep them in mind as you move forward. Those future fans can inspire and guide
you as you make the thousands of decisions yet to come.

How are they going to experience it?

The medium through which your audience enters your world profoundly affects
how they experience it. Prose fiction is great for thoughts, ideas, and emotions,
with room for deeper dives into lore. Film and television scripts favor the visual
experience of the world and allow for sound and music and atmosphere to enrich
the story. A comic book lives in its own special niche between the two, relying on

82 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

imagery artfully combined with words. A game lets the player co-author their
experience, which is a powerful feeling but requires you to create a world that can
hold up to interactivity.

When building your world, be mindful of the strengths and weaknesses of your
chosen medium. Also consider your own interests and talents as a storyteller. A
complicated web of intrigue and scheming (be it political, criminal, or supernat-
ural) plays out well in long-form prose and ongoing series. Your vision for a daz-
zling other world of sentient stone sages would likely benefit from some stunning
visuals to bring it to life. Perhaps your world would exist well across multiple
media. If that’s your plan, think about all these possibilities, but as you begin,
focus on the first medium you’re going to tell your story in and worry about adap-
tations later.

How do your own interests make

this world unique?
One of the oldest pieces of writing advice you’ll hear is “write what you know.”
That’s true, sort of. It absolutely helps a ton to know the subjects you’re writing
about, but that doesn’t mean you have to know it before you start writing. Instead
we like to say “write what you want to know about.” If something piques your
passions or inspires you, go find out more about it. See Chapter  6 for more on
research for your stories. The key here is: You’re passionate about a topic and
want to learn and explore it more.

That curiosity and interest can propel your story world to greater heights, enabling
you to play with and build upon your interests in unique and entertaining ways.
Only your specific combination of knowledge, imagination, aesthetic, and talent
can bring this specific story to life for your audience. Yes, you’re thinking about
who your audience is and how they’ll experience your story world, but just as
important is making the journey through your world one that you alone can guide
them on.

Knowing how your world works

You need to keep in mind a very true, very important fact: Readers know you wrote
this story. They know it’s not real, they know you’ve crafted it with care, and they
sure know when you’re cheating.

The all-too-convenient plot twist that saves your hero? The audience sees what
you’re doing there. The beyond-stupid decision that puts the ship in needless
peril? Everyone knows the author is really making the decision for them. The pre-
viously unstated weakness that makes slaying the kraken with a dagger possible?
Readers know that’s a cheat and nobody likes being cheated.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 83

 THREE EXEMPLARY WORLDS
You’re creating a world designed to tell your stories. Here we’ve created three worlds
designed to serve as examples. Each is a touch more generic than yours will be in order
to model core principles of story world design that you can apply across all genres. They
are as follows:

• Our fantasy realm is designed for epic tales of war, politics, and magical mayhem.
It’s built for a panoply of different characters and creatures and overflows with dra-
matic conflict, mystery, and adventure.

• Our space station orbits around a hostile alien world. It houses a smaller cast of
intrepid spacefarers in stories that push the bounds of technology and explore
strange new worlds.

• Our small town looks quaint and picturesque from a distance, but the tight-knit
community who dwells there lives in the shadow of ancient secrets that threaten to
spill forth into the daylight if someone opens the wrong (metaphorical or real) door.

Cheaters are breaking the rules of the story. Your story world will have its own
special rules. Magic exists, starships can travel faster than light, there’s a vampire
living underneath that 7-Eleven who only drinks the blood of those who’ve stolen
a Slurpee. The audience is here for it, as long as it follows its own internal logic
and you don’t cheat.

You get to create, break, and revise your world’s rules constantly as you write, but
by the time the audience shows up for your story, they expect some underlying
logic to hold sway. Learning those rules is an important part of the fun for readers
as they journey through your world, and the more they understand how every-
thing works in your story world, the more they’ll enjoy the story.

No set-in-stone rules apply to every story world, but unless you show your audi-
ence otherwise, they’ll rightfully assume that your story world has the same rules
as our world. That’s great, because you can assume everyone knows things like
love hurts and black holes are dangerous and cell phone service is spotty in aban-
doned mines. It also means that when your world works differently than ours, the
audience needs a little guidance.

This place is awesome! — Your pitch

No one has visited your world outside of your imagination. Perhaps your story
world is intricate, involved, and worthy of a ten-season TV show, but none of that
matters if no one comes to visit. An enticing description focused on the core appeal

84 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

not only gets your audience’s attention, but it also can help you concentrate on the
unique aspects of your story. In a sentence or two, describe what’s exciting about
your story world. Think about your target audience and what they’re into. Take
what excites you most about your concept and pitch it straight to them.

To spark your imagination, ask yourself what the first thing is you’d tell someone
about your world. Is it an ancient land where fractious humans, elves, dwarves,
and halflings must come together to stop an evil superbeing and his army of orcs
from plunging the world into darkness? Is it a dangerous desert world where
scheming noble houses fight over the sole source of the most valuable substance
in the galaxy? Is it a legendarily haunted house where a hubristic parapsychologist
has brought together vulnerable psychics to prove the existence of ghosts?

STORY CHEATS — STAY AWAY

AT ALL COSTS
Story cheats are the lies that writers tell themselves when they write. They’re basically
excuses for delivering an easy cliché instead of following the rules and logic of our own
stories. Watch out for cheating in these ways:

• That’s how these stories go. Just because your friends’ stories have their charac-
ters run upstairs instead of out the back door when the werewolf breaks in doesn’t
mean you have to follow their bad example. If you’ve seen it a thousand times and
groaned out loud at the contrivance of it every time, it has no place in your story.
Clichés are always dubious; illogical clichés are ruinous.

• No one will notice. Audiences are smart. As a writer, you want them to be smart
because that lets you tell smarter stories. If you see the logical fallacy, they will, too.
Don’t bet against your audience by assuming no one will notice that the Deathknight
“forgot” to use its flame staff at just the right moment to make your plot work.

• Normally I’d never. Audiences love characters who chase their dreams and
desires, even when doing so leads them into trouble. Audiences are annoyed by
characters who suddenly behave out of character and make unexplainable choices
for no reason. Chapter 2 discusses characters’ wants, moral codes, and desires in
greater detail.

• This is just so cool: Cool things are cool! A sweet-seeming old-timer who whips out
a blaster from nowhere and headshots every killbot in sight and then delivers an
equally killer quip can get you some smiles and nods in the moment, absolutely.
But if you don’t tie a cool thing to the story logic at some point, if you never know
why your character has a badass blaster and a filthy mouth, then the shine wears
off quickly and readers end up confused or bored.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 85

 Your pitch shouldn’t be any of those exactly, because Lord of the Rings, Dune, and
The Haunting of Hill House have those covered, but even if you’ve never read those
books or seen the movies based on them, from a single sentence you can see some
of what’s so exciting about them. Each focuses on the most interesting and pro-
vocative things about the world. You don’t need any proper names or specific ter-
minology like Sauron or Arrakis or Hill House, for your imagination to start firing
off all kinds of intriguing questions about those worlds and the stories that might
happen there. Refer to the nearby sidebar about sample pitches to get you an idea
of how effective sample pitches sound.

Some version of your pitch will end up as part of the message you use to promote
your story to an audience. It works best when coupled with some specific chal-
lenge for the story’s characters. It gives the readers signposts on what’s impor-
tant in your world and gets them thinking about implications and curiosity to read
more. It also serves as a useful reminder to you as you write your story: The pitch
is what you thought was the most exciting thing about your world before you
started. Keep coming back to this pitch as you write and ask yourself if that’s still
true. If it’s not, maybe you’ve veered off your path and need to refocus.

The pitch isn’t a contract, it’s a tool.

SAMPLE PITCHES IN 30 SECONDS

Here are some sample pitches to help you put your thoughts in order:

• Fantasy realm: A priest-king’s attempt to bring fair and impartial justice to his
kingdom unleashes a magical Truth Plague upon the realm, causing anyone who
lies to transform into terrifying creatures while blessing those who never withhold
secrets with a soporific sense of superiority.

• Space station: An interstellar war leaves Space Base Alpha isolated in orbit around
an inhospitable world. Where once the station’s crew simply serviced transports
and oversaw robotic mining on the planet below, now they must try to make the
dangerous alien world their new home.

• Small town: A pair of charismatic outsiders move into town and buy the recently
closed Saint Andrew’s church, promising to turn it into a meditation and retreat
center. Most townsfolk extend the strangers a wary welcome, but a few begin to
suffer unsettling visions and drastic mood shifts whenever the church bells ring.

In each case, readers start to imagine all kinds of stories without being told any
additional information about the story worlds. The magical curse creates immediate
physical consequences for what is normally a purely moral and intellectual decision.

86 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 How dangerous are those liars turned monsters? Does the priest-king think that the
transformations are a price worth paying? How can this powerful curse be lifted?

The consequences of war and the challenges of the unknown already have your readers
worried about the future of the space station’s crew, while the presence of robots and
an alien planet promise intriguing possible solutions. What makes the planet so danger-
ous? Is it the environment, the alien life forms, or both? What happens when enemy
forces from the war find their way to the station? Can those robots be trusted?

The actions of outsiders repurposing sacred institutions and structures for their own
beliefs presents a clear dramatic tension, with the mysterious bells adding an element
of the uncanny, which indicates deeper forces at work. Who are these two outsiders
really, and is their charisma dangerous manipulation or genuine friendliness? Is there
something supernatural going on with the bells? Is this so-called meditation center a
front for a cult?

Building Worlds for Conflict

Storytellers don’t usually create worlds just for the sake of making worlds. You
create them for stories, and your story world is a place for drama and conflict.
Even though not every part of the real world centers on conflict and drama, they
dominate the stories that people tell each other about the world. Just check your
favorite social media feed or news source to see what we’re talking about.

The more you think deeply about your world’s conflicts from the beginning, the
more engaging and alive your world will feel. Let the following ideas guide you in
creating those useful story conflicts.

Finding a problem around every corner

Drama and conflict stem from characters wanting something. Maybe it’s some-
thing they have and want to keep, maybe it’s something they lack and want to get.
Either way, they want it enough to take actions to make sure they get it.

The following questions are designed to help you uncover story-worthy problems
that lead to meaningful conflict.

Three answers are better than one. Just as each disagreement has multiple sides,
so each of these questions can and should have multiple answers. Challenge
yourself to come up with at least three answers to each of the three questions that
follow. You may struggle to think of a third worrisome or important thing, but
when you do, it often is the most interesting or unusual idea.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 87

 What’s important to characters in this world?
Determine what the denizens of your world value most. Not just the protagonists
of the story, but people in general. Every character is theoretically unique, but
we’re talking about the passions and desires that the majority share and that drive
the society as a whole. Perhaps it’s a devotion and personal sacrifice to the patron
deity of the realm or serving in the colonial marines to earn full citizenship. Maybe
it’s honoring the town’s reputation and staying out of other people’s business.

Decide what’s important to most other characters because your protagonists are
likely going to be out of the ordinary in some way. Protagonists often forge their
own path in the world, making decisions that most folks don’t. When their desires
conflict with the popular priorities, delicious, story-driving drama logically
ensues.

What’s uncertain and worrisome?

To find out what puts people on edge, ask what they’re worrying about, warning
each other about, or wondering about. These problems usually can’t be easily
fixed or maybe can’t be changed at all. It could be roaming bugbears in the hills or
the untranslatable signals from a distant star. It could be will they go to heaven or
what those strangers are doing in town. For many people, maybe it’s just where
their next meal is going to come from or whether they have a safe place to sleep
at night.

Most people try to avoid or mitigate these worries, but your protagonists will face
them head on. They may not be able to fix the local economy and ensure everyone
has three meals a day, but they will risk starving themselves to face some greater
problem. And when those strangers do come to town, they’ll be the first to wel-
come them (or maybe snoop around their house at night looking for answers).

What do characters disagree about?

Just because most characters in your world agree about what’s important and
what’s worrisome, doesn’t mean they agree on what to do about it all. Every prob-
lem and every ambition has at least two perspectives on how to respond to it. For
some, faith in the realm’s patron deity means a life of personal poverty and prayer,
whereas for others it means going on a murderous crusade against those they
deem heretics. Maybe the best way to defend against bugbears is a big stone wall.
No, obviously the best course is raising an army and fighting them in the hills.
Hey, has anyone tried talking to them?

Your protagonists will have to take a side at some point, and it may or may not be
the same side your audience would choose. The more your audience understands
each perspective of the disagreement, the more dramatic and compelling the deci-
sion to take sides becomes.

88 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 Creating characters from conflict
As Chapter 2 emphasizes, stories are all about characters. Creating a world and cre-
ating your characters go hand-in-hand, and trying to keep both in mind at the
same time is helpful. Your main characters’ wants should be tied closely to the
conflicts that make your world interesting. They should have their own, very spe-
cific answers to those general questions about what most people think. Create your
main characters to care about and engage directly in the core conflicts of your world.

Tabletop role-playing games have made some tremendous and useful innovations
in the character-creation process. Even authors with no interests in making a
game can take some cues from how game designers approach integrating charac-
ters and conflict. A number of game systems, notably the GUMSHOE system orig-
inally designed by Robin D. Laws, has players define their characters’ drives and
motivations in concrete language that has game rules. These drives are why the
characters willingly enter dangerous situations and pursue forbidden mysteries
whereas most normal (non-protagonist) people would run and hide.

When you can define your characters’ drives in relationship to the story world’s
core conflict and then treat them like rules that you can’t break, your characters
will take on a life of their own. As long as they follow their drives, you’ll never
have to worry about cheating your audience.

Focusing on What’s Important — The

Iceberg Rule
An iceberg is a potent metaphor, and not only when it’s helping nature show
humanity who’s boss by tearing holes in the sides of unsinkable ships. The vast
majority of an iceberg lies out of sight underwater. A bright, sharp fraction reaches
into the air where we can see it, but audiences don’t have to perceive every detail
to infer the existence of those hidden, massive depths below the waves. The same
is true with worldbuilding, where the Iceberg Rule serves as a great tool for both
managing your workload and focusing on your story on what’s important.

Here we focus on the two most useful applications of the Iceberg Rule: showing
the world at work and not showing the irrelevant parts.

Show the characters and conflicts

Look closely and identify the parts of your iceberg, of your story world, that inter-
act directly with the characters and conflicts. What is the stage on which your
story will play out? You show those parts.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 89

 Consider these examples:

»» In our fantasy realm, the Truth Plague originates with the high-king and
involves the administration of justice. We’re going to show a lot about how the
politics, legal system, and magic work in this world. With liars being trans-
formed into monstrous beings, we’ll also explore combat techniques, how
news and information spread, and the prejudices people hold against those
who don’t look like them.

»» The crew of our isolated space station is going to spend a lot of time dealing
with the hostile climate, flora, and fauna of the planet below, and we’ll need to
see their technology at work in that environment.

»» The residents of our small town are going to have definite opinions about a
landmark of faith being transformed into something unfamiliar and possibly
menacing. We’ll want to see how the faith community responds and how local
officials handle supernatural mysteries.

Don’t show everything

Think about any legal thriller, police procedural, or medical drama you’ve seen.
Those stories are set in the complicated worlds of law and medicine, but you as an
audience member don’t need to know very much at all about how those worlds
work to enjoy the stories. You certainly don’t need a law degree or a medical
license. Those stories show the parts of their complex systems that directly impact
the story.

With every scene and story moment you write, you have to decide what parts of
your world to show and what to hide or ignore. See Chapter 7 for lots of guidance
about showing, telling, and explaining things in your story world, but right now,
as you’re starting the worldbuilding process, identify the parts of the iceberg you
want to show.

Review the three questions we asked in the section, “Making your place interest-
ing,” earlier in this chapter. Your answers lay the foundation for your characters,
your conflicts, and how you show them to the audience. Take into consideration
how your audience will be seeing the bit of your iceberg: In a movie? On a comic
page? In a game? In a story?

For example:

»» In our fantasy realm, where magic, justice, and morality take center stage, the
details of what crops grow where or when probably won’t come into play and
we can gloss over the subject of farming for now.

90 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 »» On the space station, the specifics of the artificial gravity system likely won’t
affect the plot, but how efficiently the station recycles oxygen now that it’s cut
off from replacement parts could drive some major drama.

»» The specifics of the small town’s economy and how people make a living isn’t
nearly as important as how town council members are elected, especially if
the tolling of a church bell on election day disrupts the democratic process.

Make sure you save everything you don’t show: You’ve decided not to show some-
thing that you nevertheless think is cool or interesting but doesn’t belong above
the water on your iceberg. Don’t throw that idea away! Keep a document or file or
stack of notecards where all the below-the-waterline ideas can reside. Maybe
you’ll find a place for them later. They may well be in an entirely different story
or even a different story world. Maybe the ideas will go in an appendix or on a
website of additional lore. Save those ideas and think about attaching a note
reminding yourself why you cut it in the first place so when you return to it you’ll
have some useful context about how the idea may be useful someplace else.

CHAPTER 5 Building a World Like No Other 91

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Using common knowledge to tell

uncommon stories

»» Finding fascinating facts and using

them to build compelling worlds

Chapter 6
Letting Your Research
and Imagination
Run Wild

W
e know you like to do your research before you write because you’re
reading this book. You realize spending some quality time on research
will make your writing easier, not harder, as long as you enter the pro-
cess with the right mind-set. You’re open to ideas from outside sources and eager
to find out all kinds of interesting things that will make your stories better. You’re
our kind of people.

Research can be the most enjoyable part of the worldbuilding process: finding
inspiration, discovering fun facts, and imagining how to tweak them to serve your
story is a creative undertaking. This chapter can help you turn fun facts into
fantastic fiction.

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 93

Start with Earth: Inspiration
and Adaptation
“Start with Earth.” That’s award-winning writer and game designer Kenneth
Hite’s first piece of advice to fellow worldbuilders and storytellers, and we could-
n’t agree more. In fact, because we’re all Earthlings here, it’s impossible not to
start with Earth; it’s the basis for everything we know and that knowledge influ-
ences everything we create.

You can’t build story worlds without relying on the language, history, science,
psychology, biology, philosophy, and cultural traditions of this shared world. So,
start with Earth and then transform it into something uniquely suited to the
stories you’re telling.

Here are two useful approaches for adapting the existing world to serve the story
and entrance your audience.

Tapping into the power of piggybacking

We all know a lot about the Earth and have assumptions and understandings about
how things work. We all also have lots of shared experiences with famous stories,
myths, legends, songs, and facts. As a world builder, piggybacking on your audi-
ence’s existing knowledge allows you to laser focus on what makes your worlds
unique and cool while letting common ideas carry the weight of how most of the
world works.

Not everyone will share all your conceptions of common knowledge, but if you’ve
thought about who your intended audience is and what kind of ideas and precon-
ceptions they’re likely to bring to their experience of your story world, you can
take advantage of piggybacking’s tremendous narrative power. Even if some peo-
ple aren’t familiar with the information, in this era of Google and Wikipedia, the
curious audience member can easily look it up.

Here are three different approaches to using piggybacking to build worlds in your
stories.

Telling the story with one big change

One of the most useful and common techniques for sci-fi, fantasy, and horror,
piggybacking involves telling a story on Earth’s past or present but with just one
big change. It’s our world, but secret sorcerers live just out of sight. It’s our world,
but artificially intelligent robots cater to our every whim. It’s our world, but zom-
bies have overrun everything except this shopping mall.

94 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

The advantages to this technique are tremendous. You can focus all your imagina-
tion and attention on the one big change and how it affects your characters and
creates your story. Your audience gets to play along as well; their own imagina-
tions make connections and inferences based on what they’re familiar with and
how life would indeed be different if they were a secret sorcerer or could leave the
dishes for the robot. You and the audience share a common framework from which
the story’s logic will play out.

Alternate history is another version of this same kind of piggybacking: what if the
First Crusade never happened? What if computers were invented a century earlier?
What if President Nixon had defeated Kennedy in the 1960 U.S. Presidential elec-
tion? Philip K. Dick’s The Man in High Castle (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) imagines
a history where Germany and Japan won World War 2. Nisi Shawl’s Everfair (Tor
Books) explores an African civilization in the Congo using steam technology to
fight the Belgian colonialist invasion.

These kinds of “what if?” thought experiments instantly raise intriguing ques-
tions for your audience and allow you to play around with our shared reality with-
out breaking or reinventing any of its rules. Just try to make sure your answers are
more interesting than whatever your audience thinks up, which shouldn’t be a
problem because you’ll be spending a whole lot more time thinking about the
question and researching its implications. (Chapter 9 delves deeper into answer-
ing the “What If.”)

Inventing a world with a thousand

little differences
Another common piggybacking technique in a lot of fantasy and science fiction
stories involves basing invented cultures on real world ones. The benefit here is
that you don’t need to do nearly as much explaining how things look or work or
why the person in a metal suit on a horse is called “Sir,” and you’re free to tailor
the world to your narrative needs.

A lot of high fantasy is often set in the European Middle Ages (or, actually,
19th-century vision of the Middle Ages) with new names and a different map. This
piggyback ride gets you castles, knights, feudal lords, and stories of wizards and
dragons. It can also get you a very powerful Catholic Church, but many fantasy
stories leave that out because it overcomplicates their story, which is perfectly
fine! The Romantic version of Medieval France that replaces wizards and fairies
instead of bishops and nuns works great for most audiences of fantasy stories.

Victorian London, Shogunate-era Japan, and Ancient Rome are among the many
common sources for story world substitution. Nothing is stopping you from fol-
lowing one of these well-trodden paths and making it your own, and if you’re

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 95

 passionate about the era, then that’s another reason why the source is great for
your story world. Don’t limit yourself though: You can draw from a whole world
of history! For example, Arkady Martine’s excellent sci-fi epic, A Memory Called
Empire (Tor Books), takes elements from Aztec and Byzantine history (among
others) and mixes them elegantly to create her engaging and original Teixcalaanli
Empire.

History and other cultures aren’t just sources for your stories. They’re the lives
and expressions and achievements of real people living and dead, and should be
approached with respect and humility. See Chapter 23 for more information about
authenticity, experts, and sensitivity readers.

Focusing on shared stories — Tales as old as time

You aren’t limited to history or reality for your piggyback rides; shared stories and
literature are another fertile source of story worlds where the audience already
comes in with some valuable context. Much of Disney’s catalog of hits is based on
turning public domain, classic fairy tales into animated features (and theme park
rides, toys, live action features, and so on).

The versions of myths and fairy tales read today are exactly this kind of retelling.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses are elegant retellings of stories that everyone in his first
century Roman audience had heard a thousand times since childhood. Ovid just
told them better than most people. The opportunity for you in retelling is that the
audience already has some buy-in with the premise of the fantastic tale you’re
going to tell and may be interested in your spin on the classics.

You can make the story your own in an infinite recombinations and ways: Ragna-
rok of the Norse gods, but in space. The Journey to the West, but in modern-day
China instead of the distant past. Romeo and Juliet, but with elves and dwarves. The
Three Little Pigs, but in a haunted house. Try going back to the earliest versions of
the stories you can find, and usually those are the strangest and most unusual to
modern audiences. Mine those stories for fascinating details upon which to build
your own interpretation.

You don’t have to pick any singular time-tested tale as your basis. Combine char-
acter dynamics from one story and a story premise from another to create your
own unique but familiar story world. For example, take an aging King Lear–style
patriarch demanding unconditional love from his three daughters and insert them
into a tale of mismatched lovers who stumble into A Midsummer Night’s Dream–
style feud between faerie monarchs. Now the three daughters become embroiled
in sinister alliances with the faerie court as they try to wrest control or dignity or
love from their narcissistic father. If the elements you’re piggybacking on reso-
nate well with your audience, then they’re already halfway engrossed with the
story before it’s even begun.

96 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

Controlling cognitive dissonance
Fantasy, horror, and science fiction audiences expect the story world to be differ-
ent from our own, and they’re willing and excited to suspend their disbelief a little
or a lot as long as the characters and their drama keep them engaged. The chal-
lenge comes when the breaks with consensus reality are so big that they produce
cognitive dissonance and alienate your audience.

Cognitive dissonance means the unease or discomfort an audience member experi-

ences when different ways of thinking and understanding clash with one another.
At its worst, it manifests in something like, “I know this is just a fun story, but I
just don’t think that’s how people behave (or pigs would really fly or how gravity
works).” On the other hand, a little controlled dissonance can be great and add to
the experience. “I know how doors in old houses work, and they definitely don’t
open themselves. Something spooky is going on here!” You want interesting,
compelling dissonance, not alienating, confusing dissonance.

Here are two powerful techniques for managing your audience’s cognitive disso-
nance by finding the right balance between the new and the familiar.

Relying on most advanced yet acceptable

People like what they’re familiar with, and they get uncomfortable when you
change too much. But people do get excited about new things and changes for the
better. Famed 20th-century industrial designer Raymond Loewy made his repu-
tation designing everything from packaging to pots to cars and trains that cus-
tomers found exciting and new while being accessible and useful.

He used the term most advanced yet acceptable (MAYA) to summarize his design
philosophy. “The adult public’s taste is not necessarily ready to accept the logical
solutions to their requirements if the solution implies too vast a departure from
what they have been conditioned into accepting as the norm.” Put another way,
MAYA means finding that perfect balance between your audience’s fear of change
and their interest in the new.

Whether you’re changing one big thing, a thousand little ones, or twisting a
twice-told tale, the MAYA concept is a great and powerful guideline for creating
new worlds. When you’re making changes to reality, change only as much as you
think you need to in order to engage your audience without alienating them. Audi-
ences will dive into your world if you build them a solid diving board from which
to jump, so don’t undermine their understanding of your world with needless
changes to ours that don’t help your story.

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 97

 Staying true to genre realities
Your audience’s consensus reality doesn’t just include things that are real.
Popular stories of all kinds allow for piggybacking and all three genres (sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror) have well-established tropes that won’t cause your audi-
ence much cognitive dissonance when you include them in your story.

For instance, fantasy audiences accept that dragons breathe fire and fly, elves live
for thousands of years, and wizards cast spells. Science fiction fans don’t need
much of an explanation to accept faster-than-light travel or artificial intelligence.
Supernatural horror’s ghosts, vampires, and werewolves all come with long tradi-
tions that audiences assume apply to one degree or another.

You can create cognitive dissonance (both good and bad kinds) when you stray
from the genre conventions. But know your genre well enough so you can advance
from its tropes in a way your audience accepts and enjoys.

Familiarizing yourself with your genre

It’s really important to know what other kinds of stories exist in your chosen
genre. If you have the passion and determination to write a sci-fi, fantasy, and
horror story, you likely enjoy those genres. Take some time to read stories that
you think are similar to yours in some way and explore a mix of both contempo-
rary classics and recent releases because the audience for those stories may well
be the audience for yours.

The creators of those stories are going to be your peers, and politely and affirma-
tively engaging with the community of creators in your genre will only help your
writing and grow your audience. You don’t need to read in your genre all the time,
of course. Many writers avoid reading work in their genre while they’re doing the
actual writing, for fear of muddling or distracting from their own ideas.

Using Research to Balance Science

and Fiction
One of the great rewards of researching a topic, even one you’re already familiar
with, is discovering strange and fascinating facts that can inform and enliven your
stories. Audiences love this kind of learning through fiction, especially when it’s
well-integrated into the storytelling. Seek out the true stories of strangeness and
wonder as you’re researching, allowing them to feed your fiction in multiple ways.

98 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

Here’s a fun research topic for you: Look up the origin of the word “piggyback.”
Surprise, it’s got nothing to do with pigs. It’s a common phrase most people have
heard. Piggyback rides are a staple of childhood. We bet you didn’t know that its
origins come from pitching something into a pack. And the origin of “ramshackle”
has nothing to do with rams, shacks, or shackles. Any fact that inspires you to say
to a friend, “I’ll bet you didn’t know that . . .” can inspire your story.

The Iceberg Rule applies here: You want to focus your creative efforts on the parts
of your story world that directly impact your characters and story (Chapter  5
explains the rule in greater detail). You’re going to find way more interesting facts
than you need for your story. There probably isn’t a place in your story for interest-
ing insights into the etymology of “piggybacking,” so don’t try to force it into
your story world. Save it all in a file or on a Pinterest board with the other cool
ideas you’re not including. Someday maybe you’ll find the right story for them.

Here are three key things to keep in mind as you dive into the depths of story
research.

Striving for accuracy

There’s an inherent tension between the story you want to tell and reality as best
as you understand it. This tension plays out differently in each piece of fiction,
nonfiction, journalism, commentary, poetry, and anything else authors write. You
have to answer for yourself how beholden you feel to the facts and how much
you’re willing to bend the truth to make the story you want to tell.

In a work of fiction, particularly genre fiction like we’re talking about in this book,
audiences expect writers to play a little (or a lot) fast and loose with the facts. But
they also expect you to do so in a thoughtful, creative, and entertaining manner —
not because it’s easier to just make things up. Allow us to make the case for striv-
ing for accuracy in your fiction:

»» Audiences do care. Genre audiences in particular are often interested in

science, history, and cultural studies. They know things about space or castles
or chainsaws, and if they catch you making a mistake, they’re liable to count it
against you, no matter how good your story is.

»» Use effective piggybacking. To gain all the benefits of piggybacking we

discuss in the section “Tapping into the power of piggybacking,” earlier in this
chapter, you need to share some common facts and ideas with your audience.
Diverge too far from your references, and the piggybacking doesn’t work.

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 99

 »» You do have a duty to the truth. When you’re making another world from
the literal ground up, you have a lot of leeway, but when your story takes
place in our shared reality, your audience may take something you’ve made
up as true fact. Setting a story in this world inherently requires telling stories
that reflect on other people’s realities. We think you have some moral
responsibility to be thoughtful about the ideas you put out into the world no
matter what, but especially when those ideas can impact how your audience
thinks about other people.

Don’t be afraid to change the facts to fit your fiction; just be thoughtful about it.
Make sure your deviations from reality relate to the core conflicts and aren’t egre-
gious or lazy.

Casting a wide net when researching

It’s never been easier to learn a dozen interesting things before breakfast. You
never know when you’ll stumble across some factoid about ant colonies that can
inspire your next great space opera epic. Make a place in your media diet for regu-
lar and diverse consumption of nonfiction content, be it books, websites, pod-
casts, YouTube channels, or whatever. The wider the net you cast, the more useful
discoveries you’ll make.

Here are some effective techniques you can use when you do sit down to research.
Using them, you can create a great library of associations and references to help
get you started.

KEEPING UP WITH REALITY

New discoveries and inventions are happening all the time, and stories usually need to
change with the times.

Consider H.G. Wells and The War of the Worlds. When he wrote it in the late 1890s,
having Earth invaded by highly evolved aliens from Mars was a different story than if
someone wrote the exact same novel today. In 1898, nobody had been to Mars or into
space. It was still, as far as his audience knew, possible there were in fact aliens on Mars
who could invade and conquer England. Today we all know there’s no angry alien inva-
sion force on the red planet. We’re still hoping to find signs of microbial life. We know a
lot about all the other planets in our solar system, too.

To write an even semi-plausible alien story today, you have to do your research to know
whether your aliens came from somewhere else or you have to explain how they’ve
remained hidden.

100 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

Reading like a writer
Most people start researching by reading. In fact, a good book about your subject
is your best friend. Someone else has done a lot of hard work to inform you in
detail about something they care about.

But you’re not just reading to learn, you’re reading to write a story about charac-
ters in a unique world who want something and are having a tough time getting
it. Think of your characters and their conflicts as you read. Ask yourself how they
would respond to this information you’ve discovered. What’s their stance on the
moral implications of this discovery? What are characters going to disagree about
or fight over or be scared of?

Following the citations

We’re college professors, and so we’re duty-bound to admonish our students that
they can’t just rely on Wikipedia for their research papers. And they can’t! You on
the other hand, well. . . It really is a useful place to start.

For a lot of topics Wikipedia will orient you within the subject matter, and maybe
all you need to know right now is that there were either 96 or 112 deaths associ-
ated with the building of the Hoover Dam (depending on how you count). But if
your story needs more details and context, scroll down to the citations at the bot-
tom of the page or go to the bibliography at the back of the book you’re reading.
Check out that original essay from the Bureau of Reclamation that’s cited there
and see what else you can find. The cited sources will be richer in details and curi-
ous facts that will bring your story to life.

Getting scholarly
Basic Internet searches won’t give you everything you need to know about a sub-
ject. We talk a lot more about consulting experts in Chapter 23, but you can use
expert-level tools that most folks aren’t aware of. Here are a few places to start:

»» Google Scholar (scholar.google.com) searches academic publications and

sources instead of the general web. You’ll find pages or peer-reviewed, expert
vetted information about your topic.

»» Other academic databases like Jstor and ProQuest are great as well, if you
have access to them through a library or want to pay for them yourself. Ask
your friendly neighborhood reference librarian for assistance.

»» Travel guides are a great resource for learning the basic history, geography,
and culture of a region. Vintage guides published in the era of your story (like
a guide to Paris from the 1920s) are especially useful for historical fiction.

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 101

 Doing some field research
If you’re able to get to a physical place related to your story, do so. Describing a
place to your audience is infinitely easier if you’ve been there yourself. Even if you
can’t get there, Google Earth offers a powerful, free tool to simulate that view
from the field. After you’ve walked the ground and talked to the people where your
story takes place, you’ll have a deep reservoir of experience with your story world’s
sights, sounds, and vibes.

Just because the place doesn’t exist in our world doesn’t mean you can’t “start
with Earth” by picking a specific analog to reference as you write. For instance,
the priest-king’s court can share features with a local museum. The alien’s
world’s wilderness can share the fundamental layout of a nearby state park. The
old church’s floor plan can be identical to a church in your neighborhood. Take the
Earth that’s all around you and mold it to your story.

Heading straight to the sources

Historians and academics know how to distinguish between primary sources and
secondary sources. Those two terms mean the following:

»» Primary sources: Something from the era or place or people being studied
»» Secondary sources: Something written about the subject by someone like a
historian

Great secondary sources do a lot of the hard work for you, combing through
archives of primary sources and other secondary ones to present a coherent
account of the subject. For most purposes, a well-written secondary source with a
detailed index and a comprehensive bibliography is the perfect place to start your
research and might be all you need to know about a subject, depending on how
central it is to your story.

Learning the broad strokes of a subject through just primary sources is difficult if
you’re unfamiliar with the field of study and takes a ton of time and effort. But
they’re an invaluable writing resource in other key ways that a secondary source
can’t be, such as:

»» A hero or villain’s tale: Someone’s personal account of their life is a great

starting point for creating your characters. Maybe they’re the perfect charac-
ter for your story and you’ll create a fictional version of them. More likely,
you’ll take details from their narrative of their life and translate them into your
story world.

102 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 For example, someone like Nadezhda Andreyevna Durova was a real woman
who disguised herself as a soldier and fought for Russia against Napoleon.
She wrote a memoir, The Cavalry Maiden, that’s already been the basis for at
least one novel. You could tell her story again, or transpose her into a fantasy
setting and turn France and Russia into rival dwarf kingdoms. Or you could
just plumb her unique autobiography for details about impersonating a man,
fighting for Russia, or being a cavalry officer.

»» Authentic voice: How do people actually communicate with one another?

What phrases and references and terms of affection and insults do they use?
In a historically based setting, the primary sources give you a window into the
past, but they’re just as useful for any modern community or setting you’re
unfamiliar with, from the other customs countries to the elitisms of exclusive
country clubs.

»» Concerns and conflicts: What people talk about is just as revealing as how
they talk about it. What are people arguing about and what kind of manners
and social restraints govern their arguments? How do they treat outsiders or
the unknown? What problems are businesses offering to solve for their
customers in their advertisements in the local paper? Your story and its world
are built around conflict; primary sources can enrich your portrayal of how
that conflict plays out.

»» Full of details: Many primary sources, especially things like letters, diaries,
and memoirs, are jam-packed with the details of daily life. Mine these details
mercilessly for livelier and more effective descriptions of everything from
fashion and food to the weather. When a primary source makes note of a
particular style of dress or finds some food objectionable or unfamiliar, that’s
likely the sort of thing a character in your story will find interesting, too.

»» The unspoken: Step back and consider what none of your primary sources
are talking about or talking around and wonder why. Many historical and
contemporary societies put strict legal or customary boundaries on topics like
sexuality, gender, and religious beliefs. That doesn’t mean people weren’t
talking about them — far from it. You’ll probably have to dig deeper to find
the voices that the dominant societal forces have silenced to truly bring them
to life in your story.

»» Avoiding anachronisms: Primary sources can also help you avoid

anachronisms in your dialogue, and you’re on safe ground when you use
phases and terms that people actually used in the period. (An anachronism is
anything that comes from another time period than the story’s setting.) A lot
of idioms people use without thinking are quite modern or have origins
specific to history. Google has a great tool called the Ngram Viewer (books.
google.com/ngrams) that lets you check how often a word or phrase has
been used in books dating back to 1800. It’s an excellent tool for eliminating
anachronisms from your story.

CHAPTER 6 Letting Your Research and Imagination Run Wild 103

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Helping audiences experience the

way your world works

»» Telling well with narrative exposition

»» Getting provocative to fire the

audience’s imagination

»» Engaging with your story on every

level

Chapter 7
Showing the Explosion:
Exposition That Thrills!

E
xposition is a dirty word amongst writers. Say the word, and people think of
dry information dumps in an encyclopedia or long-winded side characters
explaining how the oscillation overthruster works for five straight pages
without pausing to take a breath. Distaste for exposition is often accompanied by
the age-old storytelling advice “show, don’t tell.”

That’s a fine piece of advice as far as it goes, but also maybe confusing. After all,
you’re “telling” the whole story in one way or another, right? The real key is to
make sure your exposition fully incorporates your characters and conflicts so that
your audience cares about the information being exposited at them. Telling is
totally fine, as long as you tell well.

This chapter explores ways to write exposition that both shows and tells in excit-
ing ways that won’t leave your audience yawning or skipping ahead.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 105

Showing Your World at Work
“Show, don’t tell” really means “convey information through characters acting.”
Let your fictional folk do their thing, and nine times out of ten the audience can
pick up a lot of key information through context clues (at least if you’re telling
well they can).

Read on to see how to do this.

Making memorable first impressions

The moment your audience enters your story world for the first time is delicate.
Those early scenes carry a ton of responsibility; if they’re boring or confusing, you
may be able to hear the audience pick up a new book or turn the channel. In other
words, they’re outta here. That’s why making a great first impression is so impor-
tant. You want them to stick around.

Your story world pitch (the enticing description focused on the world’s core
appeal) and the questions in Chapter  5 come in handy here. Identify what’s
exciting and unique about this world and its characters. Some of that great stuff
needs to be in your first scene, enough to entice the audience to keep going and
want to know more.

However! You don’t need to cram everything that’s great about your story world
into the first scene. Think about visiting a new city for the first time. If someone
dropped you off in a busy intersection full of loud noises, signs in a language you
don’t understand, your first instinct is likely to wish you were home. Pick a few
key details related to the central pitch for your story and its world and give your
audience a taste of what’s to come and ease them in. Don’t cram in a bunch of
strange names and impenetrable idioms and turn them off.

Just don’t go too easy.

Welcome your audience with a challenge they can handle. Your audience’s first
experience with the world works best when coupled with some specific chal-
lenge for the characters that gets the audience caring about what comes next for
the people of this world. Although the audience may not love getting dropped off
at that busy intersection in another country, reading about someone in that
predicament sucks them right in. The characters can’t read the language, and
the audience doesn’t need to at this point either. They can take in the broad
picture and empathize with the disoriented character’s plight from the safety of
their home.

106 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

Letting actions bring the world to life
You’ve welcomed the audience with a compelling challenge for your characters,
now you can start showing the world at work. The audience is here for your strange
new world and all its fascinating and frightening wonders. They want to learn
more — you just need to teach them in the most engrossing way you can.

Show things working rather than explaining how they work. Follow that simple
rule, and most of your world’s wonders reveal themselves, no added exposition
needed.

Consider this example: The Deathknight paralyzes a muscle-bound gladiator with

one exhalation of its fetid breath, then finishes him off with its seemingly fragile
obsidian lance.

Something magical is happening here. The audience gets a sense of why they’re
not called Lifeknights and that they don’t abide by the rules of chivalry. Now that
the audience has seen them in action, you may need to explain more about the
noxious breath or sinister lance later, or maybe not, depending on the story’s
needs. For now the audience has experienced them at work and can imagine what
would happen to the protagonists if (when) they have to fight one of these nasties.

Whenever a new wonder from your world gets introduced, incorporate it into the
characters’ journey through the story. Don’t just show things working though,
show them working within the context of challenges for the characters as they
pursue their wants and desires. When you have to explain something about the
world, you get to explain it in terms related to how it affects your characters. For
instance, the spaceship needs a specific kind of fuel to travel through the planet’s
atmosphere and the characters need to find it. The high court has very arcane and
confusing rules and customs, and the characters need to consult an expert to bring
their plea for mercy to the priest-adjudicate.

Using a character’s senses is a useful way to bring the story world to life without
coming out and telling the audience directly about things. It’s also a way to describe
an object or thing that isn’t working correctly and frustrates a character.

Small details can point to hidden depths about your world, and they don’t need a
lot of explaining to have a big impact. What do the names and appearance of ever-
yday items imply about the story world as a whole? Unless the precise calculation
of available funds is key to your story, you don’t need to give conversion rates, but
a world with its own pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters indicates a money sys-
tem that’s evolved over time and an economy in flux over the ages. A world where
stores are named things like “Dagby and Daughters” implies a different scale of
corporate involvement than one where there’s a “GalactCo” outlet on every
­corner. Your characters may never go into one of those stores, but just a passing
mention of them adds to the whole tapestry of the world’s experience.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 107

 A common challenge you’ll face is having characters who know much more about
your story world than your audience does. You likely have characters who are
learning about the world along with the audience, but most of the world’s deni-
zens are intimately familiar with every aspect of it so you need to write them with
that fact in mind. “As you know, we’ve lived on this station since we were chil-
dren, younger sister of mine.” If you find yourself typing the phrase “As you know
.  .  .” into one of your characters’ mouths, hit that backspace key hard and try
again. In real life, people pretty much only say “as you know” when they’re trying
to politely call someone stupid for forgetting something. Same for “I’ve told you
before” and “Don’t you remember . . .”

Relying on Narrative Exposition:

Stories That Explain and Entrance
As we discuss in Chapter 3, no matter the type of genre you’re writing, your story
needs a great beginning, middle, and end. The same applies to exposition as we
explore in the following sections.

Telling a tale within a tale

Every time you need to provide some exposition you have an opportunity to tell a
cool little short story that not only informs the audience but also delights in its
own right. Presenting exposition as stories means sticking with story fundamen-
tals like we discuss in Part  1. The story should be about characters who want
something, and it needs a beginning, middle, and an end:

»» Characters: These don’t have to be your main characters. Often they’re

people from another time or place whose actions or experiences affect and
inform the present moment in the story. When you need to explain some-
thing about your world, consider who would be most affected by the subject,
and structure your narrative exposition around their wants and the challenges
they face. The rogue scientist seeking fame in the face of skeptical colleagues
defies convention and creates the warp drive. The lovesick demi-god unlocks
the principles of spirit magic in an effort to impress their love’s haughty family.

»» Beginning: Ask yourself why this expository story is worth telling right now.
Begin the story with drama or conflict that somehow relates directly to what’s
currently happening in the story and the challenges your characters face.
The broken warp drive has a curious quirk in its fuel system because of its
creator’s esoteric expertise with hypergeometric lenses. Summoning a helpful

108 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 spirit to guide you through the forest requires a love song in perfect meter or
they’ll become angry spirits who’ll lead you astray.

»» Middle: The heart of your narrative short story conveys the who, what, where,
when, and/or how that you want the audience to know. Having hooked them
with characters and conflict from the start, you’ve earned enough interest to
lay out some facts in a relatively straightforward manner. However, don’t go
full technical manual dry. You can use some concise declarative sentences.
The warp drive needs crystals from the Gugh system or it won’t operate at full
capacity. The spirits prefer love songs with a lot of flower metaphors, but not
roses. No matter what, not roses. But always have an eye on relating these
facts to the consequences for your main characters.

»» End: Wrap things up quick, giving audiences some closure on your narrative
exposition characters and then returning to the story at hand. A good, bad,
mysterious, or sentimental emotional valence for the ending can reflect the
overall mood and theme of your story at this point, either reinforcing it (the
inventor died testing their warp drive, so be careful) or offering hope in a
tough situation (and they lived happily ever after, so maybe you will too, if
you’re lucky).

Look to classic fables, parables, and even children’s picture books for models on
creating tightly structured narratives in the space of just a few paragraphs. You’ll
find they do a great job of conveying information through both emotion and
character.

Writing exposition that causes conflict

Every story has at least two sides. People often disagree about history and what it
means. Even experts disagree about how something works or exactly what it
means. In your story world you determine the facts, but that doesn’t mean the
characters presenting the exposition know them or agree with you. How charac-
ters and the audience react to the information is as or more important than the
information itself.

History’s mysteries, tragedies, and triumphs can inspire dread, anticipation, curi-
osity, or hope in both the characters and the audience. Even though past perfor-
mance may not guarantee future returns, it definitely makes people wonder and
worry. Determine what emotions you want the audience to feel now that they
know this exposition you’ve given them. Ask yourself whether the story’s charac-
ters feel the same emotions, or different ones. The audience may well worry about
the threat posed by the spirit-haunted forest, whereas the characters discount the
information as “just a story to scare kids.” Unlike the characters, the audience
knows they’re in a story themselves, and the dangers are probably very real.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 109

 After you’ve given exposition through narrative to convey important information
about the current situation, the main characters have to decide what to do with
that knowledge. That’s a great opportunity for drama and characterization.
Prejudices and devotions distort clear-headed assessment of the facts. Sometimes
people just refuse to believe something that contradicts their deeply held beliefs.
Moral codes and obligation to others can restrict options, preventing characters
from making the easy or safe assessment without compromising their values.
They can argue with each other about it, they can carefully assess which option is
the least worst path, and they can weigh the moral implications of each choice.
Even a single character can debate these alternatives in their own head and the
audience can join in with their own opinions.

Getting to the point with point of view

In Chapter 2, we discuss the basics of point of view and how it affects the way your
audience experiences the story. Point of view plays a particularly important role in
how the story handles exposition.

Consider the strengths of the following points of view when making this vital
choice for your story:

»» First person and close third person: The audience is right there in the
character’s experiencing the world through their senses and thoughts. The
audience gets to know everything they know and learn new things right along
with them. Their thoughts, opinions, and feelings should color all the exposi-
tion the audience experiences, even if they don’t always agree with their
assessment or decisions.

»» Rotating point of view characters: Switching from one point of view

character to another with each scene or chapter keeps the audience attached
to your core characters while allowing a broader range of perspectives on the
world and its conflicts. Particular characters may be more likely to understand
or unearth specific kinds of exposition and have informed opinions about it.
Equally likeable characters can have diametrically opposed interpretations,
leading to great dramatic scenes as they disagree about what to do and we
can see both sides.

»» Shifting point of view: Shifting point of view within a scene takes a deft hand
and some daring as a writer, but doing so is a powerful way to convey multiple
reactions to and interpretations of exposition. The audience can see how each
party responds to the information internally in a setting where they’re likely to
hide their true intentions. Stories of political intrigue, legal wranglings, and
open conflict can use this technique to great effect, but there’s a high risk of
confusing your audience.

110 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 »» The omniscient narrator: The audience is privy to all kinds of information
about the world, likely including things the main characters don’t even know.
In stories that thrive on the audience understanding the big picture as events
unfold, no one character can convey all the information the audience needs to
know. Epic tales of war and disaster work well with this POV method, as do
stories that cover broad sweeps of time or scope.

»» The opinionated narrator: A story that has a character as a narrator can

have thoughts and comments upon events, which adds a lot of panache and
flavor to the story when used well. It also means that the character them-
selves knows they’re telling the audience a story, and just as you bend and
shape events to suit your purposes as the author, so too they have their own
agenda for telling the story the way they do.

You don’t have to speak through a character to express opinions about things,
and some stories deploy this kind of authorial commentary to great effect. In
both cases, the audience recognizes that the opinionated narrator is probably
also an unreliable narrator. Unreliable narrators can add drama, tension, and
humor to your exposition in a natural way that feels more familiar and
welcoming than straight recitations of fact.

»» Letters, diaries, and confessionals: Documents created by characters to tell

the story are a special class of unreliable. Unlike a storyteller who presumably
knows how everything ends, diaries and letters are usually written as events
take place, without the benefit of hindsight. They’re great for conveying
exposition as the audience follows a character’s journey and discoveries
through the story and allow for many of the advantages of an opinionated
narrator without the sense of ironic detachment. They’re also an excellent tool
for incorporating other points of view into a story that otherwise is locked to a
first or close third person narrative.

EXPOSITORY EXCERPTS
Many stories begin chapters or issues or scenes with an excerpt from some source
from within the story world. Science fiction classic Dune by Frank Herbert begins each
chapter with a quote from various “history” texts written by characters in the book
after the events of the book or about the planet Arrakis where it takes place. Excerpts
like these can provide some valuable context for the rest of the story while also enrich-
ing the audience’s understanding of the story world. In general they should be short
and even then they’re the kind of thing some readers skip or skim (refer to the section,
“Storytelling at Every Level of Engagement,” later in this chapter), so don’t put any vital
plot information in them.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 111

Trusting and Provoking Your Reader
Maybe the best way to incorporate exposition into your story is to not explain
something to the audience at all. The Iceberg Rule (see Chapter  5) relies on the
concept that audiences can intuit a lot from seeing just a little of your world
“above water.” Piggybacking encourages you to start with familiar elements (like
Earth) and let the audience’s own knowledge inform their understanding of your
story world. You don’t need to explain something if the audience can figure it out
for themselves. (Refer to Chapter 6 for more about piggybacking.)

Use the following ideas to provoke deeper story interaction and engagement from
your audience.

Solving a puzzle: 1+1

One of the great joys of playing games is solving puzzles: literally solving a jigsaw
or crossword puzzle, figuring out your way through a challenging level, making
the right story choices to get the good ending. People love that Aha! moment when
they figure something out. Revealing your world and its story to the audience is
another kind of puzzle.

With every scene, the audience wonders about the implications and inferences of
each new event and element. They see a “1” here with the empty secret compart-
ment, and they see another “1” there with the sparkly antique amulet the suspi-
cious courtier is wearing, and they put together “2” all on their own. That dude is
up to something.

Giving characters revelatory actions

Characters reveal the true nature of the world and themselves through their
actions, and the audience infers a lot from them. Audiences take their cue from
what the characters respond strongly to and how that response turns into action
gives more meaningful exposition than a full paragraph from the Encyclopedia
Galactica. Combine your world’s unique invented elements with primal emotions
that all people share, and the reader gets what’s important.

If everyone on board the space station is worried about the azimuth of the reflec-
tor array, then the audience will worry, too, even if they don’t know what azimuth
means or what a reflector array does. If all the main characters fawn over the
Verger of Dauroth and ask her to bless their blades, the audience can intuit that
she’s a religious authority who approves of deadly weapons and appreciates a
little butt-kissing.

112 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 Sending systemic signals
Your story world will respond to your characters’ actions (see Chapter 2). How the
world responds will signal to the audience how the underlying systems of your
invented reality work. These systems can be physical or magical laws of reality or
social conventions that everyone follows. Your characters poke and prod at the
world’s systems in part to show the audience what happens when a real or meta-
phorical line is crossed.

When someone steps over the blue chalk line into the stone circle and everyone
outside the circle gasps in horror, the audience knows the character has violated
an important social taboo. When an angelic voice emanates from nowhere and
everywhere at once, chastising the trespassing character, the audience knows a
magical system has been activated.

A great way to surprise your audience is to imply 1 + 1 = 2 and then reveal that, in
fact it equals 3. Bet they didn’t see that coming! But are you just cheating on your
own rules for a cheap surprise that elicits a “what the heck?” response? How did
that happen?” or is this the kind of surprise the audience looks back on and says,
“oooh, interesting!” Don’t make them feel stupid. Don’t do this to feel smarter
than them because in your amazing word, 1+1=3, of course.

Storytelling at Every Level of Engagement

Most of you have watched something on TV while scrolling through something
else on your phone or cooking dinner. You’ve listened to an audiobook or podcast
while driving, played a game with the sound off while listening to music, skimmed
some pages to get to a more exciting part of the book. As a writer, you present a
carefully crafted whole story world (or the tip of its iceberg anyway), but you can’t
force your audience to pay careful attention to it. There’s nothing you can do to
stop this kind of behavior, though you can dissuade it by creating your story
to work on multiple levels of audience engagement.

We divide audience attention into four levels, which apply to anything from
visiting a theme park to playing a game to reading a book. Individuals will move
up and down the levels depending on their interests and attention. Write your
story and its exposition with all four levels in mind, and you’ll have a rich, com-
plex story world that engages audiences no matter how much attention they’re
choosing to give you.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 113

 Level 1: Bold strokes
These core elements can’t be ignored: characters doing things in places and caus-
ing reactions. To help the casual audience member keep everything straight, give
characters, places, and important ideas names with different starting letters and
a dominant characteristic or turn of phrase. Clearly describe and highlight impor-
tant actions and reinforce cause and effect through the characters’ decisions and
reactions to key events.

For example: In our small town, retirees Arnie and Janet Simmons attend one of
the daily meditation circles at the old church. They discuss their plan to confront
Orn and Rel, the new church owners, about their beliefs after the circle ends. Orn
and Rel never speak directly to them, and they both sweat profusely and almost
pass out when they hear the dissonant tones from the meditation bell and leave
without following through on their plan. On the way home they both agree that
Orn and Rel are good and godly folk, nothing to worry about there.

Level 2: Fine nuances

These are the telling details, themes, motifs and details that bring the story world
to life and connect the scenes across the narrative. Most of the audience will pick
up on them if they’re paying full attention. Use descriptive language and environ-
mental cues to enhance the drama and the exposition content in the scene. Focus
on the lighting conditions, sounds, and other sensory impressions that are strik-
ing or are important to this moment in the story. In dialogue, what people avoid
talking about can say as much as what they do share and specific idioms and dia-
lect point to specific classes and groups within society.

For example: The interior of the church is bright, clean, and polished to a mirror
finish, but there is no sign of any technology from the past two centuries. Orn and
Ren never use contractions when they speak and tend to use short, declarative
sentences while Arnie and Janet weigh their dialogue down with pleasantries and
formalities. The bells in the meditation chamber are engraved with a floral pattern
the audience will see in other scenes later in the story.

Level 3: Hidden depths

Nestled within the scene are hyper-specific elements that are almost a subliminal
experience unless a dedicated audience member goes looking for them. They may
be patterns like the use of specific adjectives or colors or metaphors when describ-
ing a place or character. They could be references to other pieces of literature or
things from outside the story world that will resonate with your story if the audi-
ence knows them or goes and looks them up.

114 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

For example: The colors of the stained glass window feature strong greens, a color
that recurs whenever someone has a mind-altering experience in the story. Orn
and Ren mention that the bells were cast from metal originally used to make the
Great Bell of Dhammazedi, which may or may not be the truth, but audience
members who look it up will be looking for connections to Burma or Portugal,
which will pay off later in the story when the audience learns more about the
cult’s origins.

Level 4: Beyond the text

True fans of your story want to keep exploring your story world even after the
story ends. Some of the cool and complicated ideas you’ve left out of the story’s
main text can find a home in an appendix, on a website, or in social media feed. In
a video game they may be optional elements the players can ignore or engage with.

Here you can go into loving detail about the finer points of space station artificial-
gravity systems, all 33 levels of initiation in the Church of Dauroth, or the compli-
cated family trees of the town founders. These elements are often a lot of fun to
write, in part because they only have to tangentially connect to the main story,
and you’re free to show off more of that iceberg than is otherwise necessary.

For example: The names of the flowers engraved on the bells conform to musical
notes and on the website you can hear the tune played out or see an image of the
bells. The chant itself includes encoded versions of Janet and Arnie’s names,
implying that it was composed specifically to affect them in some way.

Putting the levels all together

Creating scenes that embrace all the levels of engagement will have more impact
than a scene that uses only one or two of the levels. Taking advantage of every
opportunity makes scenes that are rich with meaning and power.

An audience that experiences the example scene at just the first level will follow
along fine and understand what’s important to the plot and characters. Levels two
and three add to the mystery and dread of the sequence, showcasing how the
meditation center is uncanny from the tiniest detail. Level four takes some minor
details and blows them up into a strange puzzle, the solution to which reveals a
new facet to the sequence.

CHAPTER 7 Showing the Explosion: Exposition That Thrills! 115

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Writing worlds that have purpose

»» Shaping settings to serve the story

Chapter 8
This Planet Will
Eat You: Worlds
Are Characters, Too

A
ll of us talk about the world like it’s a person with wants and feelings. We
use metaphorical terms to add an emotional texture to natural phenom-
ena: “angry thunderclouds” or “friendly breeze.” We say, “Nature finds a
way,” or “the stock market responds.” We treat big complicated systems like
they’re people making decisions because we’re inclined to find causes and motives
even when there aren’t any. Sometimes we just feel like the randomness in life is
out to get us: “The dice hate me today.”

In a story, the dice really may hate your characters today. They could be cursed
dice, but put the supernatural aside for the moment. There is no actual random-
ness in your story, and systems respond not according to the laws of nature, but
according to you. Everything happens because you want it to, which means your
story world really is just as much of a character as the rest of the cast: It has wants
and it takes actions.

This chapter examines the different ways of thinking about worlds as characters
and explore their roles in storytelling.

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 117

Recognizing That Worlds Want Something
Your story world isn’t just one character with wants and actions. It’s more like a
big family of different systems that are all related to one another. And because this
is a story with drama and interesting changes, these family members don’t always
get along well.

The political hierarchy doesn’t agree with the religious traditions and both of
them are dependent on the economic markets while nobody pays enough atten-
tion to the increasingly disruptive climate system. Your protagonists live in the
middle of all this family drama, which all makes the story more challenging and
dramatic.

These sections explore the different ways a world as a whole pursues its own
goals, just like any other character in your story.

Reacting to your characters

Unlike your other characters, who can probably speak for themselves, your world’s
systems let their actions speak for them. When the characters do something in
pursuit of their wants or in response to a setback, they can trigger some reaction
from the world’s systems. The orbital blockade leaves many of the station’s crew
starving. Stealing food from the space station’s stores brings down the heavy
hand of the law, who might or might not be sympathetic to your hero’s beliefs
about who should really run things around here. All those interrelated systems are
reacting at once in their own way.

The more you understand about the systems, the more interesting and authentic
your world’s reactions will be. Piggybacking (building on knowledge your audience
already has; refer to Chapter 6) on the real world and in-depth research can pay
off in dramatic ways for your story. The more you find out how the real world
works, from astrophysics to architecture to economics to social networks, the
more engaging your story world will be.

Maintaining ecosystems and equilibrium

Think about what your world is like in a state of equilibrium, before the story
starts. All the different systems are operating as expected in relationship to one
another. Opposing forces are balanced and the situation is stable. Your world isn’t
some utopia or paradise; there are still predators and prey and prayers for a better
world, but the family members are stable and getting along as well as can be
expected. Knowing your world’s equilibrium state makes throwing everything

118 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

into chaos even more exciting, just as most stories begin with a character’s normal
life before the inciting incident launches the story.

When nature in any of its forms plays an important role in your story, research the
specifics for where the characters will be and what ecosystems they’ll encounter.
Think through the interlocking systems of water, soil, plant, and animal life and
how they support one another. Determine what prey the predators hunt and where
the prey finds food or water or sunlight. As the seasons change (if your world has
seasons), how do the local life forms adapt? How does geography affect the
weather and what kinds of plants and animals flourish where?

Even at equilibrium, no ecosystem is totally static. Ask yourself these types of

questions:

»» What happens when natural disasters strike?

»» When a volcano erupts, what are the first plants to come back after the
lava flow?

»» When there’s a drought, how do species survive?

»» What great disasters in the past have led to mass extinctions or tectonic shifts,
and how did the world change as a result?

Knowing how life responds to disasters can guide how your story world responds
to the disasters you and your characters are about to inflict on it.

The Iceberg Rule (only show the parts of your world that interact directly with the
characters and conflicts; refer to Chapter  5) remains in effect. Focus on the
ecosystems relevant to your story. For example, in our fantasy realm, the liars
transformed into monsters have been driven from the cities into the wilderness.
Now they’re the new apex predators of the field and forest.

Look to examples of invasive species for ideas about how disastrous they are for
the realm’s agriculture and food supply. On the planet below our space station, we
want alien life forms that really feel alien. Research extremophile species on earth
that thrive in places of acidity, temperature, or pressure that would kill most life
forms. Our small town in upstate New York will face some cold winters. How do
small towns deal with blizzards, and what happens when all the snowplows have
been reforged into a cult’s enormous bell?

Upholding the societal status quo

Social systems share many features with ecosystems, but they’re even less likely
to maintain equilibrium because they’re created and run by people, and people

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 119

 make everything more chaotic. Political and cultural institutions have individual
and group actors making conscious and unconscious decisions. Only a select few
of those people will be characters in your story. Treat those people with the care
and nuance as we describe in Chapter 2, but for the society as a whole, consider
the systems as characters unto themselves.

Each social system in your world exists to serve some function. It does things. The
political system makes and enforces laws. The economic system creates, trans-
fers, and hoards wealth. The people within those systems make decisions in order
to serve that function. Maybe. Some of the time. It’s useful to understand the
basics of how these systems are supposed to work in your world, but the most
important step in understanding society’s status quo is to explore the differences
between how a system is supposed to work and how a system actually works.

The people that make up these institutions often use them for their own benefit.
Sometimes they believe that the system itself is more important than the official
function. Yes, the temple is concerned about your immortal soul, so concerned
they’ll sell you a place in heaven if you give them enough money here on earth.
Sure, the galactic republic’s principles state that all sentients are created equal,
but who gets to decide whether or not robots are really sentient and therefore who
really gets equal rights?

Not all important systems have the weight of law or the power of bureaucracy
behind them. Unwritten laws and customs are just as important, sometimes more
so. Class biases and cultural prejudices can affect the lives of people (including
your characters) more than any law. Yes, this park is open to everyone, but not
everyone is like you. Sure it’s a free country, but “we don’t much cotton to strang-
ers ‘round these parts.”

Knowing how societies really behave means learning more about history, sociol-
ogy, anthropology, and psychology. Research similar systems in the real world for
guidance on both what people expect from them and how they truly behave.

For our fantasy realm we might look into the history of moral panics like the
Satanic Panic of the 1980s and how society has responded to them in the past. For
our space station, we’ll want to read up on the challenges settlers of inhospitable
lands faced, not just from the environment but from each other. Our small town’s
economic situation can draw inspiration from a one-industry towns and what
happens when that industry fails.

However, don’t get lost in your research. Research isn’t writing, and you’re going
to have to start telling your actual story at some point.

120 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

Wanting equilibrium
The way systems work well also implies how to make them not work, preferably
in the most dramatic ways possible. When you know all about your world’s sys-
tems at equilibrium and understand their reactions to change, all you have to do
is introduce a dash of chaos and you can extrapolate the consequences. What hap-
pens if the space station’s temperature controls malfunction and the cold starts
killing off the oxygen-producing plants? How does the town council react when
they can’t reach a quorum and need to make an emergency decision?

Completely understanding any complex human or natural system is a lifetime’s

work, and you don’t have that kind of time. You have a story to write. But now that
you appreciate more fully your world’s equilibrium states, it’s time to take that
information and turn it into character traits. Characters want something, and they
take actions to get it. What do systems want? They want to return to a state of
equilibrium.

Here are two common and dramatic ways to disrupt the world’s equilibrium in
your story.

Creating change — Agents of chaos

The world seems stable until your antagonists and protagonists have come along
and disrupt everything by starting a story. When deciding how to have your world
react to those dramatic interlopers, first ask yourself: “What would bring this
system back toward equilibrium?”

Nature finds a way to restore the balance between predators and prey by starving
the predators or evolving the prey. Government authorities lash out at revolu-
tionary ideas. Cultural institutions confronted with disruptive art forms and
transform them into popular entertainment. The further the system swings out
of equilibrium the bigger and more dramatic the response as it fights back
toward balance.

Passing the point of no return

You can’t always return to equilibrium, no matter how dramatically the world
reacts to change. Events reach a tipping point, and your story can’t go back to the
old status quo. Forests become parking lots. Governments fall to revolution.
Yesterday’s pirates become tomorrow’s admirals. The world changes and finds a
new normal and now it wants to preserve that.

Your characters are often right at the fulcrum of one of these tipping points. Their
character arcs intersect with the world’s story arc and the two become inter-
twined. Maybe they’re overthrowing the fanatical Priest-King as the heroes of a

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 121

 great epic or maybe they’re just trying to survive the night in a city facing
monstrous invaders in the wake of his terrible decisions. Just as great characters
transform over the course of their story, so do great worlds. Often, writers create
great worlds specifically to break them.

Building Spaces and Places for Drama

The world’s systems are characters, but they’re not just characters. They’re also
the stage upon which all the characters act out their individual arcs. Not only do
you need to figure out what the world wants and how it reacts, but you also need
to decide how it looks and feels as the setting for your scenes. Set your stage with
the props, scenery, lighting, and sound that make your drama come to life while
staying true to the realities you’ve established about your world.

These sections explore the narrative potential of both actual maps of your fictional
world. Then we offer tips on thinking of your story not just as a series of scenes,
but as a series of narrative spaces where the narrative unfolds.

Making maps memorable

Maps of imagined worlds are among the most iconic images from both sci-fi and
fantasy fiction. Tolkien’s own maps of Middle Earth seem almost as well-known
as the world maps hung in middle school social studies classrooms. A great map
is a picture worth way more than a thousand words, and it’s useful for much more
than showing what’s north of where.

The following explains what maps can do for your story:

»» Maps make audiences wonder. Seeing all those places and interesting
proper names, contemplating the floorplan and who would build such a place,
the audience starts asking questions and making guesses about what it all
means. They’ll need to experience the rest of your story to find out.

»» Maps can provide clues to the bigger story. Maps provide pieces to the
puzzle of what’s really going on. “Oh, that river runs right by the Thieves Guild.
That could explain why the deacon’s boat was stolen!” A map may include
regions of the story world your characters never visit or even mention.
Including such details can add context and a bigger sense of scope, but don’t
spend a lot of time or space on parts of the map that never impacts your
story. Refer to Chapter 7 for how readers like to put together a puzzle.

122 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 »» Maps helps readers see how your world is different. Maps reflect the
realities of your world and highlight how it differs from our consensus reality.
A planet rooted firmly in Earthlike geology should have mountain ranges that
form along tectonic principles and oceans that conform to fluid and orbital
dynamics. A fantasy world where mountains were built by dwarves or are the
bodies of sleeping giants shouldn’t conform to the same physical standards
and rules.

The maps you make when you write are quite different from the maps your
audience sees, if indeed they ever do get to see a map. Having a sketch of the loca-
tions and how they relate to one another, just so you can keep those spatial rela-
tionships clear in your head, is often useful. If the audience isn’t going to see this
map, then your map can be as sketchy as you like. You may even download maps,
floorplans, and neighborhood guides and change the names and details as needed.
You can choose from thousands of artfully rendered maps for tabletop games for
sale on websites like www.drivethrurpg.com. The advantage of starting with
these real maps is that you know they conform to some reality of urban planning
or geologic forces and are therefore less likely to confuse or annoy audiences who
may otherwise be saying to themselves, “Hey, that’s not how swamps work!”

Sometimes the last thing you want to show your audience is a map, either because
it will give away important plot developments or because it will enlighten and
explain when your story is trying to keep things dark and mysterious. A map of a
haunted house, forgotten tomb, or unexplored new planet can ruin the suspense
that comes with encountering unfamiliar terrain. Video games based on maps
often use “fog of war” to hide areas until the player visits them, making every
move a step into the unknown.

Not every audience needs a map to follow the story, but in visual media like film,
television, and comics, the map isn’t just supplemental to the story. It’s the actual
stage on which the story plays out. If you’re building sets, you’re making a map.
If you’re shooting on location, you may or may not be conforming to the exact
territory where you film, but you’re still creating a map of places in relationship
to one another. And of course in many games exploring the map (or game level) is
the core story experience, which is why level designers tend to take a whole lot
more time thinking about maps than novelists.

Navigating story spaces

Your story’s scenes play out in a series of individual narrative spaces within your
larger world. These spaces can be as vast as a storm-swept desert or as confined
as a haunted bedroom. Each space exists within the wider world and relates to it

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 123

 as part of an ecosystem and/or social system. Each space is also unique in impor-
tant ways — first and foremost, that it’s important enough to be in your story —
and therefore requires care and thought in its creation.

Story spaces can serve a variety of important roles in your narrative (sometimes
more than one at once). Moving through these spaces is a dramatic obstacle course
for your characters. Think about spaces in terms of how they both reflect the
world you’ve created and how the characters experience that space in relation to
their journey.

In many video and tabletop games, the player’s journey through these spaces and
the choices they make along the way determine how the story unfolds. Will they
go left or right? How do they beat the baddies? What’s the solution to this physics
puzzle? Should I use my last health potion now or save it for later? Exploring
these spaces and making decisions is what makes good games so uniquely satis-
fying. Non-interactive storytelling can benefit from thinking about story spaces
a little bit like a game designer, except you as the author are making all the deci-
sions for your audience along the way and you’re of course choosing the more
exciting options!

A story space doesn’t need to be a literal 4,500-square-foot area that your

characters walk around in. It can be any loosely defined location where characters
interact with each other and the world. Navigating an ancient bureaucracy spread
across a thousand departments or messaging on a social media platform for
conspiracy theorists are story spaces. Any social, technological, or physical
framework that binds experiences together can be a story space.

String together the following sequences of these different kinds of story spaces to
create a kind of playlist for your plot. Use them to vary the mood and pacing and
provide multiple different scenes for your story world to express its wants and for
your characters to cause chaos in the service of a better story:

»» Obstacles are spaces the characters must overcome, bypass, or endure in

order to continue. They’re not likely to change within the scope of the story
and should exemplify some core aspect of the story world’s systems. They
include places like perilous mountains and unforgiving wastelands, but they
could also be trap-filled mazes, dangerous neighborhoods, or huge crowds of
revelers in a public park. They may not be an obstacle for everyone all the
time, but they make life harder for the characters at the moment.

»» Reactive spaces foreground the ways the world is responding to the events in
the story. They’re places where rules and customs and ecosystems feel the

124 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 impact of challenges to the equilibrium. When your characters enter these
spaces, they experience firsthand the consequences of either their actions or
the antagonist’s actions. Think of places like a busy port of entry under
heightened security in the face of recent threats or the local coffee shop
where everyone is whispering about the new people in town. It can also be
the untouched wetlands that suffer from the toxic runoff from the space
shuttle that landed there or the social media platform where everyone’s
sharing images of the sinkholes that keep appearing.

»» Contested spaces are the objects of desire for two or more characters or
systems in your world. Here opposing wants clash against one another to
determine the space’s future. A battlefield or the siege of a fortress are
obvious examples. But a lone planetary outpost weathering a fearsome
ammonia storm is also a contested space as is a courtroom when a trial is in
progress. Rival viral video makers trying to one-up each other for the audience
on a social media platform is an entirely virtual but no less emotionally potent
space. Your characters’ involvement in the contest is what makes this a
contested space, and their actions determine its fate. A battlefield where the
war continues before and after the characters enter the space is actually an
obstacle — one where they lead their side to victory is a contested space.

»» Refuges provide a sharp contrast to the rest of the spaces that characters
journey through. They change up the mood and pacing of the story, allowing a
chance to process what has already happened, recover from shocks and
setbacks, contemplate what’s to come, or engage in other activities that aren’t
necessarily directly related to the main conflict. This can be a literal cave on
the side of a mountain where your characters take refuge from a storm, or it
can be the cozy cabin on the space freighter where they can communicate
with their family.

Refuges come in many less literal forms, too. In a game, it may be a room with
no enemies to fight but an optional puzzle to solve. It may be a night out at
the tavern, flirting with the local apprentice alchemists. A refuge is often a
story space version of the foil supporting character we discuss in Chapter 2;
they show another way for the world to be, maybe a taste of what your
characters are trying to achieve or what they stand to lose.

Each shape in Figure 8-1 represents a different kind of story space, with the dra-
matic stakes rising as the story escalates up toward the climax. The refuge space
has a moment of relief before the plot rockets through obstacles and reactions to
reach the climax in a contested space.

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 125

 FIGURE 8-1:
Sequence of
story spaces.
© John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

SEQUENCE OF STORY SPACES

The chapters in Part 2 provide a lot of worldbuilding tools to ponder. Creating an
effective sequence of story spaces brings all of that knowledge together into one, unified
process. You can explore that process through this exercise using any existing story
world you’re familiar with or you can use it to help develop your own terrific tale. It’s a
lengthy exercise that requires some serious thought, but the results for your stories are
worth the effort. As you work through this exercise, follow these steps:

1. Define your world’s narrative purpose.

Answer these three questions (the same three we ask in Chapter 5):

• Who is the audience for this world?

• How are they going to experience it?
• How do your own passions and interests manifest within this world in a unique way?
Then come up with a one-sentence pitch highlighting what’s most interesting and
important about your world.

2. Pick a specific system within your world to be both your stage and an impor-
tant character.

Your whole story will no doubt involve multiple environments and social systems,
but for this exercise, focus on just one system; perhaps it’s a physical environment or

126 PART 2 Worldbuilding: Journeys to Other Worlds

 a social institution, but it should reflect your answers in Step 1. Describe its equilib-
rium state and/or its primary function as you see them. Then write down the top
three ways the system will respond when some agent of chaos throws it out of
equilibrium. All of these reactions should affect your characters.

3. Lay out a sequence of varied spaces.

Compose a sequence of spaces within this system to tell a story or part of your
story with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Create at least six spaces and use all
for the types of story space (obstacles, reactive spaces, contested spaces, refuges;
refer to the section, “Navigating story spaces,” earlier in this chapter). That means
you’ll use at least two of the types twice. Make sure they’re distinct from one
another and equally interesting. For extra credit, add a seventh space, revisiting
somewhere from earlier in the sequence, but show how it has changed from one
type to another (for example, a refuge has become a contested space).

4. Define the levels of engagement.

We detail levels of engagement in Chapter 7. For each of your six (or seven!) spaces,
summarize in a sentence or two how the space will engage audiences on all four
levels. This step may take some time, but challenge yourself to find something
interesting for each level. Ask yourself these questions for each level:

• Level 1 — Bold strokes: What do the characters notice first about the space?
What about the audience? What challenge or opportunity do the characters
engage with to directly move the story forward?

• Level 2 — Fine nuances: Describe some telling details about the space. Think
about all the different senses and what they can tell your audience about the
space. In visual or audio media, lighting and music can play a key role here. How
do these nuances enhance the core dramatic action of Level 1?

• Level 3 — Hidden depths: What subtle details, motifs, or themes can you add to
the space to reward the more attentive members of your audience? Is there
something here that foreshadows events to come or reflects a deeper history of
the space that’s not obvious to the characters?

• Level 4 — Beyond the text: How can this space spin off optional material for
your audience? These might be technical details, deep history write-ups, or a full
map on your website. You may have additional background information some-
where that explains who made that sword or why these space stations always
have flickering lights. What rewards does this space offer for the biggest fans in
your audience?

5. Identify the important changes for the characters and the world.
With each space, note how the story has changed. How have things gotten better or
worse for the main characters? What new information have you given your audi-
ence? Summarize the changes for the entire sequence taken as a whole, describing
how the plot has advanced, as we discuss in Chapter 3.

CHAPTER 8 This Planet Will Eat You: Worlds Are Characters, Too 127

3
Science Fiction:
Journeys into
the Future
IN THIS PART . . .

Utilize the incredible narrative power of “What if?”

Create a spaceship for any occasion or story purpose.

Dream up imaginary beings that serve your story.

Provoke big questions with dramatic artificial

life forms.

Build and populate a world that audiences

(and characters) will want to explore.
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Wondering about the future

»» Creating science and technology that

wows audiences

»» Finding your focus with dramatic

questions

Chapter  9
Answering “What If?”

W
hat if one morning you woke up to the news of an alien spaceship
hovering over Central Park in New York City? What if astronauts trav-
elled to another world and couldn’t get home? What if computer
implants did all the talking and socializing and people were forced to live lives of
quiet contemplation? What if your life is all a grand experiment and you can’t
believe anything you see?

Writer and literary critic Joanna Russ (author of the excellent novel The Female
Man [Beacon Press]) referred to science fiction as “What If Literature,” and there’s
no doubt that provocative questions and inventive answers lie at the heart of great
sci-fi stories. The genre earns complaints from audiences that it’s often more
about ideas than characters and story. This chapter helps you avoid that pitfall,
but we don’t shy away from asking the big questions that make sci-fi sing.

Asking Big Questions

Most fiction is about people and events in the world, and many genres ask
interesting “what if” questions in some way. Fantasy fiction (see Part 4) is about
people and events in impossible other worlds where magic and monsters are real.
Science fiction is about people and events in other possible worlds and times.
Those other possible sci-fi worlds may or may not be probable, but the power of
sci-fi doesn’t come from correctly anticipating the future. It comes from specu-
lating and telling fascinating stories about other possibilities.

CHAPTER 9 Answering “What If?” 131

 Although most sci-fi stories are usually set in the future, the genre as a whole
doesn’t have a great track record when accurately predicting the future. The moon
doesn’t have flying cars or cities, but we have supercomputers in our pockets that
few authors could have imagined in the 1930s and 40s during the so-called Golden
Age of Science Fiction. But that’s not a problem for sci-fi, because that’s not
what’s interesting or important about it. Sci-fi isn’t for the future, it’s for
the present.

Great science fiction stories reflect upon and explore the important and provoca-
tive issues of today. They ask questions about life on other worlds or the capabili-
ties of the human mind or the dangers of environmental collapse. Then they
invent answers. They wrap those answers up in the drama and power of charac-
ters that audiences care about; characters whose actions and choices and the
ensuing consequences reveal both the nuances of the question and the twists and
turns of the plot.

To create sci-fi stories that rise up to their full potential, you need to start with
some fascinating questions. In the following sections, we explore techniques for
crafting those questions for maximum effect.

Looking closer at your questions

More than likely, you have questions. Chapter 5 asks you to answer three funda-
mental questions when creating a world for your story. One of those is: How do
your own passions and interests manifest within this world in a unique way? We
suggest a similar approach when it comes to brainstorming for your sci-fi ideas.
Ask yourself these questions:

»» What ideas interest you? Do you wonder what life on other planets is like?
Do you want to know more about the physics and engineering of space travel?
Are there intriguing possible political or economic systems that you want to
explore? Put simply, what do you want to discover more about?

»» What are you excited about? What recent discoveries or changes in the real
world get you excited about what’s to come? Are you curious about how
conceptions of gender and sexuality change over time? Are you fascinated by
the developments in artificial intelligence and adaptive algorithms? What do
you hope happens next?

»» What are you worried about? What developments in the real world make
you anxious? Are you concerned about the devastating impact of climate
change? Do you wonder if privacy is really dead in a digital age? Is it possible
that another global pandemic will bring social collapse? These questions may
not be fun to ask, but they’re dramatic. Answering them is the stuff of great
stories.

132 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 »» What if . . .? Take your interests, hopes, and worries and distill them into a
single “what if” question that helps you explore what’s happening in the
current world through the creation of a possible other world. The question
may well change into something slightly or completely different as you start
writing, but having a compelling what if as you begin should guide everything
else as you move forward.

You may be wondering what if you don’t have any questions. What if you just like
lasers and robots and spaceships? Sci-fi can be a mere backdrop for creating your
own setting for exploring war, love, politics, or art, but if it’s not asking and
answering any questions about another possible world, then it’s leaving a lot of
potential on the table.

Provoking curiosity and imagination

Science fiction means asking those questions and answering them. Your “what if”
question is like an inciting incident in a story’s plot: It makes this fictional world
distinct from the everyday and sets the narrative in motion. The question can help
get the audience’s attention, but the answer is what’s going to keep them to the end.

Consider that the earliest forms of literary science fiction were philosophical
exercises like Thomas More’s Utopia or Margaret Cavendish’s The Description of a
New World, Called The Blazing-World. They were fictional realms where the authors
could play with ideas and model other visions for how society might work. These
utopian societies were often located on distant islands or other continents, but as
humanity’s understanding of Earth’s geography grew, the utopias moved off
planet or into the future.

KIDS ASK THE BEST QUESTIONS

Maybe you don’t have a pressing “what if” question blazing away in your brain, demand-
ing to be answered. Or maybe you have a question that’s too complex or specific to pro-
voke answers that make great stories. As a brainstorming exercise, turn to the youth of
the world for inspiration. Take some common kid queries and invent a sci-fi answer
that’s not the true answer but is also scientifically possible. Consider these questions:

• Where do babies come from? Cloning vats, of course!

• Why is the sky that color? Sadly, it’s the dust thrown up by the alien mass driver attack.
• What happens when people die? Their memories are re-uploaded into a new body.
• Why do I have to go to school? Because Big Brother says so.

CHAPTER 9 Answering “What If?” 133

 The distance in time and space of these fictional worlds creates a fictive distance
for audiences, which helps encourage their imaginations to accept that something
different is possible. Audiences consciously and subconsciously use this distance
to make room for some suspension of disbelief; they give themselves permission
to say, “It’s okay that that’s not how things work in my world; this is another
planet or the future.” Authors use that distance for their stories as a crucible in
which to put their questions and answers to the test.

Chapter 6 explains the concept of Most Advanced Yet Acceptable, the design rule
that says audiences both like and dislike change and want a balance between the
familiar and the new. Literary critics sometimes use the lovely term cognitive
estrangement for the feeling audiences get when they experience a sci-fi story.
They feel that this other possible world is strange and different, which makes
them curious to learn more.

Curiosity opens your audience to provocation from your story. As an author, you
can raise feelings of awe and fascination at technological achievements and
otherworldly sights. You can provoke responses of dread and horror from disso-
nant discoveries of science and abuses of technology. That alien ship over Central
Park can do both at the same time. It’s easy to imagine both the majestic vistas of
an alien world and the existential dread of being an astronaut marooned on its
surface.

Make your story too strange, too different, and too fictively distant, and large
swaths of the audience won’t accept it. They’ll be cognitively estranged all the way
over to someone else’s story. Balance is key. It gives the audience a firm founda-
tion from which to engage with your story. Chapter 6 expounds on the virtues of
“starting with Earth” when creating a story world.

Answering questions with characters

You’re asking interesting questions and you’re promising your audiences even
more interesting answers. The surest, best, and right way to provide those answers
is through the actions and experiences of your characters. Remember, all stories
are about people your readers are interested in doing things they care about. The
characters should always come first.

The story’s ideas are interesting to your audience, but they must be absolutely
vital to your characters. Don’t write the clichéd sci-fi tale that’s all thought
experiment and no drama and humanity. Aliens hovering over Central Park are
interesting in theory and present a huge problem for the people sent in a helicop-
ter to make first contact. Information security and identity theft worry many
people today, but it’s terrifying when your memories get uploaded into an android
doppelganger who shows up at your mother’s house for Christmas.

134 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 A good way to start is asking yourself these questions about the implications your
“what if” scenario creates:

»» How would your own life be different in this scenario?

»» What new kinds of challenges and opportunities would average people have?
»» Who would be most affected by and engaged with the scenario?
»» Who would benefit most from this change to our world and who would
suffer most?

Sci-fi asks questions about possible futures, but that doesn’t point to a specific
kind of story. Readers know that a mystery novel will be about solving a crime.
Romantic comedy audiences know that the story will be about will they or won’t
they fall in love. War stories are about strategy, tactics, and the trauma soldiers
and civilians endure. Sci-fi stories can be about any of those things and more.
They’re also about ideas themselves and the future. Chapter  27 presents more
information about ten of the most popular and effective modes for sci-fi and other
genre stories.

Inventing the Big New Thing

Sci-fi stories often contain all kinds of futuristic technology, but a lot of those
things are more like props and scenery for the central question. Spaceships just
get the characters from planet A to planet B. Laser pistols may as well be revolvers
from the 19th century. The story isn’t asking any questions about those things.

A great sci-fi story needs a science-based development at the center of it that’s

integral to the narrative and that sets this world apart from the audience’s reality
in a significant way. Science fiction literary theorist Darko Suvin called this a
fictive novum, and if you want to delve deep into some very complicated and inter-
esting literary theory about how science fiction works, read his Metamorphoses of
Science Fiction (Peter Lang AG, Internationaler Verlag der Wissenschaften). We
tweak Suvin’s definition a little and call this science-based innovation the Big
New Thing. Here we examine the Big New Thing in greater detail.

Understanding what the Big New Thing is

A Big New Thing impacts how societies operate and how your characters live their
lives. A Big New Thing makes such an important difference that it forces audi-
ences and characters alike to consider moral and ethical questions about its

CHAPTER 9 Answering “What If?” 135

 implications. A Big New Thing is a big freakin’ deal, and it should relate directly
to your “what if” question. The invention of faster-than-light travel lets human-
ity travel to other stars. The creation of self-aware artificial intelligence forever
changes your audience’s relationships with technology. A visitor from another
world redefines humanity’s vision of its place in the universe. A wondrous new
pocket computer makes landline telephones totally obsolete in just a few decades.
The Big New Thing sets up a change and the “what if” question explores its
implications.

The best Big New Things are based on what’s currently known about science. The
scientific foundation is key to making them seem possible to audiences and to
making sure the fictive distance isn’t too distant to be engaging. The story world’s
scientific basis creates a chain of cause and effect that doesn’t contradict what
actually happens on Earth and allows for logical conclusions about its implica-
tions. That’s the fun part for audiences: They can start asking and answering their
own “what if” questions.

By no means do you have to get a PhD in anything to write science fiction. You
don’t need to fully grasp quantum mechanics or information theory or astro-
physics. Chapter 6 describes how to use research techniques that focus on what
you need for your story without getting lost in the minutiae. Yes, science plays a
key role in science fiction, but it doesn’t always have to be super accurate or spe-
cific. There’s real science (orbital mechanics), possible science (intelligent life on
other worlds), technically maybe possible science (faster-than-light travel), and
probably-not-possible-but-who-really-knows science (traveling back in time).
All of those varieties share a core scientific principle of logic and observation that
allow audiences to grapple with interesting questions in a way they can under-
stand and enjoy.

OLD NEW THINGS

Some iconic Big New Things show up again and again in sci-fi stories: aliens, faster-than-
light travel, artificial intelligence, other planets, time travel, apocalypses, and dystopias,
to name the most common. You can read thousands of good stories about each of
these and thousands more to come. Just because they’re common doesn’t mean you
should be afraid to use them, but you want to make sure your take on them is uniquely
yours and offers audiences something they haven’t seen a thousand times before.

136 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

Distinguishing between hard and soft sci-fi
Devotees of the sci-fi genre sometimes differentiate between hard and soft science
fiction:

»» Hard sci-fi leans into known science and steers away from the fantastical.
Andy Weir’s The Martian (Broadway Books) is a great recent example about an
astronaut stranded on Mars who relies entirely on the technology and known
science of the time to survive.

»» Soft sci-fi stretches the word “science” to its limits, sometimes with just a thin
veneer of it over its stories. Some folks put Star Wars in this category. The
distinction isn’t always cut and dry and goes all the way back to Jules Verne,
H.G. Wells, and Mary Shelley.

Verne’s novels asked questions about the technology and discoveries of the
day, and he prided himself on that. Wells used plausible but further afield
ideas like aliens on Mars and time travel to explore imperialism, war, and the
arc of history. Shelley’s Frankenstein, maybe the first true sci-fi novel, gives a
quick but effective scientific basis for the monster’s creation, but spends much
of the story exploring the moral and ethical questions raised by creating a
new life form.

No one way is better sci-fi than the other. They’re just different approaches to
asking and answering “what if” questions.

As Istvan Csicsery-Ronay notes in his book, The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction
(Wesleyan University Press), sci-fi provides society with examples and metaphors
to help us all think about the role of technology in society. Sci-fi stories can both
express our collective fears about where the world is going and provide inspiration
about how to shape the future. In other words, sci-fi stories have a profound
impact on how society thinks about science and technology.

You can easily find interviews with NASA scientists inspired by Star Trek. The
pioneers in virtual reality development were all largely inspired by sci-fi, which
gave them fictional models for their real-world engineering achievements. Those
Big New Things from sci-fi classics have shaped the way people make, use, and
talk about the world. Technology and science march on, the world keeps changing,
and your sci-fi stories can possibly help your audience with it all.

CHAPTER 9 Answering “What If?” 137

Asking Key Questions about
Your Sci-Fi Story
We initially developed this questionnaire to guide our students and ourselves to
think about sci-fi stories and how they work, and now we’re sharing it with you.
It’s a simple rubric adapted in part from the ideas in The Seven Beauties of Science
Fiction that can help you consider your own story and how it engages with the key
elements of successful sci-fi. Ask yourself these questions:

»» When and where is the story set in time and space? It can be a distant
world or next Monday. That time and place sets the fictive distance for your
story world in the audience’s mind and defines how much room you have to
play around with consensus reality.

»» What questions about this other world does the story ask? Here’s your
“what if” question, posed in terms that relate to the world and its characters.
What are you asking and how are you going to answer those questions?

»» What Big New Thing does the story introduce that’s key to the narrative
and sets it apart from our world? Determine the significant, world-changing,
science-based invention or discovery that defines your world and its story.

»» How do the characters in the story relate to the Big New Thing? Figure
out how the Big New Thing specifically impacts the lives of your main charac-
ters. Assess whether they discovered or invented it, or whether it fell in their
backyard. Decide whether they’re using it to travel to other worlds.

»» What moral and ethical questions about this Big New Thing does the
story present? Those questions drive the dramatic decisions and challenges
your characters face and offer audiences a chance to imagine how they’d
respond.

»» How does the story provoke feelings of awe and fascination at techno-
logical achievements and changes? Decide what sci-fi elements you find
cool and appealing. Determine what inventions and anomalies will draw
audiences in and make them wonder what it would be like living in that world.

»» How does the story provoke responses of dread and horror from
dissonant discoveries of science in your world? Figure out what will get
your characters and your audience worried. What concerns about the modern
world manifest themselves in dramatic and dissonant ways within your sci-fi
world? What’s going to keep audiences on the edge of their seat?

Your answers to those questions can serve you well as a great set of guiding prin-
ciples as you write your story. With each choice you make about a plot point or a
character action or a cool new piece of tech, keep your answers in mind and let
them inform your creative decisions.

138 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Building spaceships that are homes

to great drama

»» Traveling to the stars at just the right

speed

»» Fighting and dying in space

Chapter  10
A Spaceship for Every
Occasion, an Occasion
for Every Spaceship

O
uter space is vast and deadly. It’s enormous on a scale the human imagi-
nation can’t really grasp. Our minds have no frame of reference to make
sense of the fact that the galaxy has more than 100 billion stars, maybe
one septillion stars in the known universe, and that the universe is around 90 billion
light years in diameter. That’s a lot of space for a lot of stories. It’s a lot of space
for a lot of everything.

In all probability, humanity will never know much of anything about all that
space, all those stars, and the bajillions of planets around them. These great
swaths of unknowable universe give sci-fi storytellers ample room they need to
give their futuristic scenarios some scientific possibility. Your task is to carve out
a slice of space and make it your own, choosing which elements of astrophysics
to include and which to quietly ignore. Humanity may never visit other galaxies or
even other stars, but your audience and your characters can, and they’re going to
need a spaceship to get there. Consider this chapter your booster engines to get
you there.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 139
Voyaging Far from Home: Vessels
for Isolation and Adventure
Your spaceship can visit a myriad fascinating places, but none of that is nearly as
important as the people inside the ships. Remember, “people” in sci-fi can include
aliens, robots, computers, and even the ship itself can be an intelligent and impor-
tant character. They’re people one and all for our purposes, and the spaceship not
only takes them from one place to another, it also takes their wants, fears, preju-
dices, and ambitions with them.

A spaceship is kind of the ultimate recreational vehicle; it lets travelers take their
home out into the great beyond and serves as a refuge from the unknown. Of
course, it also means the people already living in the unknown get exposed to a
slice of the traveler’s home, bringing the two homes into contact, creating a clash
of cultures of sorts — something interesting will undoubtedly happen next.

Here we focus in turn on the three key elements of space travel storytelling: the
ship, the crew, and their mission.

Launching the ship

As the word “ship” suggests, sci-fi and science nonfiction have adopted naval
terminology when talking about spacecraft. Spaceships usually have a bow and a
stern, a captain and a crew, and are maybe part of a fleet or a navy. If your space-
ships connect directly to Earth’s shared history, then using these terms makes
sense, but you don’t have to. You may decide to have your spacefaring tradition
take its metaphors from air travel, religious architecture, or some natural system.
If you want to show the impact of another story world’s concerns through the
names it gives its rockets, imagine a narthex instead of a docking bay and an altar
instead of a bridge and a bishop instead of an admiral.

But there’s something deeper about the concept of a ship than just likening trav-
eling through space to sailing the seven seas. Naval adventures are their own dis-
tinct mode of storytelling, and the seas have a lot of interesting narrative tools
that can inform your spaceship stories. The sci-fi classic Twenty Thousand Leagues
Under the Seas by Jules Verne exemplifies the mode, as do non-sci-fi books like
C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower novels. These are stories about crews bound
together in state-of-the-art vessels on journeys through peril and discovery that
take them far from home. The crew is forced to work together to survive, no mat-
ter how they feel about each other. All that stands between them and death is the
thin hull of their ship, and all kinds of giant squid and French frigates are trying
to blow holes in it. It’s an inherently dramatic, high-stakes scenario.

140 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 Approach your spaceships as a part (or even the entirety) of your story world. They
should enhance, complicate, and clarify the dramatic question in your plot, and
their role should relate in some way to the story’s central “what if” question
(refer to Chapter  9 for more insight into asking that question). If your story is
about what happens on the planets and not in between them, travel can be so fast
it fits in a single sentence: “They warped to Horrix Prime and berthed the freighter
in the cheapest dock they could find before arranging transport to the ruins.” If
the story calls for some serious space peril and characters making hard choices to
overcome obstacles, that journey to Horrix Prime may take five scenes and include
weeks of travel, avoiding suspicious patrol cruisers, a leak in the fuel core, and a
heated argument between the navigator and the ship’s mysterious owner. Only
you can determine what role the ship needs to play in your story.

Build your ship as a stage for your drama. Consider the following examples:

»» Lone capsules or one-person scout ships work well for stories that emphasize
the vastness of space and inherent solitude of the human condition.

»» Small ships with tight crews of distinct individuals can have dramatic conflicts
with each other and the universe.

»» Large ships with large crews are full communities with a variety of subgroups,
ranks, or other demarcations.

»» Generation ships for whole societies are isolated from outside influence over
long periods.

SETTING YOUR STORY IN A SPACE STATION

The space station is a stolid setting for many fine sci-fi stories where, instead of moving
through space, space comes to visit. When designing stations for your story, all the dan-
gers of space still apply, along with questions about the crew and the mission. However,
they tend to be larger, more permanent, and immobile, linked into the political, eco-
nomic, and social systems of your story world.

They’re crossroads spaces from which someone goes on a journey or a stranger comes
to town. They can serve as a nexus for peace or a bastion in times of war or a gateway
to other stars.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 141
 Meeting the crew
The confined spaces of the ship create a perfect melting pot (or pressure cooker)
for diverse people from your story world to come together and interact with one
another in dramatic and interesting ways. The external pressures (be they enemy
ships or cultural conflicts amongst the crew) highlight the defining traits of the
various species or robots or whoever makes up the ship’s company. The way they
face challenges and deal with each other shows the audience how the larger story
world works. The original Star Trek TV series is one of the most successful models
for this kind of story and many stories followed in its wake.

Compose your ship’s crew of characters created for the story you’re telling. Their
interpersonal dynamics lend emotional weight and engagement to your plot as
your audience comes to know and care about them. The following are some of the
most common ways to think about your crew’s relationship:

»» Family drama: Stories about people whose family or family-like relations tie
them together no matter where they are. They may love or hate one another,
but they’re still family and they’re stuck on this ship together. The ship
becomes a stage for characters to work through family drama and resolve
deep-seeded tensions that may stay buried were it not for the pitfalls of
space travel.

»» Found family: Stories of people who have chosen life aboard the ship and its
dangers because the love and support from their fellow crew members
outweigh the perils of the vast dark. These stories showcase diverse life paths
and the mixing of cultures and ideas in intriguing ways while uniting together
against a common challenge.

»» Forced confines: Stories about people with no choice in the matter, thrown
together by fate, professional obligation, or the force of law. Characters who
otherwise wouldn’t have anything to do with one another confront their
differences as they face the harsh realities of space travel together.

»» Footloose adventures: Stories about the freedom to explore, these can be

classic tale of friends on a road trip together or episodic tales of vagabond star
explorers. The crew may or may not all get along, but are free to leave when
they please. They’ll stick together at least as long as it’s worth their while or
until a greater purpose forces them to find common cause.

»» All alone in the night: Space is great for stories of isolation, loneliness, and
independence. A ship with a crew of just one forces the character to be utterly
self-reliant. They might also have to face or work hard to avoid their own
personal demons and insecurities. Usually someone else comes along to
disrupt their hermit-like existence, be it for good or ill (or both).

142 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 A TALE OF TWO SHIPS: DISCOVERY
ONE AND THE NOSTROMO
Compare two iconic movie spaceships: the Discover One from 2001: A Space Odyssey
and the Nostromo from Alien. Both ships are scenes for disturbing murders, but their
designs and their crews support very different themes and fears.

The Discovery One is bright white, crisp and clean with an utterly calm and professional
crew and ship’s computer (HAL 9000). It’s the stage for a story about discovery, prog-
ress, and the expanding of intellectual horizons. HAL’s cold-blooded turn to murder is
an unforeseen side effect of conflicting orders (keep a secret versus protect the crew).
The sole surviving astronaut character uses logic and problem-solving skills to neutralize
HAL, before going on to make a transcendental discovery about the universe.

The Nostromo is dark, lived-in, and crewed by a diverse group of working-class space
truckers. It’s the stage for a horror story, and the forced confines and discord between
the crewmembers is fertile ground for the monstrous xenomorph to wreak havoc.
In the end the sole surviving crew member must destroy the entire ship in order
to escape.

Completing the mission

After you have the right ship and the right crew, the characters need something to
do, which is probably the plot of your story. If you have a great inciting incident
that makes this day in the ship’s history different from most others, then what
they do will be anything but typical. Take some time to think through what is typ-
ical for the ship and its crew. Consider what this ship is used for and how the crew
feels about that mission by answering the following questions:

»» What is this ship supposed to do? Was it built for battle or shipping or
science or something else? Did it start as one kind of vessel but has been
modified and jury-rigged for some other purpose?

»» What responsibilities do the characters have? What is the ship’s crew

supposed to care about, according to whoever put them on the ship? Are they
soldiers in an Imperial Navy tasked with defending against outsiders? Are they
merchants paid extra if the cargo gets there ahead of schedule? Are they
gathering data on stellar anomalies?

»» Who doesn’t want the ship to succeed? Space itself can be the biggest
obstacle for any ship, but who or what else stands in the way of the mission?
Are enemy fleets maneuvering in the vast dark? Is the stellar anomaly

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 143
 throwing off radiation that interferes with the ship’s life support systems? Is a
rival merchant willing to do whatever it takes to delay delivery?

»» What’s most likely to go wrong? What are the ship’s most fragile or finicky
systems? Who in the crew has a history of screwing up their job? What rare
fuel or ammunition is prone to running out at the most inopportune moment?
Which gravity wells or time/space anomalies do they have to avoid or suffer
through?

With interesting answers to these questions in mind, you’re now well prepared
with the building blocks of high-stakes conflict.

The Physics and Drama of Space Travel

Real space travel is incredibly dangerous, expensive, and slow. Anything that dif-
ficult can generate drama, and some great sci-fi stories embrace all three of those
limits and use them to tell nail-biting dramas about missions to the moon, Mars,
or beyond.

However, most stories don’t portray every real danger and complication in space
travel. Perhaps they worry about having enough oxygen and water but ignore the
dangers of radiation or prolonged weightlessness. A lot of them create some kind
of invention that lets ships break the speed of light. Audiences are not only fine
with these story choices, they embrace them because those other problems aren’t
what’s interesting about the story’s central “what if” question. That’s your first
big decision to make about spaceships in your story: How dangerous, expensive,
and slow do you need travel to be?

The following sections help you answer important questions about faster- and
slower-than-light travel and how to best fit your ships’ capabilities to your story’s
needs.

Obeying the speed of light

As Einstein showed, the speed of light sets a pretty firm limit on how fast any-
thing in the universe can move. Having your story agree with Einstein more firmly
roots it in Earth reality and lessens that fictive distance between the audience and
the story world. Your sci-fi setting becomes at least a little more possible. Your
“what if” questions and Big New Things (a science-based development that’s inte-
gral to the story — see Chapter 9 for more information) rest on firmer scientific

144 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 ground. A physics-obedient story enhances feelings of awe and dread rooted in
the possible. For stories that emphasize the sheer size of space, the epic effort to
travel through it, and the risks and sacrifices every space traveler takes and makes,
obeying the speed limit has a lot of upsides.

Science already knows how to send spaceships to other planets: rockets. Classic
icons of science fiction, rockets not only obey Einstein, but they also rely on
Newton’s Third Law: Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Rockets
fling some substance out one end at high speed and then anything attached to the
rocket flies in the opposite direction. Rockets need propellant to fling out the back
and energy to fling it out fast and steady, which means fuel of some kind is always
necessary.

If you’re going to obey the laws of physics, pay attention to the following hard
truths about space travel.

Fueling your ship

How much you want to pay attention to fuel/thrust ratios, orbital mechanics, and
escape velocities is up to you. The hardest of hard sci-fi stories can make all that
math exciting because getting the math right in space is literally a matter of life
and death. Other stories gloss over the formulae and leave it to the ship’s com-
puter to point out that unless they find a new source of hydrogen in this asteroid
field, nobody’s getting home.

Scientific advances can make the need for fuel less pressing for your ships.
Consider the following real science alternatives to the old-fashioned rocket  —
none of these may work, but none of them defy Einstein and these kinds of tech-
nology give you additional options:

»» Ion drives: NASA has tested ion drives, which are slow but steady.
»» Solar sails: Theoretical models for solar sails use light from the sun to create
thrust.

»» Ramscoops: They theoretically suck up errant hydrogen atoms floating in

space and use a fusion reactor to turn them into ultra-efficient propellant.

Or if you want, create your own! James S. A. Corey’s Expanse (Orbit) series of nov-
els and books invented The Epstein Drive, a fusion-based technology that lets
ships zip around the solar system more efficiently than any existing system but
still conforms to all the dramatic limitations of velocity, gravity, and acceleration
and deceleration mechanics that make space travel unique and interesting.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 145
 From Mercury to the moons of Neptune
Sci-fi stories with the laws of physics in full effect often end up staying closer to
home, setting their entire story world within our solar system. By keeping your
story orbiting the familiar old Sun, the conflict and concepts can feel closer
to home.

The biggest advantage for the solar system setting comes from audience familiar-
ity. Audiences know where all the planets are (basically) and what they’re like
(generally). Their imaginations have lots of information to help them fill in the
gaps and make the story world feel more relatable.

Depending on your timeline, these stories can range from first missions to settle
Mars to intricate political and economic systems spread across every planet and
moon within the orbit of Pluto. Chapter 6 discusses the power of piggybacking to
build on what the audience already knows to create more immersive story worlds.

The solar system we all live in already contains the political rivalries, cultural
clashes, and environmental pressures of Earth. Expanding to other planets in this
solar system allows all those dramatic forces to expand and find new homes and
new forms. You can divide up the planets along whatever lines work for your
story. Maybe one wing of politics is on Mars and the other is on Titan, Saturn’s
largest moon. Ancient faiths could find new expressions in the harsh life of an
asteroid settler.

To the stars . . . eventually
Putting aside whether or not something like a spaceship could ever safely move
that fast, just following the laws of physics, means it takes years upon years to get
anywhere outside the solar system. Interstellar travel at the fastest realistic speeds
also means at relativistic speeds. Characters traveling at or near light speed expe-
rience time dilation, aging much slower than the rest of their world because they’re
moving at such a high velocity. There’s some complicated math and physics
explaining that phenomenon, and odds are you know about it for the same reason
we do: You read about it in a sci-fi story or saw it in a movie.

Amazing, landmark pieces of sci-fi center around the effects of time dilation and
traveling the far-flung reaches of space. The concept of leaving Earth on a voyage
that you experience as just a few years only to return home and find that decades
have passed overflows with dramatic possibilities. Often the characters are put
into some sort of cryogenic sleep or stasis during the voyage, so for them it passes
in the space of a long nap. This classic “what if’” scenario goes back to early
utopian novels and stories like Washington Irving’s 1819 short story “Rip Van
Winkle.” What if someone misses decades or centuries without changing only to
return home to find everything has changed?

146 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 The generation ship is a classic sci-fi big new thing that embraces the speed of
light. Instead of putting your characters to sleep for the hundreds of years it takes
to get to Horrix Prime, you give them a ship big enough for them to live full lives
with families and children and a self-contained society for generations. Some-
thing usually goes wrong with this plan, which is of course the beginning of a
great story.

Traveling through space faster than light

Faster-than-light (FTL) travel doesn’t exist and may never exist. Some theories
exist, however, as far as we (two non-physicists) can tell, the more you dig into
the math, the more unlikely they seem to be. But the allure of strange new worlds
and new civilizations transcends the laws of time and space, and FTL technology
is one of the huge, iconic big new things in science fiction. The storytelling advan-
tages are obvious: The whole universe opens up as potential settings, and nobody
really knows what’s out there. The possibilities are endless. After your audience
accepts FTL, they’re signing on to close that fictive distance at warp speed and
discover what other wonders and terrors your story world has to offer.

Here are the four broad types of FTL technologies found across most sci-fi, each
with its own inherent dramatic possibilities:

»» Hyper/subspace: Spaceships leave “normal space” (the space we all actually

live in) and slip into some other kind of space where the laws of physics are
different and the speed of light isn’t a limit. Faster than light doesn’t mean
teleportation, and hyperspace travel still takes time, but it can be hours/days/
weeks to travel to another star instead of centuries. You may have set
hyperspace pathways connecting stars or your world may be wide open to go
any which way you want. Because it’s another set of reality rules, weird and
interesting things can exist in hyperspace and accidents can happen.

»» Warp drive: The spaceship creates a bubble of energy or gravity, or some-

thing scientific around it lets the spaceship break the laws of physics and slip
through normal space at immense speeds. Like hyperspace, warp drive can
be as fast or as slow as you need it to be for your story, but it doesn’t include
the other reality part from hyperspace. Your spaceships stay in this universe,
opening them up to various threats and obstacles.

»» Gateway/wormhole: The spaceship travels via a shortcut through time and

space that links two set points across the galaxy. Maybe these tunnels are
naturally occurring anomalies or they may be constructed gateways using
advanced technology. Wormholes combine the interstellar story possibilities
of FTL with the familiar Earth concepts of set borders and routes between
locations. They allow for dramatic complications like blockades, fortifications,
and advanced warnings of incoming visitors or invaders.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 147
 EXOTIC AND ESOTERIC TRAVEL
Douglas Adams’ hilarious The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Del Rey) features a ship
that uses an Infinite Improbability Drive to travel through every conceivable point in
the universe simultaneously to get to its destination. In terms of our four categories of
traveling faster than light from the section, “Traveling through space faster than light,”
it falls into jump/fold space, but the humorous and wildly improbable side effects of
using it push the plot in new directions and add new laughs. If it suits your story, imag-
ine some specific cost to travel that heightens the themes, tone, and dramatic conflict of
your narrative.

»» Jump/fold space: Why move through space when a ship can instantly
teleport from one point to another? This category is the most efficient way
to travel by far, and most science fiction stories with jump technology impose
hefty costs or limits on this method. Creating the fold or tear in space may
take tremendous energy or psychic abilities that mean only a few ships can do
it. Perhaps it’s only possible at certain jump points in a solar system based
on the gravitational field of a given star. Or maybe you want anyone to be able
to go anywhere anytime they want, which would raise its own interesting
“what if” questions about the concepts of borders and territory.

Considering other speculative technologies

The speed of light isn’t the only reality of space travel that sci-fi routinely waves
away. These sections examine three of the most commonly deployed speculative
technologies in science fiction.

Antigravity
Outer space doesn’t have gravity (okay, technically there’s microgravity, but you
and your characters can’t tell the difference). Characters dealing with zero-
gravity can be fun and interesting and terrible: You get to float around, but your
bone density and muscle mass wither away over time. Eating, drinking, and using
the bathroom aren’t easy, but zero-g ship interiors can take advantage of every
surface being easily accessible to crewmembers.

You can create artificial gravity in your story in a couple of known ways:

»» When a ship is thrusting forward, the acceleration pushes everything and

everyone on the ship in the direction of the thrust, but this only works as long
as the ship is applying thrust to change speed and thus burning fuel.

148 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 »» The other option is to spin part of the ship and create centripetal force that
pulls things inside toward the outer edge of the spinning section.

For many decades, film and TV limits were likely the strongest advocates of arti-
ficial gravity. Simulating zero-g in a movie or television show is expensive and
difficult, but simulating weightlessness really feels like space when a production
spends the extra time and money. These days, many sci-fi stories don’t even
bother to explain why the ship has gravity unless it malfunctions or is turned off
for some dramatic reason. The more science-based your story, the more likely
audiences are to wonder why there’s gravity on the ship, but if your story’s focus
is elsewhere and gravity isn’t relevant to the plot, few will notice one way or
the other.

Faster-than-light communications
Stories are about people who want things, usually from other people, and that
almost always involves characters talking to each other. The speed of light limits
radio signals just as much as it does spaceships, so a conversation between two
planets in different solar systems would take decades or centuries. The more real-
istic your space travel, the more realistic your communication should logically be.
In sublight stories, the communication delay across a solar system enhances the
isolation inherent in space travel, with minutes or hours between asking for help
and receiving a reply from back home.

Sci-fi authors have invented numerous fictional workarounds for this problem,
and audiences are accustomed to granting stories some generous suspension of
disbelief. Linking FTL communication to FTL travel makes the most sense, with
tech-like hyperspace broadcasting systems or relay beacons at wormhole
entrances. You probably don’t need to explain the details in much detail unless it’s
important to the story. These kinds of infrastructure are ripe targets for story
complications: Mysterious alien signals can drown out all hyperspace frequencies
and enemy covert raids can sabotage relay beacons.

Life support systems

Spaceships need oxygen, food, and water (or whatever the crew breathes, eats, or
drinks). Storing, purifying, and providing enough of those vital supplies takes up
space and requires technology of some kind. Furthermore, the ship probably has
to process waste, shield against radiation and cosmic rays, and care for the sick
and wounded. All of that can be as complicated as you need, or it can go
unmentioned.

Life support systems can be an interesting way to explore possible big new things
or engage with “what if” questions. The post-scarcity world of Star Trek-style

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 149
 replicators produce food from energy, a system abstract enough that it becomes a
kind of amorphous checklist item that can malfunction when things start to go
wrong. A real near-future mission to Mars is going to succeed or fail in large part
based on how well it can support the crew’s lives, so the details of the system
become more central to the story.

DESIGN AN ENGINE FOR YOUR STORY

Calculate your FTL technology for optimal dramatic impact by making space travel
exactly as dangerous, expensive, and slow as you need it to be. As a way to familiarize
yourself with these kinds of story calculations, design a space-travel system for a spe-
cific kind of dramatic challenge. Pick one of the story modes from Chapter 27 and create
a form of space travel specifically suited for it. Consider the following factors:

• Genre: Identify the core storytelling experience that audiences want from the cho-
sen story mode. Are you setting the course for adventure or are your eyes on a new
romance? Is there a war to be fought or a mystery to be solved?

• Speed: Turn the maximum ship’s speed up or down to set the pace and create iso-
lation. Will your story benefit from confining the characters to a ship for periods of
time so they can fall in love or interrogate suspects? How close or far away is help if
the characters need it?

• Expense: The more expensive and rare space travel is, the higher the stakes for
everyone on board and their stories. Who can afford to travel to the stars? Do
young courting couples cruise to the asteroid belt to kanoodle? Does it take the
combined effort of a dozen nations to send a generation ship to Alpha Centauri,
and your hero is the only trained detective on board?

• Danger: Decide exactly how dangerous travel is in your story. Is a trip to the moon
as routine as intercontinental air travel is today? Do people hop on board and head
to the nearest jump point at the drop of a hat, or are there a hundred pre-flight
safety checks to do before countdown? Is the greatest threat radiation sickness and
oxygen leaks or are there enemy fighters patrolling the hyperspace lanes?

• Ramifications: Know the strong opinions characters in your world have about
space travel. What are the ethical and social consequences of this mode of travel?
Does tearing holes in the space-time continuum have detrimental effects on the
fabric of reality? Does society distrust people who regularly travel between worlds
because they’re seen as vagabonds or rebels? Is spending vast sums of money to
go to Mars a bold step forward for humanity or a callous waste when there’s so
much poverty back on Earth?

150 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

1, 2, 3, 4 — I Declare a Space War!
Humanity has managed to keep space free of weapons and war (so far), but science
fiction has been fighting for the stars for close to a century. The spaceship’s
storytelling roots are in tales of ships and naval combat, which in the 20th century
incorporated the realities and romance of airplane dogfights. The aircraft carrier
became the ultimate inspiration for many a space war, combining the scale and
slugging power of a ship of the line with the speed and ferocity of a squadron of
fighters. Beloved franchises like Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica draw from this
air/sea war tradition to great effect.

This section details ways to make your story’s space warfare, weapons, and
defenses feel like they’re something that could possibly happen and make sure
they serve the specific dramatic needs of your story.

War as storytelling by other means

Space is super dangerous. We don’t know what fighting between two spaceships
is really like, but we do know it doesn’t take much to wreak havoc on any space
vessel that’s ever been built. One little hole in the side of your ship and all the
oxygen is gone, with no way to get more. Even at slower than light speed, every-
thing’s hurling about at tremendous speeds and the smallest pebble can do
immense damage. It’s a wonder any ship survives at all, even when nobody’s try-
ing to blow it up.

Aside from the intrinsic fragility of spacecraft, you need to consider a few other
hard truths about space that make fighting there different from any other field
of battle:

»» Nowhere to hide: Because space is huge with nothing much there, your
characters don’t have anywhere to hide and take cover behind.

»» Difficult to maneuver: Maneuvering in space is complicated and requires

careful control over vectors and velocity, acceleration and deceleration, all of
which computers handle better than brave biological pilots. As is the case in
modern air and naval combat, most attacks are going to take place over vast
distances and controlled by automated systems.

You’ll decide how much of known physics to incorporate and how much of it to
ignore in your combat, depending on the needs of your stories. The kinds of dog-
fighting starship battles seen in Star Wars aren’t likely or realistic, but they do
make for exciting action where one character’s skill and bravery can change the
course of the fight and audiences can keep track of who’s shooting at whom.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 151
 Star Trek-style battles usually take their cues from the slugfests of the age of sail,
with massive ships trading phaser blasts and torpedoes. Maybe no more likely
than dogfighting, but as a story they put more emphasis on the crew working
together and the ship as both a weapon and a home for the people on it.

Create a set of weapons and defenses that serve your combat’s purpose and then
show the audience how they work. As they come to understand the stakes and
strategies in your story, they’ll be able to follow the action and worry about likely
outcomes. Then you’ll be able to surprise them with a moment of tactical bril-
liance, sudden escalation, or other twist that makes each battle unique and impor-
tant in your narrative.

These questions can help you as you incorporate war into your story:

»» What is the space combat in your story there for?

»» Are the risks de rigueur or cataclysmic for your crew and their ship?
»» Do your heroes run toward or away from a fight?
»» Are you creating compelling strategic clashes where characters can show their
brilliance?

»» Is it a field of honor where your characters can clash with clear cause
and effect?

Activating weapons of war

Listing every kind of weapon and defense system that may appear in a sci-fi story
is next to impossible, but the majority of them fit into these broad categories,
presented here in order from most technologically likely to most fanciful:

»» Projectiles: Good old fashioned pieces of metal shot at a high speed, there’s
no reason to believe projectiles will be any less effective in space than they are
on Earth. Projectiles may feel more grounded in reality to audiences and also
require ammunition, which must be stored and may run out at a dra-
matic moment.

»» Torpedoes and missiles: The mainstay weapons of modern air and naval
combat, self-propelled, guided explosives are clearly an effective tactic against
moving and distant enemy targets (everything you’re likely to shoot at in
space). They have built-in drama, with the tense countdown to impact and
dramatic maneuvers and countermeasures on the part of the target. Ships
can only hold limited quantities, which makes expending them an interesting
decision for characters.

152 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 »» Drones: Remote warfare through drones is something straight out of a sci-fi
story from 50 years ago but is a commonplace reality today. It’s hard to
imagine they won’t remain a key element of space warfare in the future. The
dramatic downside of drones is the lack of a character your audience hopes
and fears for, except when the story’s heroes are the ones under drone
assault. Chapter 12 has more material about robots and artificial intelligence,
some of which apply to your self-guided drone weapons platforms.

»» Lasers: The sci-fi classic, a laser, has current, real-world military applications
for both targeting and destroying targets. Nothing can move faster than light
as a weapon, and it should be almost impossible to dodge, although reflective
ship surfaces may offer some protection. The damage and range depend on
the laser’s power, which in turn comes from the ship’s power source (which
likely has all kinds of constraints and other things it needs to power as well).

»» Mass drivers: Another kind of projectile, but instead of being shot out of a
barrel by an explosion, the bullet is flung at tremendous speeds by magnetic
accelerators. With force equaling mass times acceleration, that enormous
velocity translates into massive damage. It also implies the equal and opposite
reaction of that acceleration translating onto the ship that fired, which can jerk
a ship around and send it off course.

»» Blasters: A generic term used here for some kind of dangerous energy like
plasma that’s hurled at a target. It moves slower than light and causes
whatever amount of damage your story requires. The nebulous physics of
blaster technology make it a great option for visual media and softer, less
science-grounded storytelling.

»» Nukes: The ultimate offensive weapon has been around for eight decades
and will only be cheaper, more powerful, and easier to create in the future.
Although political and moral fortitude have prevented the use of atomic
weapons since 1945, science fiction has imagined many uses for them since
then. Introducing nuclear weapons into your story raises the stakes and
reshapes battle tactics in huge ways that have a lot of potential but aren’t
what most audiences expect from their space wars.

»» Future tech: The preceding weapons systems are all semi-plausible and don’t
require much explaining for your audience to understand. But if your story
needs some unique twist on its space battles, we can think of countless
examples to pull from and plenty of room for you to invent your own:

• Disintegrators that break down targets at the atomic level

• Cannons the length of a battleship that annihilate planets
• Void bombs that create mini-black holes that suck in everything nearby
• Psychic assault pulses

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 153
 • Teleportation bombardments
• Nanotech gray goo
Just make sure to figure out how you want the tech to work and under what
conditions it is and isn’t effective. Think about how they would work in
different environments, for example. Every weapon should have drawbacks
or limits to how and when it can be used.

Deploying systems of defense

When a single hole in the hull can spell disasters for a spaceship, having a strong
defense is just as important as a good offense. These are some of the most com-
mon defense systems found in sci-fi ships, presented in order from most realistic
to most theoretical:

»» Sensors: Knowledge is power in all kinds of conflict, but especially in space

combat. Knowing where your enemy is, what their weak points are, and how
much damage they’ve sustained is vital for victory. Radar, infrared, and optical
sensors all exist today and feature prominently in most sci-fi. Some sci-fi
incorporates a common concept of undefined sensors capable of finding life
signs, assessing the capacity of enemy force fields, and other key plot
information as needed. Set your sensor’s sensitivity to the level of detail
your story needs.

»» Cloaking devices: Even though space is vast and has little or nothing to hide
behind, stealth technology can conceal ships from sensors quite effectively.
Anti-radar technology is already advanced in this era, and prototypes of
light-bending surfaces can render a vessel invisible at a distance. Stealth and
cloaking technology, along with sensor-jamming, allow for games of cat and
mouse, ambush, and tactical surprise, all of which increase suspense and
tension in your battle scenes.

»» Point defense weapons: Dedicated defenders against incoming fighters,

missiles, and torpedoes, point defense weapons are usually short range lasers
or projectile weapons. Warfare can become a matter of attrition, with volleys
of missiles trying to overcome the limits of the point defenses. This tense
situation focuses the battle on supplies and systems and creates very clear
cause and effect that audiences can easily understand and appreciate.

»» Armor: Modern day spaceships are built to be as light as possible because

launch anything into space is expensive. In settings where ships are con-
structed in orbit or getting into space is much cheaper, layering on sheets of
armor may make sense. Hi-tech composite sci-fi fibers can lower the weight
and raise the effectiveness in a plausible way. Armor, the reinforced skin of

154 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 the ship, protects the crew but shows its wounds and scars as it absorbs
damage. As the ship suffers, armor peels away and isn’t easily replaced, which
is always dramatic.

»» Shields: Force fields or protective energy shields are iconic sci-fi techniques
not because they’re theoretically likely but because they’re dramatically
powerful. They allow a ship to sustain damage from any source, including
nukes or disintegration beams. They degrade under pressure, often in clear
numeric terms. “Shields at 17 percent and falling, Captain!” In many ways
they’re like hit points in a game — nebulously defined but easy to understand
as a shorthand for how much trouble the characters are in.

»» Tractor beams and other tech: As with weapons systems, there are a host of
implausible but exciting sci-fi possibilities for defense. The tractor beam
appears across many stories, a literal hand of the author reaching out across
space and moving someone where they need to be for the story. They stop
heroes from escaping or allow for last-second rescues of helpless friendly
ships. Tech that somehow blocks or interferes with your story’s FTL travel also
has serious dramatic utility, restricting movements at key moments. Any sort
of inventive defense system works best for the story when it has clear
advantages and disadvantages that the audience can comprehend and
anticipate.

CHAPTER 10 A Spaceship for Every Occasion, an Occasion for Every Spaceship 155
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Using metaphors to give your aliens

meaning

»» Defining the role of aliens in your plot

»» Provoking emotional responses with

alien encounters

Chapter  11
Encountering Aliens
That Audiences Want
to Know, Love, and Fear

W
hat if humanity isn’t alone in the universe? It’s the biggest “what if”
question in science fiction, a query that has launched a million stories.
What would happen if another intelligent species visited Earth? What
kinds of life will humans encounter on other planets? What other civilizations
flourish amongst the stars and how are they different? How do humans measure
up by comparison? What do they want? What can they do to or for us?

Sci-fi calls these speculative other lifeforms aliens, a word that at its root just
means others. Aliens aren’t us. Who does count as us depends on who’s doing the
counting. Long before aliens came to encompass imaginary beings from space, the
term had negative connotations. Strangers. Outsiders. Untrustworthy. Dangerous.
Seditious. In early and classic science fiction, aliens usually invade Earth or
menace brave astronauts. Aliens abduct cattle and secretly control governments.
Some are friendly, though most are scary.

For many stories featuring extraterrestrials, the alien is the Big New Thing you’re
introducing to the story world. (The Big New Thing refers to a science-based

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 157
 element that’s integral to the story and sets the story world apart from the audi-
ence’s reality; refer to Chapter  9 for more about the Big New Thing.) In other
words, it’s a new kind of life that is in some way based on science. The alien’s
primary purpose as a character is to let you explore what happens when people are
faced with others who aren’t like them, whether they’re from another country or
another planet. Your aliens don’t have to fall into the same old fear-based stereo-
types. To feel truly original and interesting, they should be as complex and
nuanced as humanity itself. This chapter explores ways to do just that in
your stories.

Making Sense of Alien Metaphors

Aliens in stories show your audience other possible kinds of people or other ways
of existing. They provide a contrast to the way your audience and/or your main
characters live their lives. Narratively, they serve a similar role to a dramatic foil.
They represent a possible path not taken or an opposing worldview.

Of course, people on Earth don’t live their lives just one way, and many great
stories of all genres focus on the contrast and clash of human cultures in the real
world. Extraterrestrial aliens provide storytellers a unique advantage: They aren’t
beholden to any existing people. Extraterrestrials are cut from whole cloth,
tailored to the story you’re telling.

A metaphor is an element in your story that has a double meaning: the literal one
within the story (it’s a reptilian alien with a plasma rifle) and a symbolic meaning
(its insatiable need for conquest brings to mind the warmongering side of human-
ity’s history and culture). The alien conqueror drives the plot and serves as an
antagonist whether or not an individual audience member registers its symbolic
purpose. But for those that do register it, the alien has a deeper meaning within
the story and gives the audience some familiar ideas and feelings to associate with
the reptilian invaders.

Here are a variety of different approaches to making your aliens serve the meta-
phorical needs of your story.

Discovering differences
Your story’s custom-made aliens allow you to emphasize ideas and ways of being
to heighten the contrasts. Extraterrestrial aliens can maximize some idea or
enthusiasm or lifestyle in a focused way not seen in human history. This alien as

158 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 Big New Thing manifests in sci-fi in three main ways: biology, society, and
technology, which the following discusses in greater detail.

When you’re alien-building, consider the history, politics, religion, environment,

and physical nature of their home planet. What do they eat? What do concepts like
work and love and family mean to them? All of these have the potential to be rad-
ically different from what your human audience is comfortable with. A whole
planet can live life as logically or rationally as possible. A galactic civilization’s
post-scarcity economy can be based on ethical reputation and poetic expression
rather than accumulating space bucks and extracting resources. The planetary
ecosystem is hyper-interdependent so that all life forms experience each other’s
feelings and one slight change affects the whole. Whatever it is that makes the
aliens different from your audience also makes them interesting for your story.

»» Alien biology: This is often the most obvious Big New Thing; the aliens are
physically different from your audience in some interesting way. Here are a
few ideas:

• They’re stronger or weaker, bigger or smaller.

• They live for a thousand years or die after only a few.
• They can only reproduce when three different genders mate.
• They might fly or swim or ooze as their primary means of movement.
Audiences generally expect these physical forms to have some scientific
plausibility behind them. One of the great pleasures of science fiction is
informed speculation about what other forms intelligent life may take in the
universe. In some way their physical differences need to give them different
physical needs and wants than humans. For example, an extraterrestrial
species that lives its entire life cycle in a low-gravity, airless environment and
which communicates through shifting colors on their exoskeletons has a
different impression of life on an Earth-like planet. For them gravity and
atmosphere may be as dangerous as deep space is to us.

»» Alien society: Otherworldly societies in sci-fi often closely mimic the kinds of
cultural and political forms that have existed on Earth: empires, capitalist
markets, feudal caste systems, religious structures, and so on. Based on Earth
analogues, you can pick and choose and mash up interesting trends from
history and remix them with other levels of technology to create an alien
society unique to your story.

The galaxy-spanning Roman-style empire is a sci-fi cliché at this point.

However, creating a new society from scratch is more interesting and more
difficult, and doing so allows you to explore concepts that have never and
maybe never could exist in human history. What would a participatory
democracy be like if every member was psychically linked to each other?

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 159
 What would a species of enormous aliens that lived for millennia in the orbit
of a gas giant value instead of money or resources?

»» Alien technology: Aliens are often possessors of the technological Big New
Thing in science fiction stories. They have the ability to travel between the
stars and visit Earth. They have powerful weapons, can cure and cause deadly
diseases, and have mastered nanotechnology and created post-scarcity
economies. As such, they can be gatekeepers of this new technology for
covetous humans or the long-vanished progenitors in a galactic treasure hunt.
Or humans are the ones with all the cool gadgets, visiting a world much less
technologically advanced. Alternately, aliens may have different technology
than humans have developed. Perhaps their ships and computers are
biologically bred, their tools created to be operated with six tentacles and no
eyes. The more distinct their biology and society is from humanity’s, the more
their technology will reflect those differences.

Alienating audiences
This wonderful flexibility you have when creating aliens has risks. Remember, the
audience knows you’re writing this story and will rightfully judge you if your
aliens feel too contrived or unoriginal. Thus, it’s vital for you to be aware of the
most overused tropes in sci-fi.

You can all too easily fall into the same old stereotypes: alien invaders from a cul-
ture that values only war and destruction, hyperintelligent angelic beings who
bring enlightenment and a message of peace, ravenous unthinking insectile
hordes that exist only to devour. These familiar tropes don’t thrill audiences or
engage the imagination unless you find some way to make them unique and
compelling.

Not only are the old clichés dull, they’re also based in paranoid, xenophobic, and
racist fears of “the other” here on Earth. Science fiction doesn’t have a great
record when portraying encounters with otherness. Aliens have often been the
author’s or audience’s fears personified in some way, usually reflecting the preju-
dices and concerns of their society and culture. The aliens become analogues for
foreign ideas “corrupting” the nation’s youth or immigrants “polluting” the
nation’s population. These ugly ideas are often expressed in unsubtle and harmful
ways. Chapter 23 discusses ways to think about representation in fiction.

H.G. Wells flips these prejudices on their head in his famous 1897 serialized novel
The War of the Worlds. Wells was responding to the late 19th century fad for fictional
invasion of Britain stories, where the “aliens” were usually some other country on
Earth that British readers were worried about or biased toward. Wells showed
more nuance and thought by making his invaders come from Mars, and his story

160 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 is a critique of British imperialism. In the book Wells specifically draws a parallel
to the experience of the people of Tasmania suffering at the hands of the techno-
logically advanced British military. The War of the Worlds asks “what if that kind of
invasion happened here in England?”

Truly alien is truly difficult, and audiences mostly conceive of aliens in human
terms, mixed with the flora and fauna of Earth. You don’t need to shy away from
taking real biology and human ideas as a basis for your aliens. Audiences rely on
the familiar elements to help understand the alien parts. Chapter  6 discusses
piggybacking on the audience’s existing knowledge and how to use it in world-
building. Although replicating racist stereotypes in extraterrestrial bodies is bad,
creating a new species or culture without in some way referring to Earth is almost
impossible to do. When you take inspiration for your aliens from your fellow
humans, do so thoughtfully and respectfully.

Relating aliens to your audience

The extraterrestrial “others” in your story exist in contrast to the assumed human
audience you’re writing for. There is always a metaphorical relationship between
humanity and your aliens, and which metaphor you embrace has a big impact
on how you write your extraterrestrial characters. Some of the most well-known
aliens in science fiction are emblematic of the common ways extraterrestrials
appear in stories and show different approaches to using them in your narrative:

»» Aliens as us: In the Star Trek franchise, the most important aliens are basically
humans with bumps on their foreheads or pointy ears. They often have a
heightened or ultra-focused worldview that defines them in a way no human
ideology defines all humans. The warlike Klingons, the logical Vulcans, and
even the machine-hybrid Borg all mostly model other ways of being human
along some very dedicated path. Audiences can easily see a part of them-
selves in the aliens and understand how they speak to familiar and important
ideas here on Earth. These aliens can be champions of ideas, characters who
give voice and action to one side of a debate or offer a unique perspective
on existence.

»» Aliens as diversity: The Star Wars franchise has tons of different aliens in all
shapes and sizes. They speak different languages and presumably come from
rich and varied cultures, but those differences are mostly surface level. They
paint a broad picture of a multicultural galaxy and remind audiences that
even though most of the protagonists are humans, there’s no one right or
dominant way of being.

»» Aliens as animals: In the Alien movie franchise, the monstrous xenomorphs

have a complex biological life cycle designed to make them fearsome apex
predators. They’re dangerously clever but not intelligent. There’s no reasoning

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 161
 with them, only surviving them or dying. They show nature red in tooth and
claw, personifications of a hostile universe. Audiences rarely see themselves in
these aliens but can draw from their thoughts on the natural world to
understand and even empathize with them.

»» Aliens as teachers: In movies like Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Arrival
or novels like Childhood’s End, aliens come from advanced civilizations and
offer messages of hope, evolution, or peace. Their physical alienness and
inhuman appearances emphasize their inherent differences from humanity
and are often aspirational figures who have transcended the pettier concerns
of life on Earth.

»» Aliens as warnings: In a story like The Man Who Fell to Earth (both the original
Walter Tevis novel and the David Bowie film) a very humanlike alien arrives on
Earth from a world ravaged by nuclear war and prolonged drought. His past is
a warning about humanity’s possible future as a species. These types of aliens
can show which way madness lies and allow characters in the present to
confront their possible future.

There’s no one right metaphorical framework, and you can find many other
examples of how to portray your creations as reflections of specific ideas or atti-
tudes that your story explores. The key thing to understand is how these aliens
impact the story as a whole.

Playing Their Part: Alien Dramatics

Another way to think about your aliens is to consider what role they play in your
story and build them around their function in the narrative. Refer to the funda-
mentals of any characters in fiction that we discuss in Chapter 2 and ask yourself
these types of questions:

»» What do these aliens want and what are they willing to do to get it? Put
another way, what dramatic question (the central concern for your characters
in the story) do these aliens pose within your story?

»» Will the alien fleet find a new home on Earth now that their planet has been
destroyed?

»» Can the aliens survive first contact with aggressive human explorers?
»» Will the extraterrestrials be able to communicate with the Earthlings and
deliver their dire warning of impending doom?

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 When you have an intriguing question about your aliens at the heart of your story,
your audience will stick around to find out the answer. These sections are some of
the most common dramatic roles aliens play in sci-fi stories.

Alien enemies
Given how common it is for humans to fear that which they don’t understand,
aliens as enemies are easy to create and just as easy to do poorly. As fictional
beings, your enemy aliens can be exactly as evil or bloodthirsty or cold and uncar-
ing as you want. They can be the ideal foe, something audiences will root against
without reservation or guilt because they’re not human, they’re nor “us.” Some-
times you may have to decide that’s exactly what your story needs, but having
such one-note antagonists is usually dull and derivative. Countless unknowable
shadow hordes from the edge of space have menaced brave heroes in science fic-
tion, forcing them to put aside their differences and join together to save human-
ity (or whatever). Here the alien exists just as pressure and threat to drive the
protagonists forward, leaving the weight of making audiences care rest solely on
the other characters.

Enemy extraterrestrials can take on specific elements of oppression and embody

them in their biology, society, or technology. Perhaps they have psychic powers
that let them read minds or project fear and paranoia. Or they may require certain
kinds of people, natural resources, or subservient behaviors in order to survive.
These kinds of aliens can make questions of exploitation, imperialism, and subju-
gation stark and unambiguous. They can also drain the nuance from any dynamic
and become blunt tools of propaganda and xenophobia.

As with any great antagonist in any story, your enemy extraterrestrials work best
when they’re fully fleshed characters with compelling and believable wants and
goals. They also probably don’t think of themselves as the baddies. What aliens let
you do that’s super-useful is create a moral calculus that’s entirely different from
humanity’s. If an alien civilization can only survive by implanting their con-
sciousness in other complex life forms, they’re going to do what they need to do
to survive. Audiences probably won’t have much sympathy for them if they decide
survival means brain-wiping all of Earth, but audiences will understand the alien
dilemma and see why they’re doing what they’re doing.

Alien protagonists
Aliens can take on the role of the sympathetic protagonist. As with any protago-
nist in any story, your main characters have their own wants and specific goals
and moral compass. Ideally, those core character attributes spring from what
makes the alien different from humans. In return, humans may assume the role

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 163
 of the unsympathetic antagonist, allowing the audience to take a critical look at
aspects of their own identity. For example, the indigenous beings in Ursula
K. Le Guin’s The Word for World Is Forest (Tor Books) are deeply connected to their
natural environment and have an intense cultural abhorrence of violence. The
invasion by Terran corporate and military forces from other worlds forces them
into confrontations that test their society to its limits.

Placing your aliens in the protagonist role is a particularly effective way to tell
stories that reflect on how humans in the real world treat “the other” in society.
They may have to confront and survive systemic oppression based on their planet
of origin or handle everyday prejudice that reflects the socially constructed racism
in our world. More broadly, a story world with multiple alien species all bouncing
off each other in dramatic ways can draw upon the audience’s own knowledge of
real-world culture clashes without bringing any specific preconceptions about
real-world places to the story.

Alien allies and rivals

One of the most interesting roles that aliens can play in a story isn’t as the enemy
or the hero, but as complex characters living their own lives on their own terms
who the main characters must interact with in less adversarial ways. Here the
alien isn’t someone to be fought, but someone to be appeased or helped or negoti-
ated with. They’re potential allies that must be recruited to the cause or nonvio-
lent rivals pursuing the same goal as the protagonists.

If you want to write aliens like this in your story, figure out what about their oth-
erness makes them dramatically interesting as characters to be reckoned with.
The more alien they are, the more likely they are to care about different things and
have inhuman concerns. This can be as straightforward as requiring your heroes
to find the space bucks to retrofit their spaceship to accommodate an alien’s
atmospheric needs or as complex as learning to bargain with a species who mea-
sure a decision’s impact over centuries and millennia rather than minutes or days.
To achieve their goals and advance the plot, your characters must understand and
deal with these different ways of being that create thought-provoking dramatic
questions and resolutions.

Alien mysteries
Whether it’s a first contact with visiting aliens scenario or the story of astronauts
exploring the ruins of long-gone, highly advanced alien civilizations, figuring out
the truth about other beings is a powerful dramatic question. Who exactly are
these aliens and what do they want? How do they communicate? How does this
other planet’s unique ecology work? How will the characters navigate this com-
plex cultural system?

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 Perhaps the aliens are friends, enemies, or entirely disinterested, but there’s no
way to know until the heroes unravel their mysteries and come to understand the
truth. The entire story may be about trying to understand the alien enigma or it
may be one of many challenges throughout the plot. Either way, puzzles and mys-
teries are a great way to capture an audience’s attention, but they also need a
satisfying solution. Don’t present your aliens as a puzzle unless the final revela-
tion is worth all the effort the characters put into solving it.

Alien obstacles
Sometimes aliens recede from the role of fully realized characters and act as part
of the general setting of the story. They become obstacles on the hero’s journey
through the plot. A strange new world inhabited by dangerous and hostile life
forms threatens the protagonists at every step as the journey from point A to point
Z. These aliens can be iconic, plot-centric animals like the enormous sandworms
of the Dune novels. They also can be the aggressive microorganisms found in the
water or the semi-sentient crystalline pillars that amplify negative emotions.
These beings become Big New Things that challenge the heroes in some novel way.

Fully sentient beings can be obstacles too, although consider what clichés and
tired tropes you’re drawing on (refer to the section, “Alienating audiences,” ear-
lier in this chapter). More interestingly, alien cultures and societies can throw up
all kinds of unusual obstructions for characters to overcome. Navigating local cus-
toms and manners without causing grave offense can be as tense as running from
a ravening beast. As with any obstacle in stories, how the characters treat others
shows the audience what kind of people the protagonists are.

EVERYONE’S AN ALIEN HERE

Of course your story doesn’t need to have any humans at all! Every character could be
an alien or some other being from your audience’s perspective. This decision gives you
tremendous freedom, but it can be tricky. An entirely alien cast lets you create charac-
ters without any of humanity’s specific cultural or historical baggage.

If you want to make that connection with the real world, you can include specific signifiers
like Viking-sounding names or Wild West style costumes. This type of story also lets you
divide up specific elements from humanity amongst different species and mix in your
own Big New Things. However, if your nonhumans are too inhuman to relate to or under-
stand, you audience can have a difficult time caring about the story. Fortunately, audi-
ences of humans are pretty good at projecting their own humanity onto any and all kinds
of characters as long as your aliens think and feel in at least some recognizable ways.

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 165
Creating Alien Emotions
Aliens have their dramatic and metaphorical roles in science fiction, but just as
importantly they provoke emotional responses from audiences. These responses
run the gamut from “oh, how cool!” to “oh, how scary!” to “weeeird . . .” When
creating extraterrestrial characters, consider what feelings you want to inspire
and how best to do that. Think about both how you want your audience to respond
to the aliens and how your main characters respond, which can be very different.

Perhaps audiences find elegant, high-tech extraterrestrials in power armor are

super cool, whereas a protagonist being chased by those same extraterrestrials
will find them intimidating and scary instead. These emotions don’t necessarily
match one for one with a dramatic role or metaphorical association. Sublime
aliens can be antagonists and grotesque ones can be heroes. Audiences and char-
acters may not always agree on how to think about or react to other characters,
creatures, or situations. And that’s perfectly fine.

These are some of the most potent and common emotions that aliens in sci-fi can
provoke from both audiences and characters alike.

Rousing wonder — Sublime aliens

Many aliens inspire a sense of awe. This sense of the sublime grows from the cog-
nitive dissonance audiences have when they encounter something new and out-
side of their experience but which still makes enough sense that it draws them in
and makes them want to know more. These aliens may be sleek and beautiful or
wise and majestic or so mysterious audiences can only perceive them through
their unfathomably sophisticated technology, like the unseen monolith-builders
in 2001: A Space Odyssey. They may or may not come in peace, but they don’t seem
like they’re here to destroy Earth.

When anyone encounters the sublime, they want more. Audiences ask themselves
what it would be like if they met beings like that. How would their lives and world-
view change forever? What can be learned? And yes, what could go wrong? What
if one were to upset or disappoint such a glorious being?

Provoking revulsion — Grotesque aliens

Some aliens, like the tentacle-armed, blood-drinking Martians in The War of the
Worlds, are there to repulse and scare both the audience and the characters. Extra-
terrestrials with monstrous biological features like teeth and claws arouse deep
worries about predator animals. Ultra-aggressive, bloodthirsty aliens tap into
fears of societal collapse and violations of moral order.

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 Aliens as grotesque creatures have been in science fiction since its earliest days,
both as enemies and as misunderstood others. They can present a challenge to
characters and audiences alike, demanding that they try to look past their preju-
dices and see the true nature. They can also be irredeemable killing machines that
definitely should be feared and avoided or defeated. Many great stories find some
middle ground between the extremes. Chapter 17 explores creating dangerous and
fearsome creatures in fantasy stories, but those lessons apply here as well.

Creating unease — Uncanny aliens

Between the extremes of sublime and grotesque lie the uncanny aliens. These
beings give audiences the unsettling sense of something as strangely familiar,
rather than simply mysterious. You may be familiar with the concept of the
uncanny valley, a term first applied to robots that mimic humanity but don’t quite
replicate it. More recently it’s been used to describe human characters generated
by computers that look both way too human and yet not human enough. Either
way, audiences find them unsettling.

Your story’s aliens can provoke this unease in a variety of ways, from moving in
eerie ways to using unusual speech patterns to their appearance. The classic large
head and eyes and small body of the so-called gray aliens are a great example of
the uncanny. These various uncanny aliens remind audiences of themselves, but
are unmistakably not them. They’re living caricatures that can highlight certain
features of humanity and human culture while still being somewhat relatable.

Inspiring hope — Power fantasy aliens

Many superheroes are aliens, and the thing that’s alien about them is often the
part of them audiences would love to be true about themselves. Superman is one
of the most famous aliens in pop culture, a character who appears entirely human
but is much better than human in all kinds of exciting ways. Even in stories where
no characters wear colorful costumes or identify as crime fighters, extraterrestri-
als often possess technology or innate abilities that let them do fantastical things
normal folk can only dream of. Their stories can tap into the power of those
dreams to create tales of heroism or expertise or great power standing up to
oppression and evil. If your story features big action sequences and showdowns
between beings with godlike powers, drawing techniques and inspiration from
superhero movies and comics can provide useful inspiration.

Producing smiles — Adorable aliens

From E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial to The Child from The Mandalorian, audiences have a
special place in their hearts for cute and cuddly alien beings. Those big eyes and

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 167
 plaintive cooing noises combined with a sense of naivete and helplessness
instantly elicit sympathy and interest. Chewbacca from Star Wars shows another
adorable path; he’s by no means helpless or innocent, but he roars his big feelings
and fights with fury for his friends. Adorable aliens may even look just like
humans, strangers in a strange land who encounter everything humans are famil-
iar with on Earth with fresh eyes and a new perspective. When they’re the pro-
tagonists of a story, they bring an otherworldly earnestness and curiosity to the
story world that audiences relate to. As supporting characters, they give someone
for your heroes to love and protect and for the antagonists to endanger.

Introducing audiences to your aliens

When and how you introduce your audience to your aliens is a key moment in the
story. The audience’s first impressions of the aliens shape their thoughts and
feelings about the extraterrestrials for the rest of the narrative. The more central
the otherness of your aliens is to your story’s plot and “what if” question, the
more care you need to take when crafting first contact experiences for the audi-
ence. Ask yourself these questions as you craft this key moment:

»» What questions, connections, and emotions do you want to provoke in

audiences in this scene? Your audience is already primed to feel emotions
while experiencing your story. How do you want the audience to feel when
they meet the aliens? Are they curious to know more or but are on edge by
the unknown? How does this alien’s appearance in the story relate to your
central “what if” question or your Big New Thing? Does the alien exemplify
what’s normal for your sci-fi world or does its appearance signify an inciting
incident that’s going to change the plot?

»» Through whose point of view does the audience encounter the alien? The
audience and the characters aren’t always on the same page when it comes to
interacting with aliens. Are the protagonists and the audience making first
contact together? Or does the point-of-view character already have thoughts
and feelings about the alien before the audience? Maybe the first impression
comes through the alien’s eyes, giving an otherworldly perspective on things.
If you’re using an omniscient narrator, decide how much information to give
about the aliens in this first scene in order to best serve their role in your
story. (Refer to Chapter 2 for more information about point of view.)

»» How do other characters react to the alien’s first appearance in the

story? Audiences take their cues from characters within the story world. How
your characters react to the aliens has a profound impact on how audiences
perceive them. A dangerous-looking alien with large teeth and claws may
send characters running or perhaps everyone in the story is happy to see and
expresses reverence for the alien’s wisdom and philosophy.

168 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 After audiences have made first contact, their relationship with the alien will
likely grow and change over the course of the story. You can use these questions
in subsequent scenes to track how the audience’s understanding of the alien
develops along with the story’s plot.

CREATING YOUR OWN ALIENS

This chapter presents different ways of thinking about your aliens. Our goal is to get you
to think about the role of the alien in your stories and create extraterrestrials that serve
the story and grab the audience’s attention. This exercise can help you brainstorm a
whole bunch of different beings by mixing and matching the metaphorical, dramatic,
and emotional roles they might play in a story. Just follow these steps to launch your
own invasion of unique and meaningful aliens.

1. Pick or randomly determine one option from each of these three categories:
Metaphorical Dramatic Emotional

Aliens as us Alien antagonists Sublime aliens

Aliens as diversity Alien protagonists Grotesque aliens

Aliens as animals Alien allies and rivals Power fantasy aliens

Aliens as teachers Alien mysteries Adorable aliens

Aliens as warnings Alien obstacles Uncanny aliens

2. Give your aliens a driving emotional or intellectual goal that audiences can
empathize with completely such as love of family, desire for artistic expres-
sion, or fear of outside threats from the preceding table.

3. With both the three narrative roles and the relatable goal in mind, create an
aspect of the aliens that is substantially different from modern humans in
each of these three categories that creates a restriction that keeps them
from pursuing that goal the way humans typically do:

Biological (Reproduction, sustenance, movement, communication)

Societal (Government, religion, values)

Technological (Travel, warfare, industry, computing)

The resulting alien species is now purposefully designed to have an important and
interesting effect on your story.

CHAPTER 11 Encountering Aliens That Audiences Want to Know, Love, and Fear 169
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Building self-aware artificial lifeforms

that provoke big questions

»» Designing your robots and computers

as dramatic characters

»» Putting together the pieces for your

story

Chapter  12
It’s Alive! Or Is It? —
Imagining Robots and
Artificial Intelligence

C
omputers and robotics are both the greatest triumphs and the greatest
failures of sci-fi’s vision of the future. Sadly, the world doesn’t have
android  butlers and isn’t run by artificially intelligent mega-computers.
Nevertheless, the world is incredibly automated and computerized and the mega-
algorithms that drive the internet run more and more of the planet every day,
even if they aren’t (yet) self-aware. Sci-fi stories may not have predicted the
future of computing, but from the beginning, sci-fi authors were asking the abso-
lute right and most interesting “what if?” questions about artificial life and intel-
ligence. More than space travel or alien worlds, the sci-fi imagination has engaged
with real questions about these technologies that have in turn impacted the real
people making actual robots and computers.

This chapter deals with both robots and computers, which we link together with
the common concept artificial life. These artificial life forms serve a similar role to
aliens in sci-fi that we discuss in Chapter  11  — they’re other possible kinds of
“people” besides humans. The difference is, artificial life is purposefully created
and designed by others for specific functions, and thus they raise big “what if”
questions about humanity’s relationship to and responsibility for our technology.

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 171
Creating Artificial Life
In this chapter we use artificial life to make a distinction from mere technology like
smartphones and assembly line robots and chess-master computers. Although
those things are super complicated and impressively capable, they don’t rise to
the level of artificial life as we’re using the term. We assume all artificial beings
meet the following criteria:

»» Self-aware: The being thinks and therefore it is. It can reflect upon itself as a
being that didn’t exist, was created, and may someday cease to function. It
understands that it exists in relationship with other beings and the wider
world and has an idea of itself as individual and distinct from others.

»» Purpose: The being was created for some specific purpose or goals. Those
can be anything from endlessly bolting together spaceship parts to flawlessly
imitating a human. It was designed to do something, and that purpose is
reflected in its structure and capabilities.

»» Autonomy: The being can act without any direct input or orders from an
outside source and is capable of making decisions and choices (likely within
specific built-in limits or restrictions).

Taken together, these three requirements for artificial life not only distinguish
them from mere technology, but they also make these synthetic beings great can-
didates for characters in stories. Because they act and understand the impact of
those actions and because they have goals they pursue and limits they must work
within, they can elicit emotion and sympathy from the audience. They have an
essential part of being human: the ability to connect with others.

The following sections help you create artificial life forms that do more for your
story than simply remain on one side of a man-versus-machine binary, which is
only one of many options available to you. Think through your answers, recon-
sider them as needed, and then use them to inform your writing.

Asking questions of meaning

Alan Turing was one of the pioneers of computer technology, and he asked one of
the most influential questions in science and sci-fi history: Can a computer suc-
cessfully imitate a human? His actual question was more specific than that and
put in the context of a specific “imitation game,” but the popular understanding
of the question has captured the imagination in the ensuing decades. Can a
machine think like an intelligent human? How can people tell a human from a
machine? These are the kind of dramatic “what if” questions that can form the
core of a thousand or more sci-fi stories.

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 GIVING CHARACTER TRAITS
TO EVERYDAY ITEMS
As any child with a favorite toy can tell you, humans can definitely develop strong
emotional attachments to nonliving technology. Humans constantly imbue everyday
items with character traits, and the more animate the device, the more faux-lifelike it
becomes. Cars give up or keep going in the face of adversity, laptop computers “act up”
and crash at dramatic moments.

These personable pieces of tech can thus serve as quasi-characters in a story, taking on
some but not all the traits that we discuss in this chapter and adding additional objects
of emotional involvement. The stalwart smuggler’s spaceship may not be alive, but she
and the crew have been through a lot together. Hope she can hold it together for one
last run and isn’t too upset about the cheap fuel the captain bought. . .

As you think about the artificial life in your story, consider how they can embody
one or more of the following big, existential questions in a dramatic way. For
some stories, just asking the question may be interesting enough, but audiences
are much more likely to engage with the question when it’s all wrapped up in the
conflict and drama of your plot.

What does it mean to be a person?

No one expects you to be a philosopher, but writing about artificial life without
running into questions about the very nature of existence and identity isn’t easy.
Instead of avoiding those questions, embrace them as an opportunity to elevate
your stories and make them stand out with thoughtfulness and depth.

Consider these types of questions when figuring out what it means to be a person:

»» Artificial life may not be human in a biological sense, but is it human in a

moral and ethical sense?

»» Where is the line between a piece of tech and personhood?

»» Does biology define people or do their thoughts, desires, and actions?
»» What does it mean to be a conscious being and to have free will?
»» If consciousness and free will exist, do they emerge from the circuits of a
computer in the same way they emerge from the human brain?

These kinds of tough questions drive the stories of many iconic robots and
androids. Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation is a prime example; he’s an

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 173
 inhuman machine who looks and acts very human and who’s constantly striving
to be more human in every way. Over the course of his many adventures, Data’s
story explores the limits of personhood and humanity from different angles. His
fellow characters and the audience seldom if ever doubt he’s a person and they all
care about what happens to him. At the same time, Data isn’t exactly like his
biological crewmates. His mind is different; he can be turned on and off, repro-
grammed and copied. He’s capable of inhumanly complicated calculations and
analysis. Data is a different kind of person, both better and worse in many ways,
but no less a person for it.

Your artificial life forms can challenge the idea of personhood even more than
Data does. They may face much less sympathetic characters than the crew of the
starship Enterprise, people who fear or hate or disdain the artificial beings. The
societal suspicion of androids living as humans drives the plot of the massively
influential film Blade Runner and the book it’s based on, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids
Dream of Electric Sheep? (Del Rey). In that story, special law enforcement officers
hunt down androids who’ve rebelled against their assigned role and are trying to
live as humans. Even if they mean no harm, these rogue beings must be destroyed
because they have violated the natural order of creator and machine.

Maybe your artificial life carefully analyzes humans and says, “If that’s what it
means to be a person, no thanks.” Answer the question of personhood in your own
way, always keeping an eye toward how it relates to fates of your characters and
the drama of your story.

Who and what can suffer?

In a 2021 interview with The New York Times columnist and podcaster Ezra Klein,
the brilliant sci-fi author Ted Chiang raised a serious and disturbing considera-
tion about creating artificial intelligence. At some point, we’ll be creating billions
of entities that have the capacity to suffer, and undoubtedly, they’ll experience
suffering. He rightly worries about that being a terrible idea for humanity.

Both audiences and characters in stories often view artificial life as less than
human or less than alive, so they tend to overlook the ways in which these beings
may suffer. Because robots and androids are built, they can also be rebuilt and
repaired or even duplicated and for some that may offset the moral implications
of any suffering they feel. But how do the robots feel about all this trauma?

In the Star Wars films the droid C-3P0 endures a constant loss of limbs, decapita-
tions, and other indignities. He clearly hates all of this, but he also doesn’t seem
to suffer the same way a human would if they sustained such damage. Although
often played for laughs in the movies, C-3P0’s suffering highlights the difference
between how beings suffer and recover from trauma. C-3P0 and many of the other

174 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 droids in Star Wars are in fact more human than humans when it comes to suffer-
ing and fear. They seem to feel every bit as intensely as a human would, but their
mechanical nature makes them capable of enduring endless cycles of pain a
human could never survive.

The suffering your story’s artificial beings endure can work as a metaphor for
specific types of human experiences. A robot might “die” over and over again in
ways both heroic and cowardly, senseless and sacrificial. How the human charac-
ters react to this cycle of loss can reveal key elements of their personality and
what they do to end or perpetuate the cycle can drive the narrative to its climax.

What do humans want from technology?

Technology enhances modern lives in countless ways, touching every part of the
modern human existence. Most people want science to make them healthy, com-
fortable, entertained, and connected. That’s technology’s purpose: to make
people’s lives better and more interesting. It’s a lot to ask of machines, and people
rely on them more and more with each passing year. Think about how much of
your daily life requires some combination of electronic and mechanical devices.
Now think about how frustrating it is when your computer or car or phone breaks
down or the whole city goes dark when the power grid fails. You want your tech-
nology to work the way it’s supposed to. You expect it to obey your instructions.

Artificial beings in stories embody people’s relationship with tech and give the
machines a voice to say what they think about shouldering this great burden. As
self-aware beings, they’re sometimes capable of making up their own minds
about what humans should want, whether humans want it or not. Robby the Robot
from the 1956 movie Forbidden Planet is science fiction’s first breakout popular
character, going on to feature in other stories like the TV show Lost in Space because
of his striking design and stalwart nature. In Forbidden Planet, Robby shuts himself
down rather than follow his human’s orders to kill a menacing monster. Robby
knows what the human doesn’t, that the threat is actually a manifestation of
another human’s subconscious and killing it would mean taking an innocent life.
Humans want technology to help them, but how do they feel when it helps they in
ways they don’t understand?

What do humans fear about technology?

As much as people want technology to be obedient, they’re often just as scared
that it won’t. From self-driving cars that crash into walls to a global industrial
system that’s overheating the planet, machines have as much potential to harm as
they do to help. That’s pretty scary. It’s even scarier when they can decide to cause
trouble purposefully. Beings with massive computer intellects capable of absorb-
ing and assessing vast amounts of data in a fraction of a second will undoubtedly

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 175
 see the world differently than any human ever could. After they’ve looked at all
the facts, can humans trust artificial life to care about human well-being?

The infamous HAL 9000 from both the movie and book 2001: A Space Odyssey by
Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke set the sci-fi standard for a computer that
turns against its human crew. HAL is the shipboard artificial intelligence on a
spaceship sent to explore Jupiter, a pleasant, helpful, calm voice for the first part
of the voyage. But when a conflict arises in its programming about keeping a
secret, HAL ends up murdering four of the five people onboard before being shut
down by the lone survivor. Your artificial life characters don’t need to kill to
embody fears of disobedience or unintended consequences. They may just decide
to follow their own path or refuse to abide by their programming for their
own reasons.

Contemplating questions of responsibility

Because artificial life is created for a purpose, it presents some fascinating
questions about the responsibilities of its creators. Whether or not characters bear
or shirk these responsibilities provides a provocative dramatic question. Science
fiction definitely inspires real world inventors and scientists, and these are exactly
the kinds of questions they should be asking themselves before they release their
creations upon the world. They’re also the kind of questions that make for
great stories.

Chapter 9 goes in depth on the role of compelling “what if” questions in science
fiction. You can check out more thought-provoking tools to add meaning and
narrative power to your artificial life forms.

What is people’s responsibility to the life

they create?
These artificial life forms are in many ways like children. They didn’t ask to be
created, and they have no say over the world into which they’re placed. When
someone brings a child into the world, they’re responsible for its care. That leads
to whether the same is true for artificial life. What happens when creators shirk
their responsibility?

Mary Shelley’s genre-making novel Frankenstein set the model for the modern
sci-fi story and asked one of the genre-defining questions of responsibility.
Dr. Frankenstein creates an intelligent life form, the “monster,” and then imme-
diately gets freaked out and abandons the poor, gigantic, super-intelligent child.
The rest of the story doesn’t go great for the doctor, the monster, or some inno-
cent bystanders.

176 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 What is people’s responsibility for
the forces they unleash?
Where Dr. Frankenstein creates life just to see if he can do it and then abandons it,
many other characters create artificial life for a specific purpose. The artificial
being is first and foremost a tool to achieve some specific end. What happens
when people create a new kind of intelligent weapon? Are the creators responsible
for every life it takes? When unforeseen consequences lead to disaster, whose fault
is that and what price should they pay?

The legend of the Golem of Prague provides a foundational example. As the most
familiar version of the story goes, Rabbi Judah Loew creates the Golem to protect
his fellow Jews from antisemitism in 16th-century Prague. The artificial life form
does its job well at first, but ultimately becomes a danger to innocent lives. Rabbi
Loew does the responsible thing and destroys his creation for the greater good.

What is people’s responsibility for the burdens

they impose?
People demand unquestioning loyalty and obedience from our machines. You have
to think about who’s responsible for the pain and pressure that demand puts on
those artificial lives who serve.

Consider these questions as you contemplate what the responsibility is:

»» How would people respond when someone imposes similar

demands on them?

»» Do artificial life forms deserve the same kind of respect and consideration
that humans do?

»» Will the artificial life forms demand to have the same legal and moral rights
that humans do?

»» What if the artificial life forms don’t agree with humanity’s answer to
that question?

Karel Čapek’s landmark 1920 play, R.U.R., provides a quintessential answer: The
workers revolt. The serfs created by the company Rossum’s Universal Robots in
the play are biological rather than mechanical constructs, but they set the pattern
for robot uprisings for the next century of sci-fi.

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 177
Treating Artificial Life as Characters
In order to make your audience care about those fascinating questions of identity
and responsibility in your story, they need to care about your artificial life forms
as characters. Like any good character, these beings should have specific wants.
They should make decisions and take actions to achieve those wants and come
into dramatic conflict as a result. Establish some limits on what they will and
won’t do to pursue those wants.

What sets artificial life characters apart from others is that they don’t necessarily
get to choose what they want or set their own moral limits on what actions they’re
willing to take. Some person built them for a purpose, and that purpose is usually
in the service of that person’s wants. The artificial life’s programming strictly
limits their actions and forces them to conform to the will of another. Their phys-
ical structure is designed to execute certain tasks and not others. The dramatic
possibilities and looming conflicts of this limited agency are obvious. An artificial
being can recognize or seek one option while their inherent limits force them in
another direction. It’s hard to give a loving hug when you have laser cannons
for arms.

To more fully consider the ramifications of allowing artificial life forms to func-
tion as characters in your story, we offer the following ideas and suggestions.

Automated roles
Artificial life characters are purpose-built for specific functions and designed to
behave within set limits, as determined by what’s important and useful in your
story world. These functions can be anything you want, but think about them in
terms of how the artificial life characters relate to the people who built them. Do
they assist or replace a human in a specific role? And how are their capabilities
greater and/or lesser than their creators?

As literal products of the story world that builds them, artificial life characters
should reflect the core conflicts, questions, and concerns of your story world.
Part  2 of this book explores worldbuilding in detail, and Chapter  5 specifically
offers guidelines for creating characters that are tied directly to the core conflict
of your story.

Here are some key considerations regarding the roles of artificial life characters.

178 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 Determining your characters’ role:
Assistants or replacements
Every artificial life form is created with a purpose in mind. To better understand
which of the two primary roles it serves, consider the following:

»» Human assistants exist to help their creators and owners do things. The
ship’s computer helps plot the hyperspace coordinates and alerts the crew
when the life support system is busted, but the crew makes the big decisions.
The scout drone flies ahead of the space marines, looking for enemies, but
the marines do the actual fighting. Assistants are often sidekicks or compan-
ions in stories, there to interact with characters and help out but not designed
to make key decisions. Of course just because they’re not supposed to make
their own decisions doesn’t mean they won’t conclude your protagonist is
wrong at some dramatic moment and act accordingly.

»» Human replacements perform tasks instead of humans having to do them.

The factory assembly line robots have been building cars for decades already.
In the future perhaps they fight battles on their own or manage the factories
where their distant cousins bolt together hovercars. Replacements free up
humans from difficult or dangerous tasks, which is great unless you’re one of
the people who’s been replaced and you liked your job. That’s a dramatic
challenge facing many humans today. In a future where artificial life has taken
over human tasks for decades, you can easily imagine humans losing those
dangerous and difficult skills entirely. What happens then when humans find
they need those lost skills?

Human-plus or human-minus?
Artificial life characters are almost never exactly like humans. They’re usually
both more and less than human at the same time. Sometimes people want them to
look and act like humans, but maybe not too much. It’s a fine line between relat-
able humanlike and uncannily inhuman as the following explores:

»» Human-plus: When creating assistants or replacements, human creators

usually want their automated servants to be as capable as possible. Artificial
life characters usually have specific capabilities far beyond humans. They’re
super strong and tough. They have telescopic vision and lightning-fast
reflexes. Maybe they can hover or fly or shoot lasers from their eyes. Their
inhuman capabilities is a big part of what makes these beings appealing as
characters. They can do exciting things normal folks can’t.

»» Human-minus: Few artificial life designers think their creations should be

better at humans in every way. Most of them are designed for a purpose, and
anything that doesn’t suit that purpose is superfluous. Those military drones

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 179
 don’t need a smiling face or even hands and arms to help the space marines
find the enemy. The hovercar factory manager doesn’t need a sense of humor
or even any of the five senses to make the assembly lines hit their quotas. The
less human an artificial life form seems, the less some characters and
audiences are likely to think of them as a person. They can’t do fundamental
things normal folks can.

Play with the balance between human-plus and human-minus as you create your
artificial life characters. Consider how to strike the right mix to really engage with
the questions of meaning and responsibility that they raise within your story world.

SETTING LIMITS ON AUTONOMY:

ASIMOV’S THREE LAWS OF ROBOTICS
Legendary science fiction author Isaac Asimov shaped the genre’s perception for gener-
ations with his series of short stories and novels about robots who must all obey three
simple laws. These Three Laws of Robotics (introduced in 1942 short story “Runaround”)
form a kind of logic problem that’s meant to ensure the robots only help and never
harm their human creators:

• A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to
come to harm.

• A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such
orders would conflict with the First Law.

• A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict
with the First or Second Law.

Of course, many of the stories actually involve robots harming or allowing harm to
come to someone or something while still holding true to the letter of the law. That’s the
brilliance of these three laws and any other system you, the author, may devise for con-
trolling artificial life: They are in fact drama generators. The laws set expectations in the
audience’s minds about how robots are supposed to work, allowing the author to clev-
erly subvert those expectations.

Imagining scenarios is a fun and productive writing exercise where a robot both obeys
Asimov’s laws and yet somehow the spirit of the laws is violated even as the letter of
them is obeyed. Then create your own set of rules for artificial life, but write them with a
different goal than Asimov’s “do no harm.” What if the goal is instead to do some spe-
cific harm, like fighting an enemy army? Who determines who’s an enemy? How broadly
can the robot define “fight”? Who counts as a friendly, and is it okay to kill one friendly if
it means killing three enemies?

180 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 Computers are (sometimes) people too
You have to make some important distinctions about artificially intelligent
computers that distinguish them from their robotic brethren.

In order for a computer to run its software, it needs hardware; it can’t just exist in
the ether. In some stories the required hardware is so complicated or huge or
expensive, the computer does have a kind of body where its consciousness lives.
In others any sufficiently powerful machine will do, and the mind (or the charac-
ter, if you will) can jump from platform to platform without losing its identity.
The software that comprises the actual entity has shed the need for a permanent
physical host.

Even when computer beings rely on a single mainframe to exist, they almost
always have the ability to spread themselves out across multiple terminals,
screens, cellphones, or whatever. They can reach out and affect the narrative
wherever there’s an outlet for them. They can even be in multiple places at the
same time. They have a totally different sense of identity and individuality than
embodied androids and robots. This splitting of computer characters across time
and space makes for unique and complicated possible plot developments. Their
omnipresence can be a source of dread for characters who find there’s nowhere to
hide from the security drones. Or they can be constantly at a protagonist’s side
to hack locked doors and pass on valuable insight.

One common variation on the computerized character is the concept of uploading

a human brain into a machine, which may or may not result in the human’s
demise. An uploaded mind thus achieves a kind of immortality and a bunch of new
capabilities with other computers, like being in multiple places at once or
performing ultra-fast calculations. It also hopefully retains the human’s moral
compass, wants, and desires, although living as a ghost in a machine can signifi-
cantly change a person’s personality. Unlike other artificial life forms, it wasn’t
created as a tool for a specific purpose and can freely choose its own path. This
difference encourages variations on the questions of identity and responsibility
like we discuss in the section “Contemplating questions of responsibility,” earlier
in this chapter, and allows audiences to relate to the artificial life in a different way.

At the other end of the self-awareness spectrum, a computer doesn’t have to be

truly intelligent at all to make decisions and act as a character. In the age of the
algorithm, Big Data collections and brute force computer power make rote deci-
sions about what ads you see, what loan rates you receive, and countless other
aspects of daily life. The antagonistic algorithm doesn’t need to be alive to cause
tension and drama in your story or even to be seen as a character. Many people
talk to algorithms like Amazon’s Alexa and Apple’s Siri every day, often even
thinking of them as living beings.

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 181
Building Your Own Beings
Just like whoever’s making robots and computers in your story, you should design
your artificial life forms to perform their narrative duties with optimal efficiency.
Build bots for drama. The following sections help you refine your designs and
explore these key characters in greater depth. We include three sample artificial
life forms as examples. As you read about them, think about the possible stories
that may grow from these sections.

We hope these sections get your dramatic imagination firing away with ideas. Try
putting our three examples of artificial beings into one story world and see the
possibilities multiply.

Determining its purpose

Assess what its creators design the being to do. It could be one specific task or a
whole suite of general capabilities. For example:

»» A factory robot designed to assemble laser rifle parts and test the finished
weapon before handing it over to its owners

»» An exploration drone designed to fly low over the surface of a planet and scan
for signs of intelligent life

»» A companion android custom created to provide comfort and support to

terminally ill customers

Figuring out what it thinks about

that purpose
This character is self-aware in some way and can thus reflect on its lot in life. But
its worldview is shaped by its design and function and so it’s likely to approve of
its purpose at first. Events in the story may change that assessment. Consider
these possibilities:

»» The factory robot believes that human lives depend on the reliability of the
weapons it makes, and in order to do the most good, it must make the best guns.

»» The explorer drone knows that it serves a vital role in the exploration process
and that its discoveries benefit all sentient life.

»» The companion android understands that terminally ill humans need every
comfort and consolation and helping them in their final days is the noblest
of tasks.

182 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 Finding similarities and differences
between creators and their creations
Figure out how it’s more than human in some ways and less than human in other
ways. Its capabilities and appearance should reflect its purpose. For example:

»» The factory robot has multiple arms and no ability to move away from its
station. Its sensor suite can see into the microscopic range, and it can process
multiple factors with ease. It can only communicate via text through the
factory mainframe.

»» The explorer drone has a personality designed to closely mimic that of a

human scientist, and it uses natural speech as its primary mode of communi-
cation with its owners. Its body is a five-meter-diameter floating disk with
every kind of sensor ever invented but no method of physically interacting
directly with the world besides bumping into things.

»» The companion android looks, sounds, and acts entirely human. Its patients
often forget that it’s artificial. Beneath its exterior are an array of diagnostic
tools to monitor the patient’s vital signs and a reservoir of drugs that it can
administer as needed via retractable needles in its index fingers.

Establishing its range of emotion

Its emotions are likely to be different and more narrowly focused than people’s.
For instance, can it suffer? Can it fall in love? It will have feelings related to
its purpose, which can express themselves in many different ways. Consider the
following examples:

»» The factory robot only experiences satisfaction or dissatisfaction as to the

quality of its finished product. When it malfunctions in some way, it feels
distressed and anxious that it’s letting its owners down.

»» The explorer drone is profoundly curious to find new life and derives enor-
mous pleasure from relaying that information to its owners. It can grow
frustrated when obstacles prevent it from doing what it deems necessary to
make new discoveries.

»» The companion android has enormous empathy and love for its owner. It’s
capable of imagining itself in the owner’s position and thinking from their
perspective to the exclusion of all other concerns.

CHAPTER 12 It’s Alive! Or Is It? — Imagining Robots and Artificial Intelligence 183
 Identifying the limits it operates under
Think in particular about the kinds of limits that will impact dramatic situations
or stand in the way of the character achieving its goals. Look at the strict laws or
designed fail-safes that regulate its actions and how much freedom it has to devi-
ate from that purpose. Contemplate the following:

»» The factory robot can’t use any of the weapons it manufactures in such a way
as to endanger anything or anyone besides certified test targets.

»» The explorer drone can’t withhold any information from authorized overseers
and can’t disclose any information to unauthorized individuals.

»» The companion android must follow the accepted End of Life Best Practices
guidelines as established by its programmers and can’t deviate from them
even when the patient demands that they do.

Recognizing society’s strong

feelings about it
The arrival of any new technology has its share of supporters and resisters. Surely
something as complex and intimidating as an artificial life form doesn’t go unno-
ticed. What are people thinking about it?

What possible events related to the being does society most fear or worry about?
What do they demand from it without compromise? For example:

»» The factory robot is a fast-moving whirlwind of metal arms that’s handling

deadly weapons. Humans are naturally wary of it, even though its safety
record is almost perfect. Still, it makes reliable, lethal laser rifles, which is nice.

»» The explorer drone sees and hears everything it gets anywhere close to and
records it all. The privacy protocols are supposed to filter out all the data
unrelated to new discoveries, but how does it decide what’s relevant and
what isn’t?

»» The companion android gives patients faultless medical and emotional

support, and no one doubts that. But other family members often feel
inadequate and even jealous in comparison to the perfect-seeming caregiver,
which can lead to resentment and even alienation from their loved one.

184 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Writing Earths of every era and

timeline

»» Crafting utopian dreams and

dystopian nightmares

Chapter  13
Constructing Planetary
Plots and Earth-Changing
Stories

W
hat will the world be like in a thousand years? Or a hundred? Or ten?
What would the world look like if that world war had been lost instead
of won? If this societal system was flipped on its head? Or if society
itself collapsed into chaos?

Great science fiction has always dealt with these fundamental “what if” questions
about possible futures or alternate pasts. Chapter 8 examines strategies for creat-
ing other worlds for any genre of story. Here we focus on creating the specific
kinds of story worlds found in sci-fi stories where those wonderful “what ifs” are
explored in diverse and fascinating ways.

Exploring Other Earths

You and your audience know a lot about Earth, and you can easily find endless
amounts of additional info about it. No matter what planet your story takes place
on, the imagery, references, and framework for understanding the setting comes

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 185

 from the planet we all live on. (In Chapter  6, we urge you to follow writer and
game designer Kenneth Hite’s advice and “Start with Earth.” We also offer
designer Raymond Loewy’s Most Advanced Yet Acceptable (MAYA) principle as a
handy guide for making changes to consensus reality when building your world.)
Change only as much as you think you need to in order to engage your audience
without alienating them.

With those two principles in mind, we dig into some of the most popular and
powerful sci-fi approaches to variations on the theme of Earth. Each broad cate-
gory offers a different set of challenges and narrative opportunities, but what they
all have in common is that they engage directly with exploring other ways of being
as a planet and a species. Similar to the ways in which aliens and artificial life
forms ask big questions about what it means to be other than human, these
categories of stories ask world-changing “what if” questions based around
planet-sized Big New Things (science-based elements that are integral to the
story and set the story world apart from reality).

Remembering a different past

Alternate histories and parallel worlds are a mainstay of science fiction, stories
where the Big New Thing is a change to a Big Old Thing. These stories are perfect
frameworks for exploring the past in order to understand how it determines the
present. The change can be an enormous shift in geopolitics or the slightest
adjustment that causes a butterfly effect chain of cause and effect that sets the
stage for your drama to unfold upon.

Whatever the cause, the effect needs to be interesting. As a rule, the new timeline
of your story should be significantly different from the world your audience
knows. Characters in this alternate history should live their lives in a meaning-
fully different and compelling way.

Ask yourself these types of questions when you’re thinking of creating an alter-
nate history in your story:

»» How different would North America be today if the 13 colonies hadn’t rebelled
against England in 1776?

»» What if the Ming Dynasty hadn’t ceased sending out its imposing Treasure
Fleets in 1433?

»» Would the Chinese have become a world naval power to challenge European
colonial expeditions in later centuries?

»» What if any famous victim of assassination had survived or any famous

figure had been assassinated in their prime? How would the course of
history change?

186 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

The audience needs to easily understand the big picture changes your premise
makes. If that’s a cool idea, they’ll become engaged from the start. The 13 colonies
are part of Canada, and the Cherokee Nation and the Sioux Federation are the
major powers on the continent. Fascinating, tell your audience more. But the set-
ting really comes alive when you show these changes through big and small details
of daily life. For example, Philip K. Dick’s landmark alternate history, The Man in
High Castle (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt), presents a world where the Axis powers
won World War II, but the story is powerful because it’s about the lives of specific
people the audience comes to hope and fear for.

Ask yourself questions about what daily life is like for your characters. Are there
different pop culture trends as a result of the change? What kinds of cuisine are
more or less popular in the new now? What new career options are available? What
jobs have disappeared? What does a travel visa to enter the Cherokee Nation
look like?

Writing an alternate history requires a lot of research across a wide variety of topics.
The further back in time your change is from the present day of your story, the
more informed extrapolating you’ll need to do about developments in culture, tech-
nology, and politics. But even if you’re just changing the results of the last election
or imagining a world where polka music is the dominant influence in all pop cul-
ture, you’ll need to get the details right for effective worldbuilding. The story must
set forth a clear logic of cause and effect that the audience can go along with, and if
you lose them with illogical leaps, you risk losing their interest entirely.

Thinking about the near now

Stories of alternate presents and likely tomorrows can grab an audience’s imagi-
nation with very tangible and tantalizing possible futures. These stories are set in
the future lifetimes of the audience. If the “what if” premise is thought-­provoking
or cool enough, they’ll be engaged in part because they can put themselves in the
story world. What if aliens make contact with humanity? How will self-aware
artificial life forms change society? What happens if humans don’t do something
to stop climate change?

The near now works wonderfully for addressing the big, topical issues of today and
imagining possible futures that humans all might have to live with. The Big New
Thing happens or is invented in the present and impacts the reality of the audience.
Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein is simply her modern world with an abandoned, resent-
ful, and potent artificial life form brought into it. The War of the Worlds is then mod-
ern day Great Britain beset by Martians. Much more recently, Kim Stanley
Robinson’s frighteningly plausible The Ministry of the Future (Orbit) is the Earth
everyone is all too likely to know as climate change heats the planet to deadly effect.
Robinson’s book shows the horrific probable consequences and explores solutions.

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 187

 Not every near now story needs to tackle topics of global importance. They’re also
a great mode for focusing on some specific aspect of modern life. The TV series
The Twilight Zone ranged across the genres of science fiction and supernatural
horror, but often the stories were really parables about modern life and the human
condition. The Big New Thing is some specific change that challenges the charac-
ter’s mundane existence or presents a moral lesson. For example, imagine if you
will, a world not unlike ours but where your social media reputation was the pri-
mary way most people measured their self-worth or achieved economic security.
What would happen to someone who tried to opt out of the popularity race? Would
it be a form of liberation or an act of self-destruction?

When writing for the near now, you’ll be more beholden to modern day science
and technology unless your story involves aliens or time travelers. Even though
sci-fi has a poor record at predicting 50 years into the future, audiences have a
general sense of what may or may not be plausible. Unless you’re going to change
Earth’s real history in your story as well, there won’t be cities on the Moon or
Mars in 2040. These near now tales benefit a great deal from some scientific
research on your part, taking a real world recent theory or discovery as a platform
for easing the audience into your story world smooths over cognitive dissonance.

The slight downside of writing a story set ten years from now is that in ten years
you’ll be proven wrong. Keeping in mind the lag time between when you finish
writing and the audience gets to experience your story, you could be proven wrong
before it even comes out. We don’t think that’s a big problem, and it shouldn’t
make you pause for even a moment if you have a great idea you want to write
about. Audiences know it’s a story, and they’ll give you latitude. And in 50 years if
people are still enjoying it for the wonderful characters and immersive plot, they’ll
just view it as an alternate history, a past future that could’ve been.

Worrying about the looming future

Predicting the next few hundred years with anything approaching certainty is
next to impossible, and that’s okay because none of your audience is going to be
around to call you on it when your predictions don’t come true. Compared to the
14 billion year history of the universe, a few centuries is just a fraction of a blink
of an eye, and at that scale the looming future is just around the corner. Audiences
can extrapolate a great deal from today’s Earth and imagine existence in 2250 will
be familiar in as many ways as it’s different.

This looming future is fertile ground for sci-fi, and many of the classics of the
genre take place in this zone of tomorrows. Humans may travel to other stars and
encounter new life and new civilizations, but they still hail from today’s countries
and cultures. As a writer, the longer timespan gives you the cognitive distance to
advance technology in big new ways while keeping to fundamental humanity and

188 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

human concerns of your characters relatable. The Expanse books and TV show are
a perfect example, where human politics and conflicts have expanded to Mars, the
asteroids, and the moons of other planets. Eventually the stories range out even
further than that. The conflicts and concerns that drive the story are rooted in the
spacey/sci-fi setting and technology, but protagonists and antagonists resolve
those conflicts based on wants and worldviews very familiar to today’s audience.

Setting your story in the looming future is a great way to take trends or ideas
you’re interested in today and advance them forward a few generations. The time
gives the science fiction setting plenty of room to react and adapt to today. You
have the freedom to create a story world that explores your interesting ideas about
what’s at stake today and how it may cause huge changes for the world. For exam-
ple, perhaps a story that follows the logic of climate change set out by the science
of today may be set on an Earth fully adapted to much higher sea levels and raging
superstorms. Or maybe a post-fossil fuel economy may rely entirely on clean
fusion power and nanotechnology to create a lush and prosperous world, albeit
one where every nano-schematic is licensed from megacorps that hold the patents
and demand licensing fees paid in emotional labor. Don’t forget, you’re writing a
story, so there’s got to be drama.

However, be warned: Don’t include too many too-specialized or too-of-the-

moment references or slang terms that can date your story not just years from
now, but also likely by the time it’s actually released. Be mindful of the temptation
to think that what’s a classic reference for you will feel timeless to an audience of
today. We, fifty-something authors that we are, can remember a time when The
Three Stooges were seen as paragons of comedy, whereas today you’d be hard-
pressed to find someone younger than 20 who’s heard of them. In two hundred
years we’re betting they’ll be forgotten, not entertaining starship captains and
alien ambassadors. We could be wrong. Ask us in 2250.

Voyaging to a whole new world

With 14 billion years of history and one septillion or so different stars to play with,
you have quite a vast space to set your stories about other Earths that are a long
time from now on a planet far, far away. Perhaps the tales of the far future or dis-
tant past may have zero connection to the Earth we all live and breathe on or
where Earth in 5082 is a scarcely recognizable part of a vast story universe or
other planets.

When you leap into the far future, you’re free to include the wildest scientific
advances imaginable  — self-aware nanomaterials, personal warp bubbles, and
hyperintelligent neutron star god-emperors that your story demands  — and
audiences will generally say, “sure, maybe, why not?” That’s great! But acknowl-
edge that Earth science, geology, biology, climate, culture, and society will remain

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 189

 the reference points from which your audience makes sense of your cool ice planet
or your space station that’s the size of a small moon.

Of course you don’t have to go wild with the advanced technology or far out Big
New Things. You can use your not-Earth worlds to create very Earthlike worlds that
emphasize certain elements in human society and culture and work as metaphors
for core themes in your story. See the section on metaphors in Chapter 11 for using
similar techniques when creating aliens. Ursula K. Le Guin’s acclaimed novel The
Dispossessed (Harper Voyager) uses the three main planets in the book as exemplars
of very different economic systems (roughly, capitalism, communism, and anar-
chism) to weave together a powerful story of ideas, family, morality, and identity.

The biggest challenge to you as an author responsible for creating a whole new
world is to make it feel as real and believable as the one your audience lives in. The
stranger and more wondrous the not-Earth world, the more work you’ll need to do
to help audiences to understand and appreciate without feeling like they’re reading
an encyclopedia of exposition. One way to avoid that problem is to steer clear of fall-
ing back on well-worn clichés from science fiction like a desert planet, an ice planet,
a city planet, or a water world. That certainly does make it easy for your audience,
but you aren’t going to win any fans looking for originality. Chapter 7 provides some
ways to effectively reveal your world without slowing your story to a crawl.

Imagining a different future

For about a century or more, science fiction stories were dominated by Western,
mostly white, mostly male imaginations of what the future may look like. There
have, of course, always been other voices and other visions creating fascinating
other worlds, and fortunately for all the diversity and breadth of the sci-fi genre
has grown in recent years. You can now easily find English translations from other
countries and cultures, such as the vibrant Chinese sci-fi scene and books like The
Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin (Tor) standing out as one example of stories that
now reach a global audience. It’s an exciting time to be writing and enjoying
science fiction.

Other cultures aren’t a convenience store stocked with images and ideas for you to
thoughtlessly cram into your story shopping cart. Science fiction is available to
everyone, everywhere to tell their own stories and express their own ideas (see the
nearby sidebar for an example). The past century is littered with novels, comics,
and films that put forward African and Asian imagery as synonymous with exoti-
cism and otherness. Sometimes writers have done this “just” to add a dose of
what they consider the “exotic” to their story world, but of course to those other
cultures, those so-called exotic elements are part of everyday life and not some-
thing to be lifted thoughtlessly for someone else’s story. Other times they’ve per-
petuated degrading stereotypes and prejudices and projected them into the future.

190 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

Don’t do those things. See Chapter 23 for more on getting help and doing research
to inform the diversity in your stories.

Traveling through time

Time travel by its very nature encompasses all the different categories of other
worlds we discuss in the preceding sections. Past, present, and future can flow
into and affect one another in exciting and often dangerous ways. Time travel
stories are one of the most popular types of sci-fi stories enjoyed by audiences
who otherwise don’t like sci-fi. In an alternate timeline this book has a whole
chapter on Time Travel stories. There’s a very real past where one of the two
authors of this book wore a different Dr. Who T-shirt every day of the week, every
week in sixth grade (it was the one whose first name begins with “R”).

Even more than with faster-than-light (FTL) travel, traveling through time prob-
ably won’t ever be possible, that the universe just doesn’t work that way. That’s
sad news for would-be chrononauts, but good news for storytellers. As with space
travel (see Chapter 10), you can design your time machines or chronal anomalies
or temporal loops to obey whatever rules you decide works best for your story.
Most of the time, you’ll want to clearly show how the process works so audiences
can both understand it and anticipate possible dramatic complications. Or maybe
the how isn’t important and all you care about is what happens when your pro-
tagonist wakes up in another era after being conked on the head, as in Mark
Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Choose the method that makes
your “what if” question about time most interesting.

We divide time travel stories into four broad categories, each of which approaches
time travel from a different narrative perspective:

»» Time tourism: These stories send characters from our era (or one like it) into
the past or future as a fish out of water. Perhaps the characters are there to
study history or they end up there through some twist of fate. The dramatics
focus on how someone from one time deals with and reacts to all that’s
different about another time. It’s about surviving and thriving in the other era
rather than changing history.

»» Time manipulation: Here characters are actively involved in breaking or

repairing history in order to change events. The logic of cause and effect and
the challenges of time travel paradoxes take center stage as characters
struggle over foreseen and unforeseen consequences. In the end, history is
usually either restored to the right timeline or it turns out the history we all
live in now is actually the result of some time travel shenanigans in the past.

»» Time alternative: A story without time travel but that presumes a change in
the past is an alternate history, as we discuss in “Remembering a different

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 191

 past,” earlier in this chapter. A special subgroup of these tales includes one
where characters from one timeline jump over into another one, or one
where alternate timelines interact with one another. These stories often
incorporate some elements from time tourism or time manipulation
narratives.

»» Time trap: Characters are caught in a shifting or looping timeline and struggle
to return to normalcy. Perhaps they’re unmoored from time and randomly
leap from era to era. Or, as in the subgenre-defining movie Groundhog Day,
they’re doomed to relive the same loop over and over again until they can find
a way out. These stories are often very personal, sometimes played for
comedy, where the time trap forces characters to confront hard truths about
themselves that otherwise they might let pass them by over time.

Making Everything Worse (or Better)

Your story world is linked to the Earth of right now no matter how distant in the
future or how far away in space you set it. Here and now is the reference point that
you share with your audience. Your story can draw on a shared understanding of
today’s problems and possibilities to highlight differences between now and then
and delve into the “what if” questions that may happen. How much of what you
think is good and uplifting about today’s world still exists in your story’s world?
What dire trends and harmful practices persist or have gotten worse? Here we
explore the most interesting ways sci-fi extrapolates on current issues to create
riveting and inspiring future settings.

George Orwell’s genre-defining novel 1984 about an oppressive surveillance state

was as much about the privations and preoccupations of daily life in the post-war
Great Britain of 1948 when it was written as it was about a possible grim future.
In this section, we explore how to explore ideas about your present day through
the lens of stories about grim futures (dystopias) and potentially bright ones
(utopias).

Envisioning your story — Dystopian

fears and utopian hopes
Whether you’re feeling dystopian or utopian, remember to put compelling char-
acters at the center of your story. Even if you don’t consider your story utopian or
dystopian, thinking about it in those terms can be helpful. Is your future an opti-
mistic one or a pessimistic one? Likely it’s a little bit of both. Take some time to
think through whether your story is going to be hopeful or fearful about the future.

192 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

Make a list of things in the real world you’re worried about. For each one, visualize
a good path forward in time, where changes in society and technology could make
it better. Then do the reverse, extrapolating bad paths forward with changes that
make the problem worse. This process alone should give you ideas aplenty about
how to flesh out your fictional future and present it as a warning or proposal for
the world of tomorrow. The following sections can give you some more help.

Warning about the future — Dystopias

Dystopias alert the audience about a possible future that seems plausible based on
current bad trends in the world. Very justified fears of nuclear war gave rise to
post-apocalyptic wasteland stories. With society nuked to oblivion, the hard-
scrabble survivors have to scrounge and fight over the scraps. Zombie apocalypses
follow the same model, the undead spreading like a pandemic across the globe,
leaving destruction in their wake. Non-apocalyptic dystopias focus on powerful
central authorities or strictly enforced caste systems that echo fears of tyrannical
governments or oppressive ideologies. Dystopias are often matched with some
kind of existential threat to humanity as a whole that allows the abusive dictator-
ship to take control.

For example, Margaret Atwood’s 1985 novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, takes on the
real-world evils of misogyny and patriarchy. She extrapolates these oppressive
attitudes forward into a near now where a fertility crisis leaves most women inca-
pable of bearing children, which in turn leads to a political crisis that puts a patri-
archal, oppressive government in power over society as a whole and women’s
bodies in particular.

Idealizing the future — Utopias

Utopias inspire the audience to imagine a possible future where at least some of
the current bad trends in the world have gotten better. They’re hopeful visions of
the future where the evils of today have been conquered in some way. A perfect
utopia would be perfectly dull, with no room for conflict or character arcs. A good
utopian story recognizes that perfection is impossible, but radical change for the
better can happen in specific areas such as economic inequality, racist discrimi-
nation, or environmental devastation.

On the optimistic role sci-fi can serve in offering solutions to problems instead of
just spreading fear, Sheila Williams, editor of Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine, is
quoted by Tasha Robinson writing for an October 15, 2020 article on Polygon.com
as saying: “But if you take these problems apart and just deal with one individual
[character or issue], looking at genetic research, or AI or whatever, staying spe-
cific, it’s easier to have a more positive arc to the story, without worrying about
the entire collapse of civilization.”

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 193

 Punks, punks, punks! Writing sci-fi
with attitude
The 1980s brought a new subgenre to science fiction, with novels like William
Gibson’s Neuromancer and Bruce Sterling’s Islands in the Net (both by Ace) setting
the tones and themes of what became known as cyberpunk. In their introduction
to Rewired: the Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (Tachyon Publications), writers John Kes-
sel and James Patrick Kelly list the core ingredients of most cyberpunk stories:

»» Presenting a global perspective on the future

»» Engaging with developments in infotech and biotech, especially those invasive
technologies that will transform the human body and psyche

»» Striking a gleefully subversive attitude that challenges traditional values and

received wisdom

»» Cultivating a crammed prose style that takes an often playful stance toward
traditional science fiction tropes

Just as punk rock music rebelled against both the politics and the pop music sen-
sibilities of the 1970s and ’80s, cyberpunk subverts the utopian promises of an
automated, mass-produced, constantly connected world. The classic cyberpunk
stories take place in the near now and verge more toward the dystopian than uto-
pian. They’re concerned with trends in technology, business, and culture and
highlight the seedier, disruptive, and dangerous parts of the possible future. In
these stories, inequality and class differences divide society. Global megacorpora-
tions dominate the world, battling one another with deadly force. Humans have
become even more dependent upon technology, to the point of physically implant-
ing it in their bodies or replacing biology with technology.

Cyberpunk worlds typically imagine a globally diverse fusion of cultures, which

makes sense and seems like a very plausible future. However, avoid incorporating
other cultures just as a surface-level reference without any thought or depth. A lot
of cyberpunk has involved a fixation on Asian and particularly Japanese cultural
elements. Not only has this fetishizing of Asian culture become a cliché, it’s often
done in an ill-informed way that relies on stereotypes that perpetuate skewed and
sometimes racist views. Go ahead and make your cyberpunk story as worldly and
diverse as you want, but do the research first and steer clear of the prejudicial
cliches. Chapter 23 discusses using experts and sensitivity readers for your stories.

The two most iconic elements in cyberpunk are virtual worlds and cyborgs, both
which we hack into next.

194 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

Virtual worlds
One of the defining images from cyberpunk is when a character “jacks in” to a
virtual world to hack some system or steal some valuable intel. William Gibson
coined the term “cyberspace” in 1982 to refer to a shared “consensual hallucina-
tion” where people from around the world can interact in a virtual reality other
world. Neal Stephenson picked up the concept in his 1992 novel Snow Crash
(Random House), where he refers to it as the metaverse. These visions predate
the  internet of today, and although they haven’t come to pass yet, many of
today’s leaders in technology are open about how much cyberpunk visions of a
virtual reality have inspired them to make fully immersive cyberspace/metaverse
a reality.

Having some or all of your story take place in a virtual world allows for a variety
of fun shifts in the narrative. A virtual space doesn’t obey the same rules as human
space. The spaces themselves aren’t bound by physics or engineering. The people
in the spaces can move in impossible ways. Everything can look, feel, and sound
however you want, and it can shift in the blink of an eye to something else. That
freedom to do anything can be a lot of fun, but don’t forget to provide your audi-
ence with some rules and limits. Likewise, think about ways to have what happens
in the virtual world have high stakes in the physical world. Can someone’s brain
get fried if they “die” in cyberspace? Can human brains become infected with
computer viruses? Some threat should loom over these scenes that keeps audi-
ences engaged.

Cyborgs are (mostly) people too!

The other defining image from cyberpunk is radical body modification with high
tech replacements (for better or worse). Characters often have robotic limbs, arti-
ficial eyes, computers integrated into their brains, or weapons hidden beneath
their skin. The wild mix and match of possible augmentations sometimes echoes
the wild style of old school punks with its outlandish, intimidating appearance.
Other times the implants are carefully hidden, lurking below the surface of a
seemingly gentile business executive.

These cybernetic enhancements push the boundaries of what it means to be

human. A story world with cyborgs implies there is no one set way of being.
Instead, there are many choices of being: gender, sexuality, physicality, personal-
ity, even knowledge all become upgrades or modifications that a person can
choose. Many people would find the option to enhance themselves appealing, but
others will undoubtedly find the concept frightening or repulsive in some way.
How your story world’s characters feel about cyborgs can provide potent dramatic
tension and serve as a useful metaphor for the clash between individual identity
and societal norms.

CHAPTER 13 Constructing Planetary Plots and Earth-Changing Stories 195

 Using steam, sun, and cells
Cyberpunk has spawned multiple other punks, some of which are as or more pop-
ular than the original. Each of these genres has a specific kind of technology that
is central to the setting and story: The punk part indicates a rebellion or fight
against the status quo and a movement to change or step outside mainstream,
conformist values and assumptions.

»» Biopunk: Here genetics and biotechnology take center stage rather than
cyberpunk’s virtual worlds and cybernetic implants. Where cyberpunk envi-
sions a future of enhanced humanity that relies more and more on machines,
biopunk envisions a future where change happens on a cellular level. With
genetic engineering, it becomes possible to pick and choose the genes you
want for your children or even for yourself. This godlike ability to rewrite
nature opens the door to deep questions of what defines a human being.

»» Steampunk: Characterized by clockwork constructs, steam-powered comput-

ers, and top hats with goggles on them, steampunk takes place in an alternate
Earth or a whole other world where technology took a radically different path.
Steampunk tales often verge into the realm of fantasy, stretching the possible
uses of 19th-century technology, when steam power was king. Although
inspired by the stories of Jules Verne and other 19th century sci-fi authors,
steampunk looks back at a different past whereas Verne was trying to predict
the near future from his point of view. Steampunk stories prize inventiveness
and a certain retro-chic style and are often more about nostalgia for a past
that could’ve been rather than a vision for what’s to come. In this way they’re
often about changing history, making them a kind of time travel story as well.

»» Solarpunk: A relatively new punk on the scene, solarpunk is a response to the

dangers of climate change. Although these stories grow from the bleak
present day of rising sea levels, killer heatwaves, and deadly superstorms,
they offer hope for the future. Instead of wallowing in a post-climate apoca-
lypse wasteland, solarpunk stories model alternative futures where renewable
energy and other innovations have reshaped society in a more sustainable
way. Here the punk act of rebellion is to stand against the complacent status
quo that seems incapable of saving the planet.

There are many more punkish subgenres than the few listed here. In some cases,
“punk” seems to get applied in a way that just means “type of sci-fi story with
some technology or theme.” Nothing is wrong with that per se, but there’s a good
case to be made for keeping the punk in your whateverpunk story. Punk stories
look at the current dominant socioeconomic paradigm and don’t like what they
see. They look at the newest gadget or algorithm and see how it can be misused
and abused. They look into the future and see something that needs changing. The
punks bring drama, and drama makes for great stories.

196 PART 3 Science Fiction: Journeys into the Future

4
Fantasy:
Journeys into
the Imagination
IN THIS PART . . .

Understand the value of creating worlds built for

wonder.

Choose the best way for audiences to experience your

wondrous worlds.

Construct a magic system that makes sense for your

particular world and its stories.

Build a believable, imaginative world without getting

lost in an endless act of creation.

Create monsters and creatures that advance the story,

reveal character, and are just plain cool.
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Instilling a meaningful sense of

wonder in your audience

»» Balancing fantasy and reality

»» Encountering the fantastic

Chapter 14
Bringing Wonder
to Your Story

F
antasy fiction includes everything from going on epic quests to slaying drag-
ons and recovering mystic artifacts to modern-day tales of mundane worlds
where magic hides in shadows and is only known to a select few. From role-
playing game dungeon crawls to urban faerie romances to any of the countless
schools for young wizards out there, all these fantasy stories share at least one
thing in common: They’re impossible. Horror stories are about frightening worlds
of dread and danger. Sci-fi stories are about characters and ideas in other possible
worlds of the future. Fantasy stories are about impossible other worlds full of won-
ders that carry meaning and create amazement for both the characters and the
audience.

We love Kathryn Hume’s definition of fantasy from her book Fantasy and Mimesis
(Routledge) where she explains that it’s a purposeful departure from the norms of
real life, which is a departure from consensus reality. In other words, the fantastical,
cool, magical beings and events in a story could never happen in the real world in
which the author and audience exist.

This chapter builds on the concept that fantasy is a departure from consensus
reality, but not a complete departure. It’s a mix of the world people know and a
world that never was and never could be, but which audiences can still relate to.
Writing fantasy lets you use impossible ideas to create meaningful stories about

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 199

 characters and worlds that are worth caring about. These stories are told through
a specific point of view (POV) that shapes the audience’s experience with your
fantastical, wonderful impossibilities. Read on to see how to weave wonders that
enthrall and amaze audiences.

Creating Wonder
A sense of wonder is a fundamental building block for fantasy fiction. Wonder hap-
pens when people see or experience something that fires their imagination. It draws
them in with its striking appearance or nature and creates a longing for more.

The Grand Canyon is a natural wonder of the world. It’s bigger than you can imag-
ine. The vast scale stuns and amazes. How can it be so big? Where did this enor-
mous crack in the Earth’s crust come from? Those feelings of amazement and
surprise make it a wonder. The Great Pyramid of Giza is the only remaining one of
the seven wonders of the ancient world: beautiful, imposing, massive construc-
tions that exemplify humanity’s skill, imagination, and capabilities. How could
they have built such an edifice thousands of years ago? What purpose did so
mighty a pile of stone serve? What secrets are contained within? Those inspira-
tional and admiring reactions to human ingenuity and artistry make it a wonder
of the real world.

Wonder is the opposite of indifference. Wonder entices; it makes you want to learn
or experience more. You can’t turn away from an object of wonder. You’ve never
seen anything like it. You want to share it with others, let everyone know how
amazing and cool it is.

Fantasy stories are ideal venues for creating wonder in audiences. All stories can
create wonder, but the inherent impossible elements in fantasy rely on it. The
audience has agreed to suspend their disbelief and take a journey from consensus
reality with your story’s characters into a world where the fantastical is real. With
their imaginations opened, your job is to provide the awe-inspiring, breathtaking,
sometimes shocking wonders that make a fantasy narrative shine. Let the follow-
ing ideas and tips help you make that happen.

Understanding the meaning of wonder

Fantasy fiction’s wonders come in countless forms and expressions. The ancient,
ill-tempered dragon, the floating castle, the enchanted ring, the ageless spirit of
the woods, and the sorcerer’s spells can all make audiences ooh and ahh and suck
them into the story world. Authors design these fantastical wonders to not only
capture the audience’s imagination, but also to enrich their plots.

200 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

In fantasy stories, a wonder isn’t just a powerful emotional draw, it also means
something. Brian Attebery has a great take on wonder in his book in Strategies
of Fantasy (Indiana University Press). He explains that humans are hard-wired
to find meaning and patterns in everything, and those patterns form the basis
for conclusions, beliefs, even whole religions. In the real world, people often
assign meaning to patterns, but it turns out Zeus isn’t really responsible for
lightning. Our fates and personality may or may not be written in the stars. Not
so in fiction.

When you create your story’s wonders, make sure they follow a pattern and have
as exact a meaning as you want them to. The patterns that audiences discern
really can inform them about the story world. Thunderstorms really can come
from angry gods.

The meaning you attach to wonders reveals something important and/or interest-
ing about the characters, world, and dramatic questions in the story. The massive,
ancient dragon, whose wings whip up tempests and whose breath is an inferno, is
so ill-tempered because she’s the last of her kind. When she dies, a whole lineage
of draconic tyrants and the epic poems they wrote about themselves die with her.
If your heroic knights can find another way to preserve that legacy, can they avoid
a deadly battle that will surely reduce their kingdom to ashes? Could the sorcerer
who dwells in the floating castle help them solve this riddle? If so, how in the
world can they get up to the castle gate in the clouds? All those wonders are extra-
wonderful when they serve the plot. When they don’t serve the plot, they’re not
really that wonderful.

You can also attach metaphorical and thematic meaning to your wonders. Fantasy
allows for idealized, impossible versions of things that already carry some inher-
ent meaning. The mansion of an exploitative wealthy merchant becomes more
decadent when decorated with enchanted decor and supernatural servants that
respond to the owner’s every whim. The cursed mine that’s the source of all their
wealth becomes even more exploitative when you add in monsters menacing the
miners forced to dig for mithril. See Chapters  16 and  20 for advice on how to
incorporate metaphorical meaning into magic and monsters.

Most wonderful yet believable

Think of the wondrous, reality-busting parts of your story as sitting somewhere
on a spectrum from fantasy to reality (What Kathryn Hume refers to as fantasy
and mimesis). Look at the following formula to get an idea of the range.

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 201

 »» At the Pure Fantasy end of the spectrum, everything’s made up and unfamiliar
to the audience. Anything can happen at any time, and the audience has no
familiar references or rules to help them make sense of it.

»» At the All Real end you’re not writing fantasy at all anymore, and the real world
rules out the impossible. If you’re being really real, you’re not even writing
fiction anymore, but rather you’re just reporting the facts.

»» In between is an exciting mix of both the fantastic and the real. This is where
most fantasy stories take place.

Great stories can push the fantasy all the way to the limits of comprehension or
stick so close to reality that only a single moment of magic pushes it into the fan-
tastical. There’s no best place on this Fantasy/Reality spectrum, but there’s a per-
fect place for your specific story. Balance the creative freedom that the impossible
gives you with the need for your audience to understand and care about your story.

Impossible things have wonderful uses for writers, but they’re not risk-free.
When you break with consensus reality too much, you can create cognitive
dissonance (the unease or discomfort an audience member experiences when dif-
ferent ways of thinking and understanding clash with one another) and drive
away rather than entice your audience. Chapter 6 discusses both cognitive disso-
nance and how to deploy it strategically using the Most Advanced Yet Accessible
design principle. That is, only change as much reality as you need in order to
engage the audience without alienating them.

Not all breaks from consensus reality are created equal, and so just because it’s
magic doesn’t mean it’s unfamiliar. For most audiences of fantasy fiction, the last
century of books, movies, games, and other media have created a kind of consen-
sus fantasy. For example, wizards, dragons, elves, and dwarves all seem as famil-
iar to fans of the fantastic as humans and horses. You can take advantage of this
familiarity to ease the audience into your world and then spring your exciting
changes and innovations on them without creating cognitive dissonance.

A story about the ancient dragon who wants to preserve its long and questionable
legacy of dragonkind in the face of opposition from some stalwart knights doesn’t
need to reinvent the dragon or the knight of popular culture. Part of the story’s
potential appeal is the wonder of great dragons and stalwart knights, and audi-
ences understand how dragons and knights generally work in stories. Make these
classic foes your own in ways that not only satisfy the audience’s desire for some-
thing new, but which also incorporate the deeper meanings and conflicts in the
story. A dragon who’s metaphorically representative of greedy capitalism is going
to be different from one who represents old-fashioned ways of thinking. Knights
fighting for the common folk will be different from knights who personify moder-
nity and innovative thinking.

202 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

Matching magic to the mundane
Why write a fantasy story (or any story) if you don’t think you have something
new and interesting to say? Your cool, unique ideas for a spell or a creature or a
faerie realm are probably what got you excited about writing this story in the first
place. In order for your unique fantasy wonders to have an impact, present them
in the context of common fantasy tropes and everybody’s shared understanding
of the real world.

Your wonders can have a greater impact when they manifest in clear relation to
the plot, presenting obstacles and allowing for solutions that would be impossible
in a realistic setting. But your magical plot points need some mundane world
context to show off just how wonderful your reality-breaking creations are. Com-
bine and contrast fantasy and mundanity in multiple ways within your story by
considering the following:

»» Mundane solutions for mundane problems: You want at least some plot
points that downplay or set aside the magic to lay a realistic baseline for
dramatic scenes.

»» Fantastical solutions for mundane problems: Showing a wondrous way to

resolve a reality-based difficulty helps audiences understand how the
fantastical operates in the story and relate that to their own experience.

»» Mundane solutions for fantastical problems: Grounding your fantasy by

having reality best it in some way (a plain sword slaying a monster, a clever
mind solving a magical puzzle) shows the limits of the fantastical, teaching
audiences the rules that govern this broken reality.

»» Fantastical solutions for fantastical problems: When all the magic and
monsters come together for the big showdown, the wonders really get to
show their stuff. But if you haven’t given the audience opportunities to learn
the basics of your fantastical reality, none of it may make sense.

Using the MMMaM Index of Wonder

Creating meaningful wonders takes more than just dreaming up some unusual,
fantastical creature or kingdom. The wonder needs to not only draw audiences in,
but also do real work for your story. We include this list of four factors — we call
these factors the MMMaM Index of Wonder — that can help you think about how
fantasy elements are working in your story, and whether or not they could be
doing more.

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 203

 Ask yourself all of these questions about each wondrous element you’re building
into your story (we also include some examples):

»» Magical: How does it depart from consensus reality in an interesting and

engaging way?

• An enchanted sword that sings of future deaths when used to kill

something.

• A fantastical city where everyone is immortal as long as they stay within

the city walls.

»» Mundane: How does it relate to consensus reality so that your audience can
better appreciate it?

• The singing sword does all the normal things a sword does, plus singing
portents of death.

• The immortals in the city still have to deal with normal city problems like
sewage, overcrowding, and buying food from outside the city.

»» Meaning: What role does it play in telling your story and how does it affect
the characters?

• Whoever kills with the sword will die by the sword, playing into the theme
of “you reap what you sow” and also foretelling the hero’s death by sword.

• The protagonists visit the city, and the immortality within sorely tempts
one of the heroes to give up the quest and stay behind, creating tensions
in the group.

»» aMazing: How do the magical, mundane, and meaningful combine into

something that produces wonder?

• The singing sword is both an iconic weapon and a mysterious puzzle that
holds the truth about the hero’s fate.

• The city of immortals provides a powerful temptation for one of the heroes
to stray from the path, but it’s not an easy choice. Is eternal life in a
cramped city of strangers better than a short life spent with friends in the
service of a great cause?

There’s no right answer to any of these questions, but the answers should all
reinforce one another. The MMMaM Index is a tool to help you focus on the won-
ders in your story from multiple angles at once.

204 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 BEWARE: THE DANGERS OF DREAM WORLDS
Magical realms built on impossibilities run the gamut from “modern day Earth, but
there’s a unicorn living in the Alps” to “anything becomes real if someone wishes it to
be.” The first is, maybe, a little dull. The second is chaos. You may not think that there
would be many stories set in the chaos scenario, but have you ever seen a dream
sequence in a story where anything can happen? The audience accepts it. Kind of. But
when anything can happen, dramatic stakes become unclear and cause and effect
becomes confused, which can make the audience lose interest and move on to some-
one else’s story.

Many far-out fantasy worlds function just like a dream word — they suffer from
the inherent boredom of “anything can happen.” The best way to make these wild other
realms work for your story is to rein them in with some rules. Anything can happen, but
only until the sun goes up. Anything can happen, except for making someone fall in
love with someone else. However, a few rules aren’t enough unless they directly impact
the characters and what they want. Tie the rules to the protagonist’s dramatic goal for
the scene, and the dreamscape can become a proper stage for drama instead of a
sideshow full of weirdness and wonder signifying nothing.

Going High to Low with Fantasy

When you hang out and chat with fantasy writers and enthusiasts of a certain age,
you may hear the terms “high fantasy” and “low fantasy” as ways of distinguish-
ing different kinds of fantastical tales. Here we explore these useful concepts a bit
more deeply.

Distinguishing between high and low

Definitions vary, but in general, the terms mean the following:

»» High fantasy involves story worlds with lots of magic and mystical creatures
that are usually coupled with epic, sometimes mythic tales of noble heroes
and existential evils. The Lord of the Rings is classic high fantasy (more about
that in Chapter 15).

»» Low fantasy is grittier and rougher, full of moral gray areas and populated
with less than noble, sometimes antiheroic characters. Magic and monsters
lurk in the shadows or are locked away in wizard towers and don’t necessarily
play a big role in everyday life. The world of Westeros (the setting for A Game
of Thrones) is a low-fantasy environment.

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 205

 This very basic division between high and low is sort of useful. It’s a shorthand that
may help audiences familiar with the terms get an idea of what your story’s like,
but it’s not something to worry about or even focus on as you write. However, the
concept does point the way toward an extremely useful way of thinking: Just how
magical and fantastical is your story world and your plot? It’s high! Oh, it’s rather
low. That’s too vague and restrictive. What about if some parts are low and some
are high? Where does medium-rare fantasy fit into all this? We’re glad you asked.

Employing fantastic elements

Most stories have heroes of some sort, but fantasy stories stereotypically have
Heroes with a capital “H.” These Heroes go to heroic efforts to achieve heroic
feats and overcome incredible — we daresay heroic — odds. That’s the stereotype,
but not all heroes wield magic swords or are the chosen one (and thank goodness
for that). There are a thousand and one other ways for your protagonists to face
their antagonistic forces.

In the section “Most wonderful yet believable,” earlier in this chapter, we present
a spectrum we use for thinking about fantasy and wonders that runs from Pure
Fantasy on one extreme to All Real at the other. Your whole fantasy story world
doesn’t need to sit on the same part of that spectrum. Indeed, it shouldn’t. Think
of the spectrum as a set of dials that you can use to fine-tune the different fan-
tastic elements in your story. How fantastical do you want each of these elements
to be in your story? The following can help you (we also include some examples):

»» Realistic: Just like the world that audiences are all stuck in, the element is
probably challenging, costly, time-consuming, and risky.

• Protagonists firmly grounded in reality are relatable, the stakes for them
are very high, and every encounter with the fantastic can be life-changing.

• In fight and action scenes, people run out of breath, fall over in agony
when hit with a sword, and struggle to clamber over a wall taller than
they are.

• Magic is rare and difficult, but even the simplest spell breaks reality in ways
most people in the world could never imagine.

• Fantastical beings are rare and still mostly based on real-world biology
and/or existing spiritual traditions.

»» Heroic: Even when no magic is involved, the world seems heightened and
bigger than life, like the reality of an action movie.

• Protagonists are often driven by a higher cause and are self-sacrificing and
noble. Villains are melodramatic and have bold ambitions. These people
don’t lead quiet lives or let challenges go unanswered.

206 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 • Heroic warriors have no problem beating 20 armed soldiers in a fistfight
without losing their breath. They can take a crossbow bolt in the shoulder
and shrug it off as they leap over the castle wall.

• Magic is special but fully integrated into society and the world in important
ways, but only a select few control it.

• Monsters are bigger, tougher, and more dangerous than one person who
isn’t a hero could handle. Their origins may be purely fantastical, their
physiology fearsomely ignoring consensus biological limitations.

»» Fantastic: Magic and the fantastic are pervasive elements, creating wonder
through the amazing density of impossibilities.

• Characters wield supernatural or superhuman abilities and don’t think

twice about it because that’s just who they are. This gives them a demi-god
or superheroic perspective on the world that can make them seem more
than human.

• Battles involve such powers and enchanted items that the whole nature of
fighting is different than what’s seen in consensus reality, incorporating
elements like mystic healing, invisible walls, eldritch blasts, and flaming
swords.

• Characters use magic items or sling spells with ease and regularity. The
magical elements pervade the story world and are a daily part of every-
one’s existence.

• Monsters and magical entities can be huge, defy all known laws of reality,
and only be defeated by an army of realistic protagonists, a team of heroic
ones, or one really fantastic superhero-type.

MAKING FANTASTICAL SUPERHEROES

Superhero comics and movies, along with a lot of popular anime and manga, often
blend the fantastic elements in intriguing and inventive ways. The comic book super­
heroes of DC, Marvel, and other comics publishers have grown into a mishmash of
magic, science fiction, action heroes, and mythic influences.

If you’re writing a superhero story, the audience is already primed to enjoy the crosso-
ver between genres and levels of the fantastic. But remember, many of those stories
rely on audience knowledge built up over dozens of movies and/or decades of pop cul-
ture appearances. When creating your own superheroic fantasy, you won’t have that
familiarity to piggyback on when introducing audiences to your story world and its
characters.

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 207

 Different elements in your story should usually operate on different parts of the
scale. Your protagonists can be all realistic while the world’s magic is utterly fan-
tastic. Your fight scenes may be heroic, with amazing feats of strength and skill,
but the world itself is very grounded and realistic.

Choosing a Fantastical Point of View

Chapter 2 talks about point of view (POV), and we touch on it again as it relates to
horror stories in Chapter  19. In those cases, we refer to POV in terms of which
characters or viewpoints audiences experience the story through. But there’s
another way to think about POV, one discussed in detail by Farah Mendlesohn in
her book Rhetorics of Fantasy (Wesleyan University Press) — the fantastical point
of view.

Fantasy stories contain fantastical, impossible wonders. There might be magic or

monsters or mystical planes of existence (or all of the above). Fantastical POV
defines the way that both the audience and the characters in the story encounter
all these wondrous elements. Make sure you decide on a fantastical POV before
writing your story because that viewpoint will affect how everything else in the
story unfolds. Building on Mendlesohn’s work, here are the three most common
fantastical points of view, each with its own strengths and uses:

Portal — Moving from the real world

to a magical world
In portal stories, protagonists move from a relatively normal or plain world into a
more wondrous or magical one. The audience follows along with the protagonists,
and they encounter this strange new world together.

For example, have you ever been playing around in a distant relative’s old ward-
robe and discovered a doorway to another world? Or maybe your Kansas farm-
house got swept up in a tornado and deposited in a Technicolor kingdom of
wizards and witches? If so, then you’re already familiar with the portal fan-
tasy POV.

For a long time, the portal fantasy was the default mode in fantastical literature.
From fairy tales about encountering the supernatural in the woods, to Dorothy’s
trip to Oz in L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, the story of a normal person dropped
into an abnormal world is easy for audiences to relate to. They can put themselves
in Dorothy’s shoes and together “ooh,” “aah,” and “yikes” at what they discover
together.

208 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

A portal fantasy protagonist doesn’t have to come from a literal other world. They
can be from a less fantastical part of a fantasy world, or they can be unfamiliar
with the world’s greater wonders for some reason. Consider The Lord of the Rings,
where the four hobbit protagonists come from a pretty mundane, barely magical
corner of Middle Earth. Their epic quest takes them out into the most amazing and
terrifying locales in their world and thus functions like a portal fantasy. A charac-
ter with amnesia or someone raised in isolation would likewise experience the
story in the same way.

Portal fantasy is great for the following:

»» Fish-out-of-water stories where someone mundane encounters the magical

»» Quest narratives where heroes take a dramatic journey of discovery from
innocence to experience

»» Stories where you ease audiences into especially fantastical and inventive
story worlds that may otherwise create cognitive dissonance

Immersive — Inhabiting the magical world

“As you know, because we’re siblings, we live in a land of eight kingdoms, each
founded by the divine marriage of an elf and a dragon in the distant Age of
Aaagamer the Wise . . .” isn’t a good sentence. As a rule, it’s almost always best to
cut any sentence that begins with “As you know . . .” because people don’t usually
spend time telling each other things they already know. It’s clumsy, lazy exposi-
tion, but it’s the type of thing you may be tempted to write in an immersive fantasy.

Immersive fantasy puts the audience into a story where everyone shares some core
assumptions and knowledge about the wondrous world where they live and have
adventures. The main characters aren’t going to be surprised by the existence of
magic, and even if they’ve never seen a dragon personally, they know that such
beasts exist. No one outside the circle of conspirators knows that the Shadow
Cabal plans to usurp the king’s power with a demonic pact, but everyone knows
who the king is, why he’s not universally loved, and maybe even that sometimes
ne’er-do-wells make deals with demons.

The audience doesn’t share that knowledge when they start the story, which is
where the temptation to write sentences with “as you know . . .” comes from. For
the most part, audiences accept the consensus reality of this immersive fantasy
world without too many questions, as long as nothing’s too confusing. Chapter 7
provides lots of guidance about providing exposition in ways that serve the story
instead of grinding it to a halt while you dump info on the audience. Whatever
elements you show should be important to the story.

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 209

 Even though the whole story takes place in a wondrous world, you should choose
which specific wonders to focus the audience’s attention on. Put elements of the
fantastic that directly impact the main characters, the plot, and the dramatic con-
flict front and center: A war story starring characters who ride dragons should
show a lot of details of how dragonriders fight, care for each other, and their place
in society. A heist story in a world of magic should concentrate on what’s valuable,
how people use mundane and magical means to protect it, and how crime and
punishment are handled in a world with truthsayers and teleportation.

Immersive fantasy is great for the following:

»» Stories with large casts and shifting viewpoint characters that give the
audience multiple windows into understanding the story world

»» Complicated plots set in worlds that share enough consensus reality with the
audience that they can understand and appreciate the story world

»» Dramatic or romantic tales of characters like faeries, cat people, or merfolk

who live, love, and fight in ways that could never exist in the real world

SHIFTING POV
A fantasy story doesn’t always stay in one POV. Don’t let the fantastical points of view
lock you into one way of writing your story. Use them to help you think about how your
audience and your characters feel and act when they encounter the story’s wonders. As
the narrative evolves or as you write sequels, the fantastical POV can slide into another
mode like the following:

• A portal story’s opening chapters brings a character into the magical world, but as
soon as they’ve become accustomed to it, the story takes on an immersive
perspective.

• An intrusive fantasy disrupts the mundane life of a character who then travels into
the wondrous world where the intrusion came from, becoming a portal fantasy
protagonist.

• An immersive fantasy world can be subject to intrusions from other, stranger fan-
tasy worlds, or immersive characters can travel through a portal into those even
weirder realms.

210 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

Intrusive — Moving the magical world
into the real world
Have you ever been rooting around in a distant relative’s old armoire and out of
seemingly nowhere a goblin riding a dire world leaps from behind an old raincoat
into the room? Or have you heard the rumors about a secret order of mystical
knights who meet every spring equinox atop the Eiffel Tower to plan their endless
war against the fallen angels? These are tales of intrusive fantasy where some-
thing wondrous shoves its way into the audience’s consensus reality and disrupts
the mundane status quo.

The intrusive fantasy is the mirror image of the portal fantasy. Instead of going on
a journey with a protagonist who’s learning about the wondrous new world, the
audience is seeing things through the eyes of someone whose life and reality are
being disrupted and thrown into chaos by the sudden appearance or revelation of
the fantastic. The fantastical intrusion can be huge and obvious to everyone
(a goblin invasion of New York City), but more often only a handful of people from
the normal world know about it. Those people are usually your protagonists. The
intrusion shocks and challenges the characters from your mundane world, forcing
them to confront realities they once thought impossible.

The newly revealed wonder doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. It’s often one
small supernatural element introduced into an otherwise mundane setting: a
monkey’s paw that grants three wishes, the ability to hear other people’s thoughts,
the discovery of a single mythical monster lurking in the woods. The fantastical
intrusion brings focused chaos and disruption into the protagonist’s life. It’s one
weird, new thing that makes your protagonist reassess key truths they thought
they understood about how the world works.

Whatever form the intrusion takes, it poses fundamental dramatic questions like:
How will this change the world? How will folks deal with this new information?
Can the world ever return to normalcy? Should it?

Intrusive fantasy is great for the following:

»» What-if stories about a singular supernatural force disrupting normal life

»» Hidden worlds and secret societies wielding wonders out of the public eye
»» Dramatic and/or action-packed tales of the mundane world thrown into chaos
by the fantastic

CHAPTER 14 Bringing Wonder to Your Story 211

 THREE PERSPECTIVES ON YOUR WORLD
Early on in your writing process, before you’ve settled on too much plot and character
details, this exercise can help you find the right fantastical POV for your story. Taking
some time to look at other stories you like and seeing how they work can inform your
own decision about how your audience and your characters will encounter the fantastic.
Then stick to these steps:

1. Pick one of your favorite fantasy books, movies, TV shows, or games.

If it’s been a while since you enjoyed it, take some time to refresh your memory.

2. Identify what fantastical POV the story uses.

Does it use just one, or does it shift over the course of the story?

3. Write down why you think the creators chose that particular POV.
4. Imagine what the story would be like if it had each of the other two POVs that
it didn’t use.

That may mean having a different protagonist or a very different plot. How
different would the story be? What appeal might this other version have that the
original didn’t?

You can do a similar analysis to the same story by applying the break from consensus
reality scale to look at where the story’s different elements fall between All Real and
Pure Fantasy. (Check out the section “Most wonderful yet believable,” earlier in this
chapter where we discuss this scale). How would the story change if you turned those
dials up and down for the characters, fights, or mundane elements?

212 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Taking inspiration from fairy tales

and mythology

»» Building on the legacy of Tolkien and

Dungeons & Dragons

»» Using fantastic questions for

wondrous worlds

Chapter  15
Worldbuilding on the
Shoulders of Giants,
Faeries, Dragons,
and Hobbits

C
reative and compelling worldbuilding is an absolute requirement for writ-
ing a successful fantasy story. Even if your tale only adds a sliver of the
fantastic into the real world, you’ll want to think through the implications
of that impossible element. For epic tales in wholly imaginary settings means
thinking about not just what you can imagine, but also what others have imagined
before you. This chapter explores using myth and the classic tropes of fantasy fic-
tion to inform your worldbuilding and help your story feel both unique and
accessible.

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 213

Adapting Myth and Legend
Tales of magic, monsters, and other wonders have existed for as long as people
have told stories. The plots and characters from mythology and folklore are the
taproots of modern fantasy, as Farah Mendlesohn and Edward James explain in
their book A Short History of Fantasy (Libri Publishing). So much of today’s fantastic
fiction has grown directly from these ancient fables and epics, which aren’t the
creations of any specific author. They belong to the entire culture that produces
them, and reflect that culture’s beliefs and concerns.

These were stories everyone knew, featuring heroes, gods, and creatures that the
audience may or may not have actually believed in. Their origins were religious or
at least metaphysical; the stories were lessons about humans and their place in
the physical and spiritual world. They provided models of good and bad behavior.
They are also entertaining. What made a great storyteller then (and now) was art-
fully spinning your own take on these communal stories, plots, heroes, and
villains.

Retold and interpreted by centuries of poets, artists, and writers, these tales and
legends had a profound effect on how people write and enjoy fantasy stories in the
21st century. As Kathryn Hume details in Fantasy and Mimesis (Routledge), modern
writers and audiences have inherited story patterns chiefly about protagonists
struggling to live up to some ideal hero-type. When they fail to live up to the ideal,
bad stuff happens. When they actually live that heroic life, they triumph. Audi-
ences today still love a good “hero upholds the moral order” narrative, but it’s
certainly not the only way to tell a story. You tap into fantasy’s origins and arche-
types without constraining yourself to follow their specific patterns.

The following reveals ways to power up your fantasy story with what your audi-
ence already knows and believes.

Making myths and faerie tales your own

As soon as authors like Ovid, Charles Perrault, Hans Christian Andersen,
E.T.A. Hoffmann, and the Brothers Grimm started collecting and rewriting these
ancient stories, they made them their own. The versions of these stories everyone
knows today have been crafted by experts to convey some specific message or
emotional experience that might or might not have much to do with the story’s
original lesson.

These versions have in turn been reimagined and repurposed into some of the
best-selling fantasy tales of recent history, from Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson
series to superhero versions of Thor and Hercules, to countless films, TV shows,
comics, and animated versions of The Monkey King from Journey to the West.

214 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Retelling stories with your own take
No copyright holder is going to stop you from trying to be the next Ovid. Every
year or so, at least one big-name author comes out with their own retelling of
classic myths and fables. Greek and Norse mythology are perennial favorites, as
are Grimm’s fairy tales. If you have a strong vision and a striking prose style, go
for it. But you’ll probably have more fun and greater success by forging a new path
based on old patterns.

Consider these examples:

»» Angela Carter’s hauntingly disturbing The Bloody Chamber is a modern classic,

interpreting the fairy tales of Charles Perrault in a dark and provocative way.

»» Madeline Miller’s excellent fantasy novel, Circe (Back Bay Books), takes the
villainous sorceress from The Odyssey and makes her a great protagonist,
whose story extends across the timeline of Greek mythology.

»» The hit video game series God of War has not only let players fight every god in
the Greek pantheon, but in recent years has also crossed over into fighting
Norse gods as well.

Playing with a myth or fairy tale’s fantastical point of view (the way that both the
audience and the characters in the story encounter all these wondrous elements —
see Chapter 14) can help you find an original take on these tales as old as time.
Each point of view (POV) offers a different way to explore classic myths and fairy
tales:

»» Portal: Imagine someone from your consensus reality (the things everyone
generally agrees on about how the world works) traveling into the world of a
myth or fairy tale. How would modern or mundane sensibilities conflict with
this magical world?

»» Immersive: Dive deep into the fairy tale or myth and give it a thorough
worldbuilding treatment. Take the basic details and extrapolate the whole
fantasy world from them and then find or create some intriguing characters
within that world to center your story on.

»» Intrusive: Consider figures from myth and legend stepping into your world.
There’ve been countless variations on this theme, but the genre is far from
exhausted.

Recycling legendary tales of yesteryear

The legends and fables of old have some of the most iconic characters in all of
literature. Many authors have had great success pulling those ancient heroes and

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 215

 monsters out of their mythic milieu and plopping them down in a brand new
story.

Here are a few examples that show how others have done exactly this:

»» Neil Gaiman’s American Gods (William Morrow) tells the story of fading old
gods struggling to survive in modern day America.

»» Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series posits a hidden society of Greek gods and
their descendants who never went away.

»» Marvel comics and movies has a boisterous Thor who hangs out with other
superheroes and slams baddies from every genre of fiction with his mighty
hammer. Even more than the heroes, the monsters of mythology appear all
over the place outside of the myths that defined them.

»» Dungeons & Dragons features every creature from Greek mythology fighting
alongside Tolkien-inspire orcs and Lovecraftian-inspired mind-flayers.

Make the premise, character, or creature your own by adjusting its elements to fit
the needs of your story. The MMMaM Index (our list of ways to infuse your story
with wonder — see Chapter 14) can help guide your thinking. Ask yourself these
questions:

»» Magical: How does it depart from consensus reality in an interesting and

engaging way? What changes can you make while still retaining the same level
of magical appeal?

»» Mundane: How does it relate to consensus reality so that your audience can
better appreciate it? What mundane parts of your story world will change or
react in dramatic ways to the element?

»» Meaning: What role does it play in telling your story and how does it affect
the characters? Is the character your antagonist or protagonist? Or, do the
characters in the story come into dramatic conflict over the element?

»» aMazing: How do all those combine into something that produces wonder?
Do the changes you’ve made to the source material make it equally or more
wondrous?

Designing mythic blueprints

Adapting a mythic plot structure to your own world and characters allows your
audience to slip into sync with the familiar narrative and appreciate whatever
nuances and cool new wonders you’ve added to the mix.

216 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Here are some examples:

»» An innocent-looking young woman sets off to visit a beloved family member,

only to be beset on the journey by a vicious, smooth-talking predator. In the
end, the predator poses as someone who the young woman loves in order to
trap her. Then maybe a guy with an axe shows up and cuts the grandmother
out of the wolf’s stomach? Red Riding Hood is kind of a weird story if you take
it too literally, but the basic plot has been the basis for a thousand stories
since then.

»» How many video games are there where the player has to undertake a long
series of Herculean tasks (labors if you will) before facing the final boss? How
many times have we seen Ovid’s star-crossed lovers Pyramus and Thisbe die
tragically? At least a million, thanks in large part to Shakespeare’s version,
Romeo and Juliet.

You can create your own blueprints by analyzing the following in your story.
(Chapter 3 provides all the tools you need to break down a story’s plot and think
about its structure.)

»» Map the myth or fable onto Freytag’s Pyramid (a triangular structure that
represents the action and conflict of a story — refer to Chapter 3) or your
preferred plot outlining approach.

»» Track the characters’ dramatic arcs to understand their individual journeys

through the story.

»» Make note of the fantastical elements in the story and how they relate to the
unfolding plot and character arcs.

After you’ve done this analysis, you’ll have a useful blueprint that you can adjust
to fit your unique story, but which still has familiar echoes for audiences who
know the source material.

Being sensitive to religious beliefs

When you’re adding your own take on myths or fairy tales, be careful because
what seems like a myth or fairy tale to you may very well be someone else’s reli-
gion. Make sure you do your research and are extremely thoughtful in how you
adapt them. Chapter 23 has more details on collaborating with sensitivity readers
and cultural consultants.

For example, stories of a war between Christian angels and devils have a dedicated
audience, but some practicing Christians find them offensive or even sacrilegious.
The gods and beings from Hinduism often have striking appearances and

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 217

 compelling tales associated with them, but they’re also central to the daily prac-
tices of more than a billion people. Which isn’t to say that you can’t write a great
fantasy story based on great epic poems like The Mahabharata and Ramayana, but
be respectful and careful.

Start with Middle Earth? Not Exactly . . .

J.R.R.  Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and the imaginary world of
Middle Earth where they take place have had a genre-defining impact on fantasy
storytelling in the last 80 years. As Brian Attebery explains in Strategies of Fantasy
(Indiana University Press), fantasy, sci-fi, horror, and other literature have no
hard and fast boundaries between them. What is and isn’t fantasy fiction can be
pretty fuzzy on the boundaries, but if a story sits at the core of modern fantasy
and ticks all the boxes, it’s The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien didn’t invent the genre.
Before him came other popular fantasies like L. Frank Baum’s Oz series, the tales
of Conan the Barbarian by Robert E. Howard, and others. But when The Hobbit and
The Lord of the Rings came out, they revitalized and redefined the genre, and have
dominated the field ever since.

Many (maybe most) of you reading this book have already read those books, or at
least seen the movies or television shows based on them. If you haven’t, you’ve
read books, watched movies, or played games that were directly influenced and
inspired by Tolkien’s tales. The world of Middle Earth plays a role in popular cul-
ture very similar to the myths and faerie tales of past millennia: It has set the
pattern for many of fantasy’s default versions of dragons, wizard, elves, dwarves,
orcs, epic quests, dungeons, and second breakfasts. It’s a sort of consensus fan-
tasy reality.

In Chapter 6 we cite writer and game designer Kenneth Hite’s worldbuilding rule,
“start with Earth.” To a large extent, modern fantasy in the past half-century has
started with Middle Earth. There’ve been some great stories told this way. There’ve
been a lot of mediocre and derivative ones too. Importantly, there’ve been other
perspectives, voices, and traditions crowded out of the marketplace by Tolkien’s
cave-troll-sized footprint.

Whether you want to create stories directly in response to Middle Earth or want to
create something entirely different with no connection to Tolkien, it’s useful to
fully understand what patterns and tropes The Lord of the Rings established. You
can take away useful lessons from those stories, no matter what form your fantasy
takes; we discuss them in the following sections.

218 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Genre-defining characters and creatures —
Wizards, hobbits, and elves, oh my!
Tolkien was inspired by the creatures, characters, and legends of Norse and Ger-
manic cultures. He then filtered these through his own imagination and interests.
The resulting mix of folklore and invention has defined a whole set of archetypes
that fantasy fans now take for granted.

Knowing theses standard-issue Tolkienesque fantasy archetypes is important in

order to make them your own or avoid them entirely. Using the basic version adds
some value if you want your audience to understand parts of your story world eas-
ily so that you can then layer in more complicated and original ideas elsewhere.
Consider these archetypes that Tolkien used:

»» Dragons and treasure: A lonely, ancient dragon in a lonely mountain atop a

vast hoard of gold and jewels, Smaug the dragon from The Hobbit is one of the
great icons of fantasy. Ever since, it’s conventional wisdom that dragons (for
some reason) have lots of treasure just waiting to be stolen.

»» Wizards: Merlin is the archetypal wizard character of legend, but Gandalf

becomes the iconic mage — ageless, but aged-looking old white men with
beards and staffs. Unlike Merlin, he’s very active in the story; he and his fellow
wizards are key antagonists and protagonists rather than mysterious support-
ing players.

»» Hobbits: Relatable everyday folk, hobbits are aggressively mundane and

pleasant, yet still mildly fantastic. They’re a pleasure to be around, surprisingly
resilient, and can sometimes rise to the most dire of occasions.

»» Elves: Inspired by Norse and Celtic tradition rather than faerie lore and
folktales, Tolkien’s elves are immortal, beautiful, almost perfect and often
haughty beings. They’re aspirational figures, not tricksters and troublemakers.
Singers, poets, artists, and fearsome warriors all wrapped into one pretty
package.

»» Dwarves: Also out of Norse tradition, with a heavy emphasis on being

artisans and stalwart warriors. Tolkien stripped away the idea of them as
inherently malevolent or tricksters, turning them into lords of great under-
ground kingdoms.

»» Orcs: The personification of evil, and inherently irredeemable, orcs are mostly
a Tolkien creation and have served as default bad guys in infinite fantasy
stories and games. They still have personality and are recognizably sentient,
but are totally unpleasant. Racist? Maybe. See the nearby sidebar for more
relevant information.

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 219

 »» Magic items: The all-powerful One Ring has obvious historical precedent in
the Germanic The Ring of the Nibelung epic poems. And the idea of magic
swords with names and histories attached to them harkens back to Excalibur
and other legends. Tolkien weaves the enchanted object into Middle-Earth’s
history, making them not just tools for heroes to slay trolls with, but symbols
of a lost golden era.

Having Tolkien standard dwarves in your fantasy novel is like having a New York
cop in your detective story. It’s a little ho hum, seen it before. But, like the cop
tangling with a devious and imaginative serial killer, if those dwarves are battling
a unique antagonistic force, that may be just what you need to give your audience
relatable yet still fantastical POV characters.

THE NOT-GREAT PARTS OF

TOLKIEN’S STORIES
Tolkien’s stories attempt to create a mythology for England that never really existed,
and the tales present moral and ethical models based on a decidedly medieval set of
beliefs. The stories have very few women of note, and most of them are put up on rhe-
torical pedestals to be admired for their beauty and purity rather than treated as full
people in their own rights. Only the character of Eowyn stands out, who disguises her-
self as a man in order to fight the forces of darkness and then kills the fearsome Witch
King of Angmar.

The heroes of the stories are white men (be they human, elf, dwarf, hobbit, or wizard).
The enemies in service of the Dark Lord Sauron are all from the East and the South,
areas not seen in the stories, but which call to mind Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.
The humans from these non-North and non-West realms are definitely “others,” who
are portrayed as inherently less noble or good.

Tolkien’s savage warrior races, the orcs and goblins, are entirely evil and monstrous,
with no redeeming qualities. As such, audiences aren’t meant to have any sympathy for
them and can relish their defeat at the hands of the heroes. Some scholars and critics
have made strong cases that the Tolkien-style orc could be considered a racist trope;
acquaint yourself with those arguments before incorporating them or something simi-
lar into your stories.

220 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Getting indulgent with worldbuilding
Tolkien started with worldbuilding. He didn’t even have a particular story he
wanted to tell, and long before he started telling The Hobbit as a bedtime story for
his children, he was inventing the Elvish language and creating the intricate, epic
mythology that would one day be published as The Silmarillion. Inspired by his own
work as a scholar and his interest in foundational mythic texts like Beowulf (which
he translated), Tolkien wanted to make a new mythology for England, which didn’t
have the kind of rich tradition as Scandinavia, Ireland, or ancient Greece and Rome.

He spent years just noodling and doodling around because he thought it was fun
and self-indulgent. And it can definitely be both fun and self-indulgent, so if you
want to spend your free time worldbuilding for its own sake, go for it.

However, if you want to actually finish and release your story, don’t do this. Don’t
spend a decade making up languages and nigh-impenetrable backstories. Jump as
fast as you can into the part with an actual plot about characters we hope and
fear for.

Generating deep history and wondrous

geography
All that self-indulgent worldbuilding does pay off for Tolkien, and every fantasy
author can learn a lot from his work. Middle Earth overflows with a feeling of
deep, lived history and myth. Characters regularly reference past events and how
places have changed over the centuries. The wizard Gandalf has lived for thou-
sands of years, and as a result has different names, reputations, and relationships
in various parts of Middle Earth. A reader doesn’t have to understand Tolkien’s
invented languages to get the sense that the names of people and places have a
shared, consistent grammar and vocabulary behind them. They’re not just jum-
bles of letters and apostrophes like you find in some fantasy and sci-fi worlds.

The Iceberg Principle (see Chapter 5) is relevant here. Only show the parts of the
world that impact the characters and the story. This is one of the key lessons you
can all take from Tolkien: The history, geography, culture, and languages all work
best when they directly impact the plot.

The magical password to get into the ancient mines of Moria is tied to the distant
past, when times were friendly and peaceful. The ancient enmity between differ-
ent kingdoms and peoples makes it more difficult for the story’s heroes to forge
an alliance against the greater foe. Avoid the clunky exposition dump. Make your
history impact the present, your cool architectural detail, or unique monetary
system vital to the plot. Then your characters will have to care about the world-
building, and the audience will too.

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 221

 Some geologists have critiqued a map of Middle Earth for the way the mountains
form an almost rectangular wall around three sides of the sinister land of Mordor
(where the shadows lie). “Mountains would never naturally form this way,” goes
the critique. But hey, these aren’t naturally formed mountains! They’re the result
of Mordor’s creation by an evil godlike being named Morgoth, who, with the help
of a giant spider, also destroyed the two giant glowing trees that Middle Earth had
instead of a sun in its early days.

Mountains formed by evil gods and magical trees instead of suns are fantastical
elements that create wonder and draw the audience in. Let the fantastical ele-
ments in your story world shape the geography or physics, or fauna and flora. Let
wonders supersede natural law in fun and unique ways.

The now-classic quest narrative

The Lord of the Rings set a pattern for the epic quest fantasy series, grand stories
with enormous stakes, lots of characters, and huge set pieces at the climactic
moments. Although Tolkien certainly didn’t invent any of these storytelling tech-
niques, he did combine them together in exemplary fashion.

Whether it’s from books, movies, or any of the numerous other ways Tolkien’s
stories have been adapted, audiences know these characters and the world of Mid-
dle Earth. They’re quite familiar with the quest narrative, even if they don’t use
that term. This shared knowledge is something you can use to your advantage
when making your own story. Read on to find out how.

Relying on the everyday hero

Tolkien’s central heroes are hobbits: small, rural, rather middle-class folk who
like comfort and don’t leave their quiet corner of the world to go on grand adven-
tures. Bilbo in The Hobbit and then Frodo in The Lord of the Rings are, like Dorothy
going to Oz or Alice going to Wonderland, normal people the audience can relate
to. Their story is very much a portal narrative, except that they are of Middle Earth
rather than another world. They are fundamentally good and decent souls who
rise to an impossible challenge and bring the audience along with them on their
heroic journey. The relatable average person thrown into chaos and wonder
remains a reliable staple of fantasy, and one you can easily adapt to the specifics
of your story.

Including world-saving stakes

These days, saving the world is practically a cliché in genre fiction of all sorts, but
it was a relatively new approach when Tolkien put the fate of Middle Earth in the
hands of a humble hobbit. If anything, this is where his stories have had too strong
an effect.

222 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Ultimately, audiences care most about characters and their fates, and not every story
needs to be about saving the world. So, before you decide to bring on the apocalypse,
make sure you’re doing it because it’s best for your story and not just because it’s the
highest stakes you can imagine or you think it’s expected or necessary.

Using multiple POV characters

Epic stories often have huge casts and multiple different POV characters. Books
like War and Peace were using multiple character points of view long before The
Lord of the Rings was written, but Tolkien does a great job easing the reader into
the different points of view. Tolkien starts with his protagonist slowly gathering
more companions, who stick together for most of the first third of the story. But
soon he breaks the party up into three and then four different paths. Only the
audience has all the pieces of the story, and the audience sympathizes and roots
for the disparate heroes as the clock ticks down and toward doomsday.

Using multiple POV characters lets you capture the sweeping scope of an epic
quest story. Each different POV characters offers a unique lens through which to
experience the core conflicts. Typically your individual characters will be sepa-
rated from one another, none of them fully aware of the big picture and each fac-
ing their own obstacles. And if one of them should fail or even die? Well, you have
other heroes in the story to carry on the fight.

Applying epic plotting and time dilation

The Lord of the Rings has a reputation for being bloated with overly wordy travelogue
sequences and a plodding pace. We think that’s only sometimes true, and that in
fact the books are full of epic plot developments and an ever increasing pace. Tol-
kien does a great job escalating the pressure on his characters and increasing the
stakes. Key characters die. Grave losses and dramatic conflicts split the protago-
nists apart. Events are always moving forward, picking up speed as they go. He
makes great use of time dilation (when a character ages much slower than the rest
of their world because they’re moving at such a high velocity — refer to Chapter 10
for more information), something that many starting writers don’t think about.
Years pass between plot points in the beginning of the book. Then weeks of travel
are punctuated by key days and hours when something dangerous or dramatic hap-
pens. By the climax of the story, every day and hour matter. This careful control of
the passage of time plays a huge role in creating the story’s epic scope and feel.

Use time dilation to give your story grand scale. You don’t have to describe every
mile of a month-long trek across the mountains. If nothing dramatic happens, the
time can pass in a paragraph or a panel of a comic book, but now the audience
knows the heroes are far from home. When big dramatic events like a great battle
happen, slow down time and take as many scenes or pages as you need to show
the desperate battle where your heroes have nobody to rely on but themselves.

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 223

Understanding Tolkien and
Dungeons & Dragons
The most influential follower of Tolkien’s fantasy patterns has to be the 1974
release of the first edition of Dungeons & Dragons by Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson,
and all the editions, spin-offs, and other roleplaying games that followed in its
wake. D&D began as a set of rules to incorporate fantasy elements from The Lord of
the Rings into the historical wargaming hobby. Jon Petersen’s exhaustively
researched Playing at the World: A History of Simulating Wars, People and Fantastic
Adventures, from Chess to Role-Playing Games (Unreason Press) tells the whole story
in fascinating detail.

Dungeons & Dragons took the fantasy elements from Middle Earth and other fan-
tasy stories (including Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories, Jack Vance’s Dying Earth
series, and Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser stories) and gave players
generic versions of the creatures, settings, magic, and characters from those story
worlds. D&D also defined all those wondrous elements with rules and levels and
hit points, game systems that would go on to inform many of the most popular
video games ever since.

Losing hit points and gaining

character levels in games
Thanks to Dungeons & Dragons, countless video games and tabletop games incor-
porate two very abstract concepts that don’t make much sense in the consensus
reality:

»» Hit points: Hit points measure how healthy a character is with an exact
number, which goes down by a precise amount when something hurts them.

»» Experience levels: Experience levels go up in response to heroes achieving

goals (like killing monsters). When they level up, characters get more hit
points, special powers, skills, or other advantages.

These abstractions are great for games. They give players a precise measurement
of progress and cause and effect. Use this magic sword with this special feat and
do that many hit points of damage. Outside of the niche market of LitRPG, where
these ideas are part of the narrative, incorporating hit points and experience levels
directly into your story world feels strange and artificial to readers. Focus instead
on specific details and concrete changes for your characters. Describe the arrow
wound. Show the hero studying and practicing a new spell.

224 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 EQUALLY INSPIRING FANTASY EPICS
Tolkien may have set the pattern, but since then many authors have created their own
patterns drawn from different cultural inspirations to forge their original fantasy epics.
Some of our favorite recent series to check out include the following:

• N.K. Jemisin’s Inheritance trilogy and Broken Earth series (both by Orbit)

• Rebecca F. Kuang’s Poppy War trilogy (Harper Voyager)
• Ken Liu’s The Dandelion Dynasty series (Gallery/Saga Press)
• Rebecca Roanhorse’s Between Earth and Sky series (Gallery/Saga Press)

If you’re writing for a game, hit points and experience levels are a powerful and
underutilized tool. Because players become attached to the characters they control
in games, losing and gaining hit points has a direct emotional impact on them.
Want to show that the Lich Queen really is as dangerous as all the townsfolk say?
Have her deal 100 hit points of damage to the player with one glance from her
Baleful Gaze. Need to maximize the sense of triumph when the player makes an
important choice or discovers a new plot point? Raise their experience level and
unlock a new special power. Match the game system to the story and both will sing.

Starting with the Forgotten Realms

You can find just as much inspiration from D&D as you can from Middle Earth,
and the past 50 years of tabletop and video games have created a multitude of
fascinating ideas and systems that you can integrate into your fantasy writing.
Consider the following:

»» Take creature inspiration from the mass of monster manuals, magic items,
and magic spells created for these games. A single inventive spell description
can inspire a whole scene or even story.

»» Look at more story and character-focused games like Apocalypse World and
the GUMSHOE system for thoughtful and easy-to-use tools that can help you
create characters built from the ground up for drama and adventure.

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 225

 »» Refer to game sourcebooks for ideas. These sourcebooks can be master-
classes in worldbuilding. Look at setting books like Ravenloft or Pendragon for
amazing examples of worlds built for telling stories.

»» Adapt your fantasy world into an RPG sourcebook and sell it through online
marketplaces like DriveThruRPG.com. Doing so will not only leverage all your
hard work into another publication, but it will also force you to think about
your world and characters from another perspective that can inform your
fiction in cool ways.

Making Deep History in Record Time

How do you create a deep, wondrous history and mythology for your fantasy world
without going all Tolkien and spending a decade creating different languages, cul-
tures, and histories from scratch? Here we present a set of prompts and questions
that can help you create a story world with fantasy elements that feel deep to the
audience. Chapter 8 covers a lot of the important principles for engaging world
design. This series of questions augments that chapter to help you think about the
fantastic and wondrous elements in particular.

Basing your story in reality

Take a real-world time, place, series of events, or set of myths and stories as the
basis for building your fantasy world. You don’t need to replicate every aspect of
the basis in reality, but rather use it as a blueprint from which to build your story.
Ask yourself these questions:

»» What are at least three facts that you find most interesting about your
basis in reality? What’s cool or what fires your imagination? Who’s the person
you’d love to read a biography of? Take a few minutes to write down why
those three facts appeal to you.

»» What other stories, movies, or other media are also about your basis? If
you think something’s interesting, more than likely someone else did too. Find
out what other stories were inspired by the same real world history or places
and think about how you could have a different approach to the same subject.

»» What about your basis is least interesting to you? Identify anything that
you don’t want to take from reality into your story. The earlier you’re thinking
about how you want to handle or cut the unpleasant or offensive elements
from your fictional world, the better.

226 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Making your own myths
Layer in all the fantastical wonders into your story world that will break away
from your basis in consensus reality. Consider in depth all the implications this
break from reality has for your story world and its characters. The basis in reality
is most powerful when the fantastical changes have a clear logic that audiences
can easily understand. These questions can help:

»» What is the nature and origin of the fantastic? Does it come from the gods
and spirits? Is magic just another aspect of reality like physics and chemistry?
Understanding the fundamental nature of the wondrous in your story world
lets you extrapolate its impact across every part of your narrative.

»» What characters or legendary figures are closely tied to those fantastic

origins? Who are the famous people or creatures in your world that the
average person thinks of when they think of the fantastic? Does your world
have a Merlin or King Arthur figure? Were there equivalents of the Monkey
King or Hercules? These aren’t characters in your story, but rather the figures
from popular culture that have shaped how your characters think about the
fantastic.

»» What customs, belief systems, or traditions grew out of those fantastic

origins? Define the current state of the fantastic as your story begins. Are
there temples to the gods of magic? Feast days and epic poems that honor
the heroes of old? Fairy tales that parents use to frighten children into staying
clear of the old forest?

Identifying different people and places

Take a thorough look at the people and places that make up the world at the time
your story begins. Whether you’re creating new kingdoms and nations or populat-
ing a small village with curious characters, consider how the different people
relate to one another and your world’s fantastic elements. One of the most effec-
tive and interesting ways to show the audience some important facts about your
world is to show how they directly impact the lives of your characters. These
questions can help spark your imagination:

»» What are the most common ways of making a living? Are most people
farmers? Factory workers? Soldiers? Are there a wide variety of trades and
professions or just a few ways of scratching out a living? How does the
fantastic in your world make these jobs different from their basis in reality
counterparts?

CHAPTER 15 Worldbuilding on the Shoulders of Giants, Faeries, Dragons, and Hobbits 227

 »» Who are the most esteemed and least appreciated people in your world?
What are the social, class, and religious hierarchies and how does the fantastic
support and/or undermine them?

»» How are those who are different from the norm treated? A society is
defined in large part by the people it excludes. When someone doesn’t
conform to the world’s norms, what happens to them? Are they outcast and
discriminated against? Appreciated for their eccentricities? Is engaging with
specific fantastic elements forbidden or at least frowned upon? What is the
penalty for violating spoken and unspoken rules?

Enhancing conflict
Consider how the fantastical elements in your story produce or change the dra-
matic conflict in your story world. Look at the important and/or interesting con-
flicts within your basis in reality and work through how the mythic elements
make them more wondrous and intense. Consider the following:

»» What do people get mad about and sometimes even fight over? Do they
struggle for scarce resources? Are there deep political or ideological divisions
that drive people apart? Is there a deep-set culture of overblown honor and
pride that creates fierce competition? Ensure that your world has things
people care enough to fight over, if they have to do so. See how worlds are
built for conflict in Chapter 5.

»» Who benefits most and who suffers most because of this conflict?
Conflicts make for exciting drama because of the stakes involved and the
effects they have on your characters. Think about the conflict in terms of how
it helps and hinders the people in your world.

»» How does the fantastic intensify the conflict? The fantastical elements in
your story world should fundamentally change the core conflicts from their
consensus reality inspirations. Magic truth spells make lying in politics more
difficult. Besieging armies with dragon riders will mean castles are con-
structed differently. Do your most compelling wonders intertwine with
the story’s core conflicts?

228 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Understanding what magic adds

to a story

»» Knowing how readers relate to magic

»» Using magic to toy with reality

»» Playing by the rules and paying the

consequences

Chapter  16
Conjuring Story Magic

W
ithout a doubt, one of the coolest things about a fantasy story is the
magic. The scorching burst of a fireball. The whisper-silence of turning
invisible. The whooshing delight of levitating up into the clouds.

For many, fantasy is magic. It’s the essential DNA that makes fantasy fantastic.

Not surprisingly readers have high standards and eager expectations about the
magic found in stories. For writers, that means sticking to the Tolkien magic
system — or any well-established one — will likely be met with yawns. Readers
want power, delight, and novelty with their magic. They also want magic to be
consistent as well as relevant to character and conflict, and making those things
happen is what this chapter’s all about.

Grasping the Role of Magic in Storytelling

Almost every fantasy story has its own version of magic. Many of them have more
than one, some have dozens. The unique nature of magic in your story helps set it
apart from the crowd and should draw readers deeper into your world.

No matter the specifics, all forms of magic entail one key element: They’re a depar-
ture from the mundane consensus reality that you and your readers share. Magic

CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 229

 bends and breaks the reality everyone takes for granted, and that’s both wondrous
and terrifying. Magic literally makes the impossible possible and opens a wide vista
of dramatic and thematic possibilities for your characters and their story.

Breaking the rules of existence is already interesting, but what makes magic par-
ticularly potent is that characters Do Magic. Wizards cast spells, heroes don rings
of invisibility, necromancers raise skeletons from their crypts. Magic means
someone is actively choosing to break the rules of reality in order to get what they
want; they project their will onto the world in a way people mired in mundanity
can only dream of.

Think of the magic in your story first and foremost as a way for your characters to
get what they want in ways that would be impossible for normal folk. Whether it’s
your hero’s fireballs or the villain’s skeleton army, your magic should express
the core desires that push these characters into conflict. With this mind-set, all
the wondrous spells, monsters, and enchanted swords you create will serve the
greater story.

Taking the Reader on a Magical Journey

Magic lets you create stories where characters transcend the everyday world and
use impossible powers to face fantastical obstacles with clear and high dramatic
stakes. That’s great! But breaking reality has as many risks as it does rewards.

Readers respond to magic in different ways at different moments along their jour-
ney through your story. When first introduced, magical elements produce a sense
of wonder or awe. Climbing up a shear wall like a spider is cool! A 30-foot wall of
endless flames surrounding that peaceful village full of innocent farmers is terri-
fying! The indistinct, green-robed person who’s always accompanied by draconic
whispers and the scent of sulfur sure does raise some interesting questions.

As your readers grow accustomed to your story’s magic, they begin to make sense
of it and how it works in your world. They draw conclusions about the magical
elements and imagine possible ways the magic might impact the lives of the main
characters, like the following:

»» Climbing like a spider would be a great way for Bella the Bold to steal the
Diadem of Light from the citadel vault.

»» Maybe some sort of ice or water spell could quench that ring of fire.
»» Those whispers always grow louder when someone mentions the hero’s
father, so what does that mean?

230 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 Now that they’re engaged with the magical implications of your specific choice,
readers start to rely on the story knowledge they’ve acquired from you so far.
They’re maybe even making predictions about what may happen next, and are
certainly developing expectations about what can and can’t happen, even in this
impossible other world. Now you’re in a wonderful but delicate position: You want
to keep the story exciting, but you don’t want to alienate or confuse the reader
with magical developments that entirely undermine everything they’ve experi-
enced so far.

If anything is possible at any moment, the reader never knows what to expect as
they journey through your story. Most people enjoy a few great surprises along the
way — that’s part of the great fun of any experience. But when everything is a
surprise, readers can become confused or disoriented. Readers may feel like the
author is just going to do whatever random thing they want at any given moment
in order to move the plot along some set path, which feels like cheating. Before
long, readers will be asking if the magic even matters.

You never want the readers to think anything in your story doesn’t matter.
Remember: Readers know someone wrote this story. They know you made specific
decisions all along the way, and if the magic seems to always just do whatever’s
most “convenient” for the plot, they’ll feel the author’s hand manipulating them.
Instead of feeling awe and wonder at your magical creations, they’re thinking
about you typing away.

Very, very few authors are more interesting than their stories.

Magic can do anything, but your magic should strive to do something very specific
within the world of your story. Magic’s role in stories is to heighten drama and
tension around characters that audiences care about, not undercut the narrative or
confuse the reader for the momentary thrill of a cheap surprise or an easy solution
to a loose plot thread.

Making Magic Dramatic

(in Every Sense of the Word!)
Magic is most interesting when it’s breaking reality in order to make the core
dramatic questions of the narrative more compelling. Magic breaks reality, giving
authors a tremendous tool for defining the ramifications of any action in their
story. Not bound by time, space, physics, or anything else, magic can crystallize
dramatic stakes with a supernatural clarity that readers instantly understand and
engage with. Use the following techniques to make your magic memorable.

CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 231

 Heightening dramatic stakes with magic
Magic’s breaking of reality gives you, the author, a tremendous tool for defining
the dramatic cost of any action in your story. Not bound by time, space, physics,
or anything else, magic can react to events in a clear and dramatic way that read-
ers instantly understand and engage with.

Cinderella’s carriage will turn back into a pumpkin at midnight. Period. No excep-
tions. Pinocchio’s nose grows when he lies, and there’s no fooling the magic — it
knows when you’re lying. Santa Claus knows if you’ve been bad or good, so for
goodness’ sake be good if you want presents. Fairy tales thrive in the realm of
crystal-clear cause and effect, and so can your fantasy story.

In today’s mundane world, cause and effect are seldom simple and clear when it
comes to important, complex matters such as love, politics, society, or the envi-
ronment. Untold thousands of factors converge to determine whether or not you
have a great first date or your candidate wins the election. Romance and political
thriller authors usually simplify reality’s complexity to some extent, but they’re
still bound by the plausible. Not so the fantasy author. Magic lets you set very
clear, very unrealistic stakes like in these examples:

»» The world will end in seven days unless one brave person can make the
ultimate sacrifice.

»» Whosever collects all the seven whatsits can cast the mighty spell of making
and become a god.

»» Someone suffers a curse until they find true love, and the magic curse
somehow knows true love when it sees it.

»» Breaking your oath to the Star Spirit means instant death, and there’s no
arguing with or fooling the Star Spirit.

»» Only a weapon forged from dwarven mithril can harm the dreaded Faerie Knight.
You’re probably already coming up with dozens of other examples from fantasy
stories you love. Although these examples aren’t original, they can work fine if
you adjust them to fit into your story’s magical world.

Being aware of magic’s dramatic

limitations
Magic should be a tool that can help a character overcome an obstacle, not an
always-works solution for every challenge. In the same way you can’t break
through a brick wall with a bottle opener — a very useful tool in many other
situations — however, magic should have its own limitations, too.

232 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 You can put interesting limits on your magic in all kinds of ways, but here’s one
simple way to think about magic in your story:

Magic that solves problems for characters should carry as much dramatic weight
as solving the problem with violence.

Fantasy stories are often violent in some way, and even in the most blood-soaked
swords and sorcery story, violence usually has severe consequences. A heroic bar-
barian who cuts down a dozen orcs isn’t going to end up with a lot of orc friends.
The same goes for a wizard flinging fireballs at goblins. When your hero slays the
king even though only they know the monarch is really a vampire, the queen and
her children are going to have some serious complaints. Readers and characters
understand that violence has consequences.

In your likely more-nuanced tale, using magic must have consequences as well.
Magic might mean casting a faerie glamour to get into the throne room or scrying
through a crystal ball to find the safe path through the Swamp of Serpents.
Although not directly violent, those magical actions should carry with them heavy
dramatic resistance from the story’s antagonists and side characters.

People resent being duped, and no one likes to be spied on in their serpent swamp,
but if villagers suspect you’re using magic on them? They’ll burn you at the stake.
And you can be damned sure the king will summon the Eldritch Inquisitors to haul
you off in silver chains as soon as your glamour slips.

This dramatic cost may also be internal to your hero: a physical or psychic toll from
bending reality, a loss of self that comes with projecting their thoughts through
time and space, or straightforward guilty consciences for invading others’ privacy.

Equating magic to violence doesn’t make sense for every story, and you need to
find the dramatic framework that’s best for you and most appropriate for the
story. Whatever form the dramatic fallout takes, make sure it strengthens the
reader’s feeling that magic matters in this story and isn’t something to be taken
lightly or for granted.

Setting the Rules and Costs of Magic

Almost every fantasy story creates a system of magic with its own rules and limi-
tations, because if magic doesn’t have meaningful costs, then everyone would be
doing it all the time. Magic wouldn’t feel wondrous and awe inspiring, but instead
it would risk becoming too unmoored from reality to be relatable. Here we delve
deeper into what you need to know about rules and costs when incorporating
magic into your story.

CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 233

 Playing by the rules
Rules make magic easier for the reader to understand as they journey into your
story. When readers know just the most simple facts about the rules of magic, they
become more comfortable and interested, because they start to figure out what to
expect — and just as important, what not to expect — from magic.

A rule like “spells require years of study to learn” makes sense to readers, who
already know about professions like surgeon or electrical engineer or ballet dancer
that also demand years of commitment to master. Add in the rule that “casting a
spell requires saying special words in a loud, clear voice,” and now you can make
some reliable assumptions about magic:

»» The people who cast spells are the kinds of people who have the time and
access to magical texts and teachers for years at a time.

»» Casting a spell is difficult without someone nearby hearing you, and probably
impossible to do if something’s stopping you from talking.

Now when the spell-casting hero is caught underwater, you know they won’t be
able to magic their way out of trouble. When they meet a mysterious stranger with
a vast library of magical tomes, it’s possible they’re a powerful wizard or maybe
they just want you to think that. When they see a seemingly buffoonish young
person cast a powerful spell, they’ll suspect there’s more to this kid than meets
the eye and wonder what’s really going on.

Rules help you further refine the clear stakes associated with magic in your story.
They shape the characters’ actions by limiting the ways they can use magic to get
what they want.

Sticking to the rules of magic in video

and role-playing games
Video games and tabletop role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons (D&D)
contain some of the most complicated and binding rules about magic you’ll ever
see. These thorough rules exist because in a game, players have the power to make
choices and impact the story world around them. Making a video game where
anything is possible is impossible because someone has to program the game to
do each specific thing. Magic has to have very specific limits.

A game of D&D is more like a story people tell together; it has no technical limits
beyond those of one’s imagination. But a large part of the fun is playing within the
rules of the game because game rules are just like dramatic stakes — the clearer
they are, the more they matter to the story. D&D players want what happens to

234 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

their characters to matter in the shared story, and for most of them that means
triumphing over adversity within the rules of the game.

Magic systems in games don’t often translate well directly to other kinds of sto-
rytelling. A game rule might say “Casting a fireball costs 10 magic points,” and
the player knows they only have 15 magic points, so that’s just one fireball.
Explode it wisely. But you can abstract this simple formula into other fiction by
describing it in terms of mental and physical exhaustion or connection to the
energies from the mystical plane of fire or whatever makes sense for your magic.
Even this simple translation of game magic into a story conveys a sense of cost
that clearly limits your spellcaster’s options and thus heightens drama.

Assigning costs to your story’s

magic — Precious Things
Points are useful for a game, but stories are about people trying to overcome
obstacles and get what they want. A character’s struggle to achieve their goals
should always come at a price, and magic should demand some pretty high prices
in return for breaking the rules of reality.

Here’s an example. “Selling your soul” is now a commonplace metaphor that has
its most famous precedent in the story of Faust selling his immortal soul to the
devil in return for knowledge and rewards in the mortal world. There’ve been
countless variations on this theme, and you can likely come up with your own
unique version of this devil’s bargain and write a good story based on it. Your
characters don’t have to sell their souls for every spell, but they need to pay a cost
with real dramatic weight.

Assign costs to your story’s magic that directly affect what’s most important to
your characters. This simple exercise — referred to as Precious Things — can help
you define your magical costs in terms that directly relate to the dramatic ques-
tions in your story:

1. Write down two specific things that are precious to your main character.

These categories should be relatively broad and have specific implications for
the character’s life. For example, if you chose “Love,” then the character should
have a deep love for someone in their life (whether requited or not). Some
classic examples of precious things:

• Life
• Love
• Money
• Happiness
CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 235
 • Friendship
• Family
• Possessions
• Memories
• Freedom
• Faith
2. Repeat the process for the story’s antagonist or any significant side character.

Try to find something different from the precious thing you picked for your
protagonist if doing so makes sense.

3. Imagine a system of magic that requires paying costs related to both of

the two precious things.

This dual cost brings the conflict between your characters into the center of the
story world’s magic system, ensuring every spell pulls at their emotional core
while breaking reality for their immediate benefit.

Imagine that your protagonist finds love precious and your antagonist cares most
about money. What’s a magical cost that pulls at both? Perhaps spells require rare
and expensive ingredients to cast, and the casting ritual itself fouls the magician’s
temperament so much that loved ones can’t stand to be around them. Your
protagonist’s relationship then becomes more strained the more they use magic
to fight their foe, whereas the already unpleasant antagonist does whatever they
deem necessary to grab the gold needed to cast that final ritual of revelation.

This exercise is just one of many ways to approach making magic work for rather
than against your story’s drama. It’s an example of keeping a core principle of
fantasy writing front and center in your mind: All this magic is for the story, and
the story is about characters that audiences hope and fear for struggling to get
what they want.

Magic is there to make the struggle more wondrous and exciting, not to make
things easier.

Forging Enchanting Artifacts and

Objects — Items Designed for Magic
Spellcasting is just one way to insert magic into your story. You characters can just
as easily use a magic item to break consensus reality, whether it’s a hunter who
wields an ogre-slaying spear, a magistrate whose necklace turns ice-cold when a

236 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

lie is told within 30 paces, or a hobbit burglar who finds a mysterious ring of
invisibility deep within a mountain. In each case, the writer carefully chooses the
magic item to help the character do the thing in the story that they must do. The
hunter must slay monsters, the magistrate must find hidden truths, and the bur-
glar must be sneaky.

In video games, it’s not uncommon for characters to have piles of magic goodies.
In a story, though, it’s far more memorable and special to craft items to both
characterize someone and serve story goals. With that in mind, dole out magic
spells and magic items as you see fit while staying in alignment with your intended
level of fantastic elements in your story. See Chapter 14 for more details on how to
make thoughtful choices about the spectrum of magic between Pure Fantasy and
All Real.

An item’s magic shouldn’t be chosen willy-nilly, either. Tie the magic directly
into aspects of the story or relate it to the world (and perhaps its inherent con-
flicts). Every part of a story should feel connected and unified. Since magic is a big
part of what makes fantasy so wonderful, magic items should be as thoughtfully
designed as the world’s creatures, characters, and setting.

Here we look at some ways that magic items can connect more effectively with
story elements and concerns.

Magic items as objects of desire

Plenty of stories have a MacGuffin, which is a valuable object that both the
protagonist and the antagonist (and perhaps every manner of person in between)
desperately yearn to acquire. A magic item serves that role quite well. Often
these are artifact-level items, such as the Holy Grail, Tolkien’s One Ring, or the
Philosopher’s Stone. When magic as powerful as this is used, these items create
seismic effects that can profoundly change lives and even level mountains, destroy
kingdoms, or wipe out civilizations. Given that, who wouldn’t work hard to obtain
such power?

Whether a magic item is an actual MacGuffin or simply something your character

desires that is part of the story’s primary plot, take the time to think through your
magic item. Ask yourself the following questions:

»» What does your character know — or think they know — about it?
»» What kind of emotional value does it hold for your character?
»» What intriguing qualities does it actually have?
»» How would you describe the magic item using all five senses?

CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 237

 »» Is it hidden? What kind of clues/research are required to locate it? If it’s not
hidden, where is it?

»» How will it affect your character if they obtain it?

Magic items as character traits

In the simplest of definitions, a magic item allows for fantastic and wondrous
actions. From a warrior’s heirloom magic shield to a demon hunter’s family cruci-
fix to Green Lantern’s awesome ring, magic items can be fundamental to a charac-
ter’s identity and integral to the way they pursue their story goals. If any of these
characters lost their iconic magic item, it would radically change them for the
worse. It’d probably hurt them as much emotionally or spiritually as magically.

If a character has a distinctive magic item, answer these questions:

»» How did they acquire or make it?

»» What is it and what does it look like?
»» What powers does it have and what costs does using its magic incur?
»» How does the item give the character new options for facing the story’s
obstacles and antagonists?

»» What would happen if it were destroyed, stolen, or misplaced?

All the preceding questions also apply to a new magic item the protagonist hap-
pens to come across in the course of the plot. These new acquisitions may not be
as near and dear to the character’s heart, but they should have intimate ties to the
story’s plot.

Magic items as obstacles

Magic items may also serve as an obstacle or antagonistic force. A cursed item
may compel a character to flip a coin to decide anything. A warhammer imbued
with the power of speech may insist on shouting insults at inopportune moments,
which brings in every troublemaker, thief, and monster within miles. What do you
do in these situations? The item is too valuable to cast off, and the magic itself
may not allow you to just dump it in a trash heap. In fact, it may even punish you
for doing so! A magic item could be far more than a nuisance. It may have abilities,
secrets, or goals that make it far more formidable than a mundane physical obsta-
cle like a dropped portcullis, spiked pit, or pool of acid that looks like water. It
could even be linked to the primary antagonist in hidden or overt ways.

238 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

Think through your answers to the following questions to create a magic item that
could prove to be a major problem for your protagonist:

»» What does your character most fear? How could the item use that to its advantage?
»» Does the item have the ability to influence others? Which ones? To what
effect? Are they aware of the influence?

»» Can the item change form? In what circumstances? To what other forms?
»» If the item had vampiric properties, what could it covertly “suck” from its
owner? Health? Happiness? Hope?

»» Does the item have a previous owner that would be furiously jealous about its
new owner?

»» Is the item illegal or stolen? Is the user aware of this baggage? Will powerful,
no-nonsense authorities get involved and insist on punishment?

Magic items as characters

Magic items can have magic so special that the item has developed a level of sen-
tience. For a writer, this narrative magic allows something inanimate to literally
become another character. Having another companion/rival/foil/friend for your
main character is almost always a good thing. Just think about the flying carpet in
Aladdin. It can’t speak, yet it clearly expresses itself via action, movement, and
gesture. As Aladdin’s companion, it’s funny, unique, and memorable.

The same thing can happen in your story if you anthropomorphize a magic item.
Doing so, however, brings up a host of questions. Your answers can help make
your intelligent magic item unique, fun, and potentially quite useful in terms of
advancing the plot. Consider the answers to these questions:

»» How does it communicate? If through speech, does it speak the same

language as its user? Does it always sing or speak in rhymes? What about
telepathy, empathy, dreams, or physical gesture?

»» What type of personality does it have?

»» Does it have an agenda? Is the agenda hidden or overt? Does it go against the
interests of the user?

»» What magic does it have, if any, beyond being sentient?

»» How did it become sentient? Is it haunted by the essence of a victim or
perhaps a previous owner? Did it become self-aware as the side effect of a
powerful spell cast upon it or in its vicinity?

»» Is it always sentient? Does it need to be “fed” or is it on some type of mystical “timer”?

CHAPTER 16 Conjuring Story Magic 239
 Magic items as worldbuilding elements
How the characters think about and use magic items in your world is a great way
to show audiences magic’s role in the wider world. A farmer’s never-dull sickle
could be a prized family heirloom or standard issue for every fieldworker in the
shire. In a world that’s dense with magic, probably every middle-class home has
an infinite water jug and a coldbox in the kitchen. In a world where water is pre-
cious and rare, a single infinite water jug could make someone ruler of a whole city.

Ask yourself some basic questions about the magic items in your world:

»» How does the item’s origin reflect specific fantastic elements of the culture?
Does its magic come from the gods? From the artificer’s guild? From every
two-electrum-piece enchanter’s stall in the bazaar?

»» How is the item used in the world’s core conflicts? How do they make conflicts
more fantastical or wondrous (for good or ill)?

»» Is the item a luxury, a necessity, or quite the rarity? What do people in the
world who don’t have access to items think about it? Are they envious? Wary?

»» How has the use of the magic item changed over the centuries? Is it a relic of a
bygone golden era or has magic developed over the years? How does this
version compare to one made in the past?

Whatever answers you come up with, let the everyday norm reveal the reality of
how magic works and what it means in your story world.

240 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Making monsters that work for your

story

»» Designing realistic and the fantastical

monsters

Chapter 17
Forming Really Fantastic
(and Fantastically Real)
Monsters

A
long with magic, weird and wondrous monsters are an iconic element of
fantasy fiction. Whether you’re writing about the classics like dragons and
giants or creating entirely original creatures to stalk the streets of your
setting, a truly menacing monster can make your story stand out in the crowded
fantasy fiction landscape. This chapter delves into what makes a monster work
within a fantasy context and provides tools to help fine-tune your ferocious fiends
for maximum effect.

Understanding What Monsters Are

A monster is a dangerous, nonhuman creature. It can be wholly imaginary, like a
dragon or an extremely angry pixie. It can be an animal from nature that behaves
in a story-relevant, dangerous manner. The shark from Jaws isn’t an imaginary
creature, but it’s definitely a monster, in large part because it behaves with nar-
rative purpose in a way no real shark ever would.

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 241

 The word “monster” comes from the same linguistic roots as “demonstrate,” and
“remind.” In its original usage, “monster” meant a sign or omen from the gods; a
malformed newborn animal was seen as a portent of bad news and was therefore
considered monstrous. We bring up this fun fact not just because we’re college pro-
fessors, but because it’s a useful reminder of the monster’s role in culture: It’s part
of a story about how the world works. Monsters are meant to mean something.

Here we investigate how you create a monster that is truly story-worthy.

What makes a monster a monster

In order to be a monster, it has to meet two criteria:

»» It has to be dangerous. This part is key. Monsters have the potential to cause
harm, which means they’re something for others to worry about. If it’s not
dangerous, then it’s instead an animal or a creature or a being. It can be
strange and magical, but if your sentient floating fluff ball that giggles when it
hears music can’t seriously threaten someone, it’s not a monster. To be a
monster is to be threatening.

»» It has to be nonhuman. The monster exists in contrast to the human experi-

ence. In some ways it may be more than human (huge, strong, fire-breathing,
ethereal) and in other ways all too human (angry, jealous, greedy, hungry).
Chapter 11 in the Sci-fi section goes into lots of detail about making aliens that
feel nonhuman in ways that enhance your story’s plot and themes.

Monsters serve the story

The big question to keep asking yourself about your monsters is, what do they
mean to the story? Why are they here and how do they impact the characters?
When you’re creating a monster, you can’t have monsters in isolation from the
rest of the narrative. The fearsome dragon Smaug from The Hobbit and the love-
able, cute dragon Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon aren’t interchangeable.
Yes, they both breathe fire and fly, but they don’t have much else in common
except that each is the right dragon for their respective stories.

Monsters can mean a lot to your story’s protagonists. Your story is (ideally) about
characters the audience hopes and fears for trying to accomplish some dramatic
goal. Monsters threaten to stop those characters from getting what they want. That’s
their most basic meaning, but there are lots of different ways to refine your mon-
ster’s specific role, depending on your storytelling needs, including the following:

»» Monsters can inspire the story. Sometimes a cool monster idea provides
the kernel of inspiration from which the whole story grows. This is actually

242 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 pretty common, and if you have a mind for monster-making, embrace it. But
your six-tailed giant scorpion isn’t a story all on its own. As soon as possible,
create compelling characters to face that monster because the story is still
going to be first and foremost about them and their struggles. Identify what
the most dangerous aspects of your monster are, then imagine the kind of
person who the monster would threaten most. That’s the kind of person you
want as a protagonist.

»» Monsters can define dramatic stakes. The classic monster use case is an
overwhelmingly dangerous monster that threatens to destroy someone or
something the characters care about. The heroes must confront and defeat it
or else disaster and tragedy will ensue. But overcoming the fearsome beast
seems at first impossible. Here, the monster embodies the dramatic question
of the story: How will the protagonists vanquish this daunting foe? Through
perseverance, intelligence, bravery, and maybe some guile, the heroes work
their way through a series of scenes until they’re finally able to face the
monster and resolve the story’s central question.

»» Monsters can create obstacles. Not every monster defines its story. In many
cases, a monster is one challenge amongst many that the heroes face in their
journey to the finale. Game monsters in particular serve this role. In a classic
D&D or computer roleplaying game dungeon crawl, players battle through
room after room of kobolds, ogres, and gelatinous cubes, most of whom exist
only to challenge the player’s skill and test their luck with the dice. All that
hacking and slashing is more fun to play than it is to read or watch. More
narrative forms of media like books and movies work better with fewer
obstacle monsters that are each a unique challenge and have some specific
purpose in the story.

Monstrous obstacles don’t just get in the heroes’ way, they also allow for
the hero to show the audience what they’re made of. They get to admire the
heroes’ clever tactics, amazing spellcraft, or prowess with a battle axe. The
audience may also get a chance to sympathize with the heroes’ fears, worry
about their vulnerabilities, and feel sorrow when the price for victory is
too high.

»» Monsters can be characters. Monsters aren’t always mindless delivery

systems for gnashing teeth and rending claws. Many are compelling charac-
ters, fully fleshed out with wants, needs, and sinister plans. Monsters with
strong personalities who can taunt, tease, threaten, and talk with the protago-
nists add emotional depth to your story and create social and psychological
threats on top of the physical danger they might pose. For example, the
loathsome hell prince overseeing a Los Angeles crime syndicate can be sexy
and charming at a fundraiser for the mayor’s re-election campaign. An enemy
with such powerful friends is dangerous in ways beyond his infernal magical
powers and will require a more nuanced strategy from the protagonists.

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 243

 MONSTROUS OBSTACLES
This simple exercise can help put you in the right mind-set to create monsters that
serve as interesting obstacles that stand in the way of your protagonists and their goals.
If it helps, think of this as a game. Play it as often as you need to in order to help out
your story (and your monster-making!). Do the following:

• Define a specific, short-term goal that characters might have, such as traveling
through lonely mountains, picking fruit from a grove of apple trees, learning a
secret from a rare book, or telling an authority figure some vital news.

• Think of reasons that someone or something would want the characters to fail at
that goal.

• Create a monster that embodies that desire to stop the characters. What danger-
ous things does that monster do to try to stop the characters?

Giving a monster character and personality makes them more relatable as

foes. At a certain level, audiences see themselves in them because they think
and feel in ways they can understand. The dragon Smaug in The Hobbit is in
his own way very relatable, despite living for centuries in a cave on top of a
mountain of stolen treasure. Because he talks with the hero Bilbo, the
audience learns of his vanity, his pride, and his possessiveness.

No matter what other meanings monsters have in your story, they always serve
the scene. Make your monsters dangerous and threatening in the way that makes
sense for your story and characters. Monsters that are overwhelmingly powerful
are hard to tell a story about. If the threat is too weak and the hero can win with
ease, it’s not satisfying either. Don’t be seduced by the idea of making a monster
so incredibly dangerous and cool that you end up relying on impossible coinci-
dence or monsters acting idiotic in order to let your heroes win.

Making Monsters
The myriad monsters of Greek mythology have provided dangerous threats to
protagonists in tens of thousands of fantasy stories over the past few millennia.
The many-headed hydra, the majestic Pegasus, the confounding sphynx, and the
petrifying Medusa are instantly identifiable and clearly fantastical beings. These
were creatures of religion, myth, and legend, the kind of impossible monsters that
inhabit epic poems and classical dramas and look great on the side of a fancy piece
of pottery.

244 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

However, some of the other famous monsters associated with Greek myth weren’t
considered fantastical at the time. They were assumed to be as natural as lions or
horses. In her tremendously fascinating book, The First Fossil Hunters: Dinosaurs,
Mammoths, and Myth in Greek and Roman Times (Princeton University Press), histo-
rian Adrienne Mayor makes a strong case that creatures like griffins, cyclopes,
and giants were based on misinterpreted reconstructions of dinosaur and mam-
moth fossils. The Greeks could see the bones, so of course they weren’t imaginary
beasts. Another example is the supposedly human-faced, man-eating manticore,
which was said to live in India and is almost certainly nothing more fantastical
than a distorted-by-distance description of a tiger. Note: Being eaten by a tiger is
still pretty scary, even if it doesn’t have a human face.

Our colleague, acclaimed fantasy artist Sean Andrew Murray, gives a great
presentation on monster design (something he knows a lot about). He talks about
how different stories generate different kinds of monsters. Sometimes a fantasy
setting benefits from including monsters that have anatomies, behaviors, and
life-cycles that seem to conform to the laws of biology and physics. These more
realistic monsters are like the ancient Greek idea of a manticore or griffin — weird
and scary, but part of the natural world. Other monsters emerge from the magical
or spiritual parts of the story world and are designed first and foremost to provoke
an emotional response, physics and biology be damned. They are creatures of
nightmares or the underworld with magical powers like Medusa or the ever-­
multiplying hydra.

Let the following ideas and tip guide you in building a better monster for the
purposes of your story.

A MONSTER FROM WHOSE PERSPECTIVE?

In Chapter 14, we present the three main points of view through which characters and
audiences encounter the fantastic in your story: portal, immersive, and intrusive. Which
fantastical point of view you use in a given monster encounter should impact how and
what characters perceive monsters. A character going through a portal to another world
may see everything as a potential monster, whereas anything from another world
intruding into the audience’s consensus reality could seem monstrous. Use the point of
view to create a sense of dread and mystery around it and heighten the monster’s dra-
matic impact.

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 245

 Making your monster realistic or fantastic
Chapter 14 lays out the fantasy/reality spectrum we use to think about the levels
of realism and fantasy in fantasy stories. This tool can help you think through
your monster design as well. Is it a purely biological, semi-plausible monster that
feels grounded in reality? Is it a weird, maybe even surreal thing conjured by
magic or bred in a faerie realm? Or, just as often, is it some mix of the two, a
monster with realistic and fantasy elements incorporated into it, like a mostly
mundane vicious hound who also breathes fire?

The following explores the idea of realistic or fantastic monsters a bit further:

»» More realistic monsters: They mostly follow the basic natural patterns of
creatures in the real world. They eat, sleep, reproduce, thrive in specific
ecosystems, and generally conform to the laws of physics, biology, and
chemistry. Realistic monsters are fundamentally much more relatable and
create less cognitive dissonance for audiences. Their threat is more grounded,
and it’s easier to understand cause and effect when they clash with the
protagonists. Sure, it has scales, six legs, and a spiked tail, but it still bleeds
when you stab it with a spear.

»» More fantastic monsters: They aren’t designed to be plausible or even

possible; they’re meant to invoke feelings of fear, awe, or wonder. They’re
direct expressions of your fantasy world’s breaks from consensus reality.
By ignoring the laws of biology and physics, your fantastical monsters can
look and act in strange and terrifying ways. They can also integrate human
characteristics like speech, tool use, and complex social interactions not
usually found in the natural world.

Distinct aspects of your monster’s design can exist somewhere different on the
scale from fantasy to reality. The following section helps you find that balance.

Defining your monster’s characteristics

No matter how realistic or fantastic your monsters need to be for your story, they
all share common characteristics. Find the balance that works for your story, but
make sure you give full creative consideration to all of them.

Chapter  20 provides another approach to monster making, one rooted in the

emotions the monsters produce in your audience and their role as metaphors in
your story. That chapter works well with this one, so for an ultra-comprehensive
­monster-making methodology, make sure to read that material as well.

246 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

Let the following help define your monster more clearly:

»» Origin: The monster comes from somewhere, so where does it come from?
This question is hugely important because it sets the basis for the monster’s
entire existence. Ask yourself these additional questions to get a better feel
for your monster’s origin:

• What forces determined its nature? Is it the product of natural evolution

(or whatever magical alternative to evolution exists in your story world)? Is
it a creation by some god? Is it a god or spirit? Or did some alchemist brew
it up in a lab?

• Was it created with a specific purpose in mind? Whether it’s to be the fittest
survivor or guard the gates of the underworld, does the monster have
some fundamental need that drives its actions? What things might divert it
from that purpose?

• Can the monster reproduce? If so, how does that work? Do these monsters
breed and give birth to more of their kind? Can a necromancer conjure up
more of them with a spell? Do they grow naturally in toadstool rings during
a lunar eclipse?

»» Appearance: How much detail you need for your monster’s appearance
depends on the medium. A movie or video game monster goes through
multiple rounds of visual development. Monsters in prose are sometimes
described in minute detail, sometimes with just a few words. No matter what
level of detail you’re using, focus first on the aspects of the monster’s looks
that make it important to the story. These questions can help you focus on the
monster’s appearance:

• What’s fantastical about its appearance? If you’re inventing a monster

instead of using a real animal, what about it makes it cool and special? How
do you think it will produce a sense of wonder in your audience, even if it’s
just a little wow?

• What about the monster would someone be most worried about when
they see it for the first time? What about its appearance seems dangerous?
Or does its cuddly exterior hide a killer within?

• How big is it? If you had to liken it to a real-world lifeform, what would be
approximately the same size and shape? Or what mix of lifeforms would
be close?

• How does it sound, smell, and look? From the patterns on its hide to the
stench of its breath, think about all the ways the monster can assault the
senses as well as the characters.

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 247

 »» Physiology: The monster inhabits and interacts with the world in a specific
way. Does it have muscles and bones that dictate how fast it can pounce or
how high it can fly? Or is it ethereal like a ghost or spirit? Maybe it’s an
elemental being of pure fire or a psychic creature that levitates by will
alone. Consider these additional questions:

• How does it move? Does it walk, crawl, slither, or fly like a familiar animal
or does it float along on a cloud of aether? Is it fast or slow, lithe or bullish?

• How does it sense the world around it? Does it have the nose of a blood-
hound? Can it see in the dark? The fantastic opens up all kinds of senses
that are impossible and dramatically exciting. Can it see backward and
forward in time? Is it drawn to the corrupted aura of sinners? Does it hear
any conversation where someone mentions its true name?

• What does the monster need to survive? Fresh meat? The souls of innocents?
A period of dormancy during the full moon? Monsters that need food, air,
and water like real-world animals will need all those things on a regular basis,
and you should know where those things come from in your story world.

»» Mentality: The monster’s mind and how it relates to sentient beings is more
complicated than a simple intelligence rating. There are different kinds of
intelligence, different ways of knowing and thinking about the world. From the
instincts of an animal to the divine perspective of an angry demigod, the
monster’s mind-set governs its behavior and the way it threatens the protago-
nists. Ask yourself these additional questions:

• Is it part of a community? Do these monsters live in packs like wolves? Do

they have a shared sense of identity with others of their kind or with other
monsters in general? Do they have whole civilizations with politics, religion,
and an economy? Or are they isolated loners, lying in wait in the heart of
the deep, dark forest?

• What drives the monster to action? What does it want from the world and
what’s it willing to do to get it? Does it just want fresh meat, or does it want
to spread its master’s evil influence? Does it have a hated nemesis or
natural foe? Is it bent on world domination? World destruction?

• How much foresight does it have? A wild animal’s instincts make most of its
choices for it. Many monsters don’t care about or even understand the
idea of a future. How much of a long-term plotter and planner is your
creature? Can it spin elaborate schemes or is it all about attacking whoever
crosses its threshold?

• How does it communicate with others and can it communicate with the
story’s main characters? Pet owners know there are lots of ways an animal
can communicate without language. How does your monster get its point
across? Angry growls and pleased purring? Psychic emanations of pure
emotions? Long speeches about its evil plans?

248 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

 »» Environment: For some monsters where the monster lives, hunts, and
performs monstrous duties could be its natural environment. For others
malevolent forces may have been placed them there to guard something
valuable or kill someone specific. Consider these questions:

• What kind of environment does the monster dwell in? Is it a fetid swamp, a
dank dungeon, or the magic crystal in an arch-mage’s staff?

• What effect does the monster have on the environment? Is it an apex

predator in the forest? Does it spread corruption across the city neighbor-
hood where it has established its lair? How can the environment help tell
the monster’s story?

• What effect does the environment have on the monster? Is it limited to

certain types of places like underwater or in complete darkness? If
something happens to the environment, what happens to the monster?

• Why would anyone go there? Is there some reason people might venture
into the monster’s territory? Does it also have valuable resources? Do local
teens dare each other to check out the creepy old mansion? Does the
monster try and lure people in or keep them out?

Chapter  8 offers an approach to thinking about locations in your story as story

spaces where the environment does as much storytelling as the characters or
monsters who dwell in it. We list four common types of story spaces that have
specific and useful narrative purposes: obstacles, reactive spaces, contested
spaces, and refuges. Consider each of these four types through the lens of your
monsters and how they enhance and deepen the monster’s dramatic function in
your story:

A RANDOM DRAGON GENERATOR

Dragons are the iconic fantasy monster, a genre staple born from the myths and
legends of cultures all over the world. There are so many kinds of dragons, about the
only thing they have in common across all their interpretations is that they’re big and
magical and wondrous (most of the time).

This exercise generates a random dragon as a way to help you to consider the different
monster characteristics detailed in this chapter and how they may combine fantastical
and realistic elements in a host of different ways. Use a four-sided die or a random
number generator to select one characteristic from each category.

(continued)

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 249

(continued)

Origin

1. It naturally evolved in the environment along with other creatures.

2. It’s an expression of a pure elemental force like fire or wind.
3. The gods created it for a specific purpose.
4. Powerful wizards and religious leaders transcend by turning into dragons.

Appearance (here focused on size)

1. It’s the size of the real-world’s biggest alligators, 15 or so feet long.

2. It’s as big as the great dinosaurs like a T-rex.
3. It’s as enormous as a whole town or even a mountain.
4. It shifts in form from a normal human to dragon, one of the preceding sizes
(your choice).

Physiology (here focused on flight)

1. The dragon can’t fly at all and doesn’t have wings.

2. The dragon flies in a somewhat plausible manner, with huge wings and a small
body like a pterodactyl.

3. It has glorious wings and a massive body, allowing it to fly in a way that must have
some magic behind it.

4. Although it has no wings, it still flies and is undeniably a magical creature.

Mentality

1. It’s bestial, not more intelligent or ambitious than an angry animal.

2. It’s intelligent and lives alone, concerned only with its own desires.
3. It’s part of a larger community of dragons that interact and even come into conflict
with one another.

4. It’s a lone divine being with a spiritual outlook on the world rather than material
concerns.

250 PART 4 Fantasy: Journeys into the Imagination

Environment

1. It dwells in an inaccessible swamp, far from any humans.

2. It lurks in a cavern deep beneath a major city.

3. It nests high atop a mountain peak, on the border between two kingdoms.
4. It resides in the astral plane, removed from the mortal realms but coming into their
world for its own reasons.

Take the dragon you’ve rolled up and think about what kind of hero it would be a great
obstacle or antagonist for. Try rolling a second dragon and imagine what kind of fantasy
world would have both types of dragons in it. What do these two different monsters
imply about the wider world they come from? Consider a story where the two dragons
are aligned with one another and another story where they’re opposed.

Rolling a random dragon from these five lists can create hundreds of different kinds of
dragons. That should give you some idea of how thinking through all the possible ways
your monster may balance the fantastic and the real and how that variety can help you
make your monsters both original and perfectly suited for your story.

CHAPTER 17 Forming Really Fantastic (and Fantastically Real) Monsters 251

5
Horror: Journeys
into Fear
IN THIS PART . . .

Find emotional connections to make stories that haunt

your audiences’ imagination.

Trust well-trod shadowy paths to shape your own

scary stories.

Brew up monsters from archetypes and terrifying

creatures you already know (and love).

Make monsters a manifestation of fear, symbols, and

themes in society.

Use setting to build the imagery, mood, and

atmosphere of dread.
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Making the worst things happen (to

your characters)

»» Creating horrible emotions

»» Revealing the narrative sources of

dread and terror

Chapter  18
Creating Dread,
Fear, and Terror

I
n this chapter, we dive deep into the spooky spectrum of thoughts and feelings
that horror stories play with. For the pure horror story writers out there, we
offer a tomb-load of tips and techniques for terrifying your audience. But this
horror chapter plays very well with the sections about sci-fi and fantasy, and we
occasionally refer you to specific chapters (such as Chapter 11 on aliens and 17 on
fantasy monsters) for more ideas about incorporating the otherworldly and futur-
istic into your horror fiction.

Sci-fi stories are about people in other possible worlds and fantasy stories are
about people in impossible other worlds. Horror stories are about scaring the
@#!% out of people in any world. Horror stories aren’t a genre so much as a set
of feelings like dread, fear, pity, and revulsion, sometimes all at once. The source
of those fears may be some science thing gone wrong, some ancient magical thing
unleashed, or a “normal” person with a hankering for hunting humans. Where
sci-fi and fantasy provoke questions and play with ideas, horror goes straight for
the primal, disturbing feelings deep inside everyone.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 255

Imagining the Worst about Everything
Fear is a powerful emotion. Philosopher Edmund Burke wrote in 1757 that, “No
passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as
fear. For fear being an apprehension of pain or death, it operates in a manner that
resembles actual pain . . . . Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain
and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about
terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the
sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capa-
ble of feeling.”

In other words, feeling afraid of pain is so intense because it’s close to feeling
actual pain. Anything that scares you, even just a spooky story, produces an emo-
tional and physical response that’s uncomfortably akin to actual harm.

There’s science to back up Burke’s insight. Scholar Mathias Clasen summarizes

the evolutionary roots of fear in his book Why Horror Seduces (Oxford University
Press). He says that humans naturally assume there’s some sort of agency behind
every event. The spooky noises coming from the dark forest beyond the campfire
may or may not be a hungry wolf, but if it is, you’re in trouble. Best to prepare
yourself just in case. Evolution has given everyone very powerful imaginations
that assume the worst about the unknown. Those powerful imaginations help
humans survive, but as a side effect they mean people are very good at being
scared by entirely imaginary threats. Those deep-rooted instincts on guard
against saber-toothed tigers lurking in the tall grass don’t care if the ominous
growl is coming from a real animal or a fictional monster.

Scaring folks is actually pretty easy, which is why cheap jump scares in horror
movies get your heart racing. But audiences aren’t going to stay engaged for a
series of cheap jump scares over the course of a whole story. Those kinds of thrills
are easier to find on a rollercoaster. You want to broaden the kinds of fearful emo-
tions your stories provoke, keeping audiences wondering and worrying and curi-
ous until the very end. The rest of this chapter gives you techniques to do just that.

Equipping your toolchest — The horror

writer’s tools
You want to freak some people out. Great. As a horror writer, you have a diverse set
of tools at your disposal for provoking fearful feelings. Each of the following is use-
ful in its own way, but the real scares come when you combine them effectively:

»» Characters: As we say repeatedly throughout this book and will keep saying
until the Grim Reaper’s skeletal hand finally grabs us, great stories are about

256 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 characters: Characters who audiences hope and fear for. Characters who
want something and take action to get what they want. Characters who are
going to get into and maybe not get out of a lot of trouble. It’s vital that your
tale of terror features engaging characters who the audience can identify with
or feel sympathy for. These characters are often the point of view through
which audiences experience all the horror, although the audience knows at
least one thing the character doesn’t: that this is a horror story.

»» Feelings: A wider spectrum of emotions play important roles in horror stories,

which we get into in the next section. Audiences take their cue from the
characters when it comes to what to feel in any given dramatic situation. Even
though the characters are certainly more terrified of the monster’s talons then
the audience, when the protagonist screams and runs for their life, the
audience can easily sympathize even though those claws are safely sealed
inside the pages of the story. Use your characters’ responses to guide your
audience’s feelings throughout the story.

»» Imagery: Mood and atmosphere play key roles in building dread. If you’re
writing for a visual medium like film, TV, or games, storytellers benefit from
lighting, costume, sets, sounds, and music doing a tremendous amount of
work building tension. In pure prose, your descriptive language and details
have to carry all that weight, but you have the audience’s imagination helping
you. The human brain is evolved to worry about hidden dangers in the
darkness and to recoil in disgust at certain unpleasant sights. Deploy provoca-
tive imagery fine-tuned to the specific feelings you want to provoke in
each scene.

»» Mysteries: Fear of the unknown ranks right at the top of powerful feelings
that drive audiences to keep reading or watching. What’s hiding in the dark?
Who killed the old professor? What do those strange symbols mean? Is that
blood!?!? The questions raised by the unknown trigger anticipation and
curiosity, and audiences start to imagine the worst. They’ll endure a lot of
anxiety and discomfort in order to find out what’s really going on and whether
or not the story’s characters will survive learning the truth.

»» Revelations: It is blood! The unknown is scary, but trepidatiously peeking

under the bed only satisfies audiences when they discover what’s lurking
down there. These revelations are key turning points in your plot. The
moment itself might be scary — there’s a deadly cobra with glowing yellow
eyes — and thus produce strong emotional reactions, but a good revelation
also has an intellectual side. The characters and the audiences now know
something new that raises more questions and implications. How did the
snake get there? Why were its eyes glowing yellow? Does it have anything to
do with that bizarre yellow symbol the protagonist found earlier? New
unknowns naturally lead to new and more terrifying revelations.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 257

 A formula for fear
Characters are at the center of your story, and both their feelings and desires
focus the feelings and interests of your audience. The imagery provides the vital
setting for those characters to take action in, with details, mood, and atmos-
phere reinforcing the characters’ feelings and manipulating the audience’s
experience. But the combination of mystery and revelation is what drives the plot
forward, an ever-escalating cycle of deeper mysteries and more dire revelations
that arouses the audience’s curiosity and compels them to see the story through
to the end.

In his 1927 book, Supernatural Horror in Literature, influential and problematic hor-
ror author H.P. Lovecraft wrote, “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is
fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” The quote
is famous to the point of ubiquity in horror-writing circles because it gets to a
fundamental truth not just about horror stories but about life. The unknown
makes folks curious, and curiosity fires their very active imaginations. It only
takes a little bit of mystery within a specific context to send the audience’s imagi-
nations spinning down one emotional path or another. Is the context colorful
wrapping paper and people singing happy birthday? The recipient is excited to
open that unknown box! Is the context dark stains on a dented cardboard box left
on your doorstep in the middle of the night? The audience can easily imagine all
kinds of horrors lurking inside.

In these sections we offer you a three-part formula for fear designed to make the
most of an audience’s overactive imagination.

Part 1: The Unknown

The Unknown is the first part of the formula for fear. Start with a mystery. The
simpler the mystery, the better as you begin. You can start subtle and quiet or
begin with a bang, but your opening unknown should be something the audience
can easily understand and engage with, such as:

»» What’s that shape moving out there in the dark?

»» Where is that child’s laughter coming from?
»» Who is this shadowy stranger knocking on the door?
»» Why was this poor soul being brutally murdered?
Remember, most of the time your audience knows this is a horror story, even if
the characters don’t. They’re primed to think the worst of each unknown.

258 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

Part 2: Anticipation
Give your characters and your audience some time and reason to brood and worry
about what could possibly be going on with the second part. The longer the ques-
tion goes unanswered, the greater the dread as the audience’s imagination raises
worse and worse possible answers. What’s out in the dark?

»» An animal?
»» A wild animal?
»» A wolf?
»» A stranger?
»» A thief?
»» A killer?
The period of anticipation usually features characters investigating the mystery in
some way, their own sense of unease building as they explore possible answers.
Sometimes only the audience knows something mysterious is afoot and must
watch, helpless, as unknown danger stalks the hapless hero. But don’t leave ever-
yone anticipating too long or anticipation turns to frustration or, even worse,
boredom. Sooner rather than later, the unknown becomes known.

Part 3: Revelation
Revelation is the third, but not necessarily the final, part of the fear formula.
A revelation is something that changes the story dynamics in a radical and impor-
tant way. It can come from the reveal of a monster or the deciphering of a clue or
the opening of a basement door. Here are a few examples:

»» The call is coming from inside the house.

»» The character is acting so strange because a demon’s possessing them.
»» The house is haunted by the ghosts of past lovers.
»» The best friend is actually the killer.
»» There’s a big freaking monster under the bed!
After the Unknown has been revealed, anticipations dissipate and are replaced
with surprise, alarm, disgust, or some other powerful emotion (we explore them
in greater detail in the section, “Feeling Fearful Feels” later in this chapter). The
characters must in some way deal with the new development, which may raise
new questions or may try to kill them.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 259

 Repeat
Repeat the three parts of the formula over the course of your story, each time
upping the stakes or changing story modes or both. Introduce a new Unknown
that’s more alarming than the one you just resolved. Switch from solving myster-
ies to running from monsters or trying to convince the cops there really is a vam-
pire living in the middle school’s basement. The cycle of the Unknown leading to
anticipation exploding into revelation creates an upward spiral of tension until
the story reaches its climax.

Providing climax and catharsis

One of the really great advantages of a horror story is that audiences can’t ever
expect a happy ending for the protagonists. Maybe the hero will triumph, maybe
they’ll die horribly. Horror audiences can walk away satisfied either way. Horror
shares this characteristic with dramatic tragedies, and both kinds of stories are
capable of providing a feeling of catharsis. Aristotle uses the word in passing in
his Poetics, but the concept of catharsis meaning a purging or cleansing of its audi-
ence’s feelings of pity and fear has become a foundational concept in the study of
literature and philosophy.

Professor Joe Sachs of St. John’s College explores how Aristotle’s insights on how
catharsis works in horror (https://iep.utm.edu/aris-poe/). He suggests that
horror movies help purge all the scary stuff in real life by focusing the audience’s
fears on an external, faintly ridiculous fictional story. For a moment at least,
they’ve faced and conquered a fear, stripping it of some of its power over them. In
that way horror is like medicine, and like many good medicines, it can also be a
little addictive. The sense of satisfaction audiences get from the shocks and ter-
rors of a horror story can both give them a way to deal with their fears in a safe,
fictional environment and give them a potentially addictive thrill from the real
intense feelings the story generates. Either way, it’s undeniable that the journey
through the cycle of unknown, anticipation, and revelation leading to an ultimate
climax can have a powerful emotional effect on people.

As the following formula shows, the cycle of Unknown, Anticipation, and Revela-
tion grows more and more intense, with more danger and bigger dramatic stakes
as the story moves forward:

260 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

Feeling Fearful Feels
Have you ever heard someone describe getting their finger caught in a door and
you gasp and wince with something like real pain? Have you ever seen a picture of
some rotten and decaying something and felt your stomach turn and bile rise up
in your throat? Or, on a brighter note, have you ever felt a certain flushing and
fluttering at the sight of fictional characters you find attractive in an erotic
embrace? These are very physical responses to purely intellectual stimuli, what
some philosophers call occurrent feelings. In other words, they’re emotions that
provoke a physical occurrence in your body.

Horror is particularly effective at provoking occurrent emotions, which is why a

scary movie or story can leave you as breathless as a rollercoaster ride. Your heart
really does race. Your mind really does on some level think you’re in danger, espe-
cially when your imagination visualizes how you’d feel if you were in the story,
suffering the way those poor characters are suffering. This one-to-one connec-
tion between the audience and a character is called empathy, and it’s one of your
biggest friends as a writer. Anytime your audience forms a deep bond with a char-
acter, they’re probably going to feel deep feelings.

Creating an empathic connection isn’t always possible or even always useful. With
a little more emotional distance, audiences can still care about the characters
without taking every trial and tribulation personally. Feeling sadness or compas-
sion for a character’s plight is sympathy. You recognize and mourn the tragedy of
the situation without taking the whole weight of the pain on yourself. Sympathy
keeps audiences engaged with the story without overwhelming them, which
means you can pile that much more fear and dread on the characters.

Every person has different ways of experiencing empathy and sympathy. Some
folks may not experience either, whether because of their personal mind-set or
because they’re not engaged with the story and the characters. You can’t be sure
how any given audience member will respond, but you can enrich and expand your
story’s emotional effect by employing a range of fearful feelings, which we dis-
cuss in these sections.

Fear and worry

The most fundamental emotions evoked in horror are fear and worry, and you
almost can’t have a horror story without heaping helpings of them. The audience
is afraid for the story’s main characters and worried about what may happen to
them. These feelings are the most emphatic where the audience can put them-
selves in the character’s terrible position and imagine how they would feel if
they were

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 261

 »» The innocent seduced into peril
»» The daring in over their head
»» The unknowing walking into danger
»» The victims suffering terrible fates
Audiences also experience some genuine fear and worry for themselves. They’ll
wonder when the jump scare is coming, how disgusting that kill is going to be,
and what kind of violent or creepy scenes they and the protagonist will both have
to endure to get to the end of the story.

Pity and sorrow

Pity is that sad feeling you get when something terrible happens to someone you
don’t think deserves it. It’s a sympathetic emotion, a sorrow that such a thing
could happen to someone and a recognition that things are going awful for them,
and you wish it weren’t so. Rather than fully putting yourself in their shoes, these
are characters about whom you say:

»» “They shouldn’t have done that.”

»» “I’m glad I’m not them.”
»» “I’m sorry for their loss.”
»» “I can’t imagine what I’d do.”
Even though pity and sorrow make readers feel bad, they’re also relieved that
they’re not personally suffering. That relief may come with a bit of guilt, but it can
play an important role in creating catharsis, letting audiences become absorbed in
the horrors without fully taking them on.

Disgust and revulsion

That cringe, that clenched muscle, that sharp intake of breath when you can just
imagine how something horrible would feel is disgust and revulsion. The signa-
ture feeling of body horror fiction, these occurrent emotions are rooted in human-
ity’s deep instincts to avoid sources of rot, disease, and corruption. Common
gross-out imagery includes the following:

»» Bloody and gory violence

»» Insects, vermin, and other creepy crawlies

262 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 »» Slime, bile, goo, and sludge
»» Agonizingly familiar pains, catching a hand in the car door
The disgust response is involuntary and immediate, powerful even outside any
specific story context. For many, the gross-out is an exit door, too much or too
disgusting and they’re done with the story. For some, the bloodier the better.
Deploy disgust with precision, knowing that a little can add a potent punch to a
scene but too much may very well limit your audience.

Disoriented and discombobulated

Disoriented or discombobulated is the puzzled, unsettled feeling when you don’t
understand what’s happening but feel like you should be able to. This feeling can
be a purely intellectual experience of trying to find logic and sense where there
isn’t any, or in a movie, show, or game, it can involve discordant imagery and
sound that may provoke nausea in some audience members. Disorienting the
audience is an empathic provocation, creating a confusion that mirrors the feel-
ings of the characters. Here are some examples:

»» Mysterious geographies that shift and change

»» Unreliable time or jumps back and forth in the narrative
»» Unexpected elements that appear and disappear
»» Strange individuals who speak and act in discordant or puzzling ways
As with disgust and revulsion, a little disorientation can go a long way. Confusion
is a great way to introduce a new unknown and build anticipation toward a reve-
lation, but too much random weirdness and the intriguing mystery of “what’s
going on?” can become “what the hell is going on! This makes no sense! I’m out
of here . . .” See Chapter 16 about dream worlds and other dimensions in the fan-
tasy section.

Fascination and wonder

Fascination and wonder provide the sense of awe at the new and unimagined or
literally awesome occurrences and entities in the story. These moments take the
audience’s breath away not because they’re scared, but because they’ve never
seen something like that. Or the wonder-filled moment when the intricate pieces
of a mystery click into place and the solution is both a total surprise and one that
makes perfect sense of all the eerie and terrible things that have been happening.
For example:

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 263

 »» The imaginative monstrosity of a unique creature
»» The awe-inspiring scope and design of a crumbling manor house
»» The outrageously over-the-top kill in a slasher movie
»» The seductively sinister figure who attracts as much as they repel
»» Anything that makes the audience say, “That’s so coooool . . .”
The sense of wonder has both the in-the-moment feeling of surprise and delight
at the object of fascination and a deeper intellectual appreciation for the artistry
of the storytellers. Crafting these moments in your story requires skill and plan-
ning as well as imagination. You must both set the stage for them with plot and
character and build up to the revelations with mystery and anticipation. Reveal
them at key moments in the story, when the revelation kicks the narrative into a
new gear and the stakes are raised.

Triumph and relief

Audiences feel triumph and relief when someone they care about overcomes
adversity. These two feelings are the mirror of fear and worry, empathic responses
to the end of an ordeal and the dissolution of terror and dread. Characters that
audiences hope and fear for make it through to the end and give them at least a
little ray of hope, such as in these examples:

»» When they quiet the angry spirit

»» When they kill the monster
»» When they escape the house
»» When they survive until help comes
»» When they take revenge on those who’ve wronged them
Sometimes audiences do enjoy a well-earned triumph where the characters they
care about suffer and struggle, but manage to overcome evil in the end. The all-
too-easy or too-convenient escape hatch isn’t satisfying in any kind of story, but
in horror it feels even more like cheating because in horror there’s every possibil-
ity that the bad guys will win as often as the good guys. That’s not true in most
genres most of the time. Indeed, sometimes seeing evil prevail is fun, as the next
section explains.

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INCLUDE SOME LAUGHS (NERVOUS
AND GENUINE)
A story doesn’t have to be blood, tears, and dread for every moment of every scene. A
one-liner from a quippy character or a visual pun incorporated into a slasher’s kill can
provide a brief moment of levity and provide much-needed relief for audiences and
characters alike. Laughing in the face of death can show a protagonist’s bravery or at
least let them put on a brave face for a moment.

Although a little humor gives breathing room, it can also pull the audience out of the
story or deflate anxiety too much. Make sure you root the joke in the characters and
their established personality to ensure that your audience is laughing along with the
characters and the story rather than at them.

Schadenfreude
Sometimes audiences just enjoy watching the pain and misfortune of others, a
feeling called schadenfreude in German. It may not be kind or gracious and may
indeed be one of the guiltiest of guilty pleasures, but there’s no denying that it can
be a lot of fun to watch the deserving get much more than what’s coming to
them. For example:

»» Rooting for the killer in a slasher movie

»» Appreciating an ingenious or creepy antagonist that defeats the heroes
»» Cheering when the jerk in the group gets eaten by the monster
»» Saying “burn it all down” when an apocalypse ends the world
Although schadenfreude-centered stories tend to be a little less serious and more
outrageous slasher and monster fests, almost any kind of horror story has a place
and time for a final note of guilty pleasure. A deadly supernatural entity or a soul-
hungry haunted house are scariest when the innocent can’t triumph, when the
good do succumb to evil. There is real, cathartic satisfaction in the confirmation
that your fears were justified and those poor fools really shouldn’t have opened
that box or gone down into that cave. Maybe they got more than they deserved,
sure, but that just confirms that life ain’t fair, and we all should probably be a
little more scared of the dark.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 265

Identifying Sources of Horror
Using the horror writer’s toolkit of characters, emotions, imagery, mystery, and
revelation, your story unfolds through scenes where the unknown creates feelings
of dreadful anticipation, which lead to story-changing revelations that heighten
tension and raise the stakes. All along the way, audiences and characters alike
experience a range of emotions on their way from initial concern to final, cathartic
triumph or disaster. At the center of all these moving narrative parts is a source of
horror from which all the dread and terror grow. This root of malevolent cause
and effect has a profound effect on what your audience expects, the rules under-
lying the story world, and the way the whole tale unfolds.

The following sections group sources of horror into eight broad categories based
on the emotional, metaphorical, and intellectual story tropes associated with
them. For added pedagogical fun, they’re in roughly chronological order based on
the development of horror as a genre from its origins in the 18th century.

Gothic
The earliest form of what would become horror literature (as opposed to much
older folklore or traditional ghost stories), the Gothic looks to a place from the past
that lingers in the present, unchanged except for the worse. These stories are of
ancient estates, moody moors, and crumbling castles that feature characters suf-
fering from misfortunes like dark family secrets, deteriorating fortunes, or doomed
love. Gothic horror stems from characters digging up or confronting the past,
often in helpless isolation from the warmer, gentler parts of the world. Only when
the secret is revealed and reckoned with is it possible to escape the sins of the past.

Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” is an early example, but many great Goth-
ics are still being written. Sarah Waters’s The Little Stranger (Riverhead Books) is
one of the more recent expressions of the aristocratic mansion and family gone to
seed and beset by strange occurrences.

Spiritual
The spiritual category includes the classic ghost stories in all its forms (which can
include spirits, fairies, and other supernatural beings from folklore). Here, the
unfortunate protagonist comes into contact with mysterious entities at the border
of life and death. Whether they’re a ghost lingering in this world instead of moving
onto the next or an ancient nature spirit that protects a pristine patch of forest,
these creatures are fundamentally unknown and untouchable. The characters face
a mental or spiritual challenge more than a physical one, often with a strong
moral component.

266 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

M.R. James was the master of the late 19th century spiritual horror story, writing
stories of lingering spirits and ancient curses that bedevil unsuspecting modern
folk whose curiosity got the better of them. Spiritual sources of horror blur the
line between physical and ethereal. As a source of horror they defy easy solutions
and challenge characters’ beliefs and moral compass.

Monstrous
In the monstrous category, the horror takes on physical form, with the terrifying
and dreadful made flesh and bone in the form of a monster. Monsters present a
clear life-and-death threat and embody the power differential between mere
humans and the predatory forces that lurk out in the darkness.

Early horror story monsters were human failings manifested into something ter-
rible. Dracula is a dangerous man cursed to be an even more dangerous and impure
immortal thing. Mr. Hyde is all of Dr. Jekyll’s worst traits given the form of a man
and turned loose to indulge his perverse desires without regard for decency. The
monster is usually a predator, a force for death that can’t be ignored or avoided.
You can read much more on monsters in Chapter 20.

Cosmic
The aloof, strange, and vast older cousin of the monstrous is cosmic horror, which
presents impossibly vast forces that the human intellect can’t comprehend. Hor-
ror comes from the realization that we all live in a cold, uncaring universe that
views human life as insignificant  — if it notices humans at all. The realization
itself can test a protagonist’s mental stability, but often the cosmic brushes up
against our mundane world with a monstrous alien tentacle or a portal into
another reality.

H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Call of Cthulhu” and other so-called mythos tales set the
original standard for cosmic horror, but it has developed along many other engag-
ing (and less racist) paths in the past century.

Homicidal
A brutal, homicidal killer can be just as terrifying as any supernatural monster,
and sometimes the most horrifying threat looks just like everyone else. Tragic
tales of humans killing each other go back to the earliest forms of drama. In those
stories, the killings derive from the dramatic and emotional needs of characters
who audiences understand and maybe have pity or sympathy for. The killer
becomes a horror figure when they kill for the pleasure of it.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 267

 These are stories of a normal person who behaves abnormally, violating the social
contract that keeps the peace between neighbors. The familiar becomes dangerous
and that danger not only hides among us, but it’s also one of us. The terrible
crimes of real-life serial killer Ed Gein inspired Robert Bloch’s novel Psycho, which
in turn became Hitchcock’s landmark film and kicked off the serial killer craze in
thriller and horror fiction.

Societal
Stories of societal horror present a whole community that is corrupt or dangerous
in some way, with the protagonists the abnormal ones. Stories focus on strange
small towns with deadly traditions, corrupt local authorities or oppressive dysto-
pias where every move can be a wrong one, or sinister cults whose members iso-
late themselves from the rest of the world to pursue their own mysterious ends.
Shirley Jackson’s 1948 story “The Lottery” is a perfect short example. The 1973
movie, The Wicker Man, where a whole community of modern-day pagans sacri-
fices the movie’s policeman protagonist, is a paragon of the folk horror genre.

Environmental
With the environmental category the entire world is actively dangerous and
threatening by its very nature. This category is the angry cousin to the Gothic,
where the setting is the source of fear and peril, but now the looming threat is
aggressive and unavoidable. It may be a story of eco-horror or natural disaster,
where the environment turns against the protagonists. Taken further, there are
zombie outbreaks or nuclear apocalypses, where all society collapses and every
day is a struggle to survive. The Night of the Living Dead launched the modern cin-
ematic zombie tale, a story of both implacable monsters and human frailty and
distrust in times of stress.

The unexplained
The uncanny little sibling to the cosmic category, this classification refers to
stories of the eerie and weird. Strange things happen and the characters and the
audience may not ever know why. Tales of the unexplained evoke strong feelings
of unease and discomfort and maybe sometimes verge into true horror. Imagine a
strange alley where every shop deals in curios from countries you’ve never heard
of, each selling the odd-flavored sweets your weird aunt always brought you for
Christmas, each with your initials on them. Great stories of the unexplained leave
audiences in a state of uncomfortable wonderment, their imaginations roaming
for answers. Robert Aickman was a master of the unexplained and uncanny with
stories like “The Hospice.”

268 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

SOURCES AND EMOTION — GENERATING
A STORY
This chapter presents a lot of different pieces and concepts to play with when
constructing a horror story. This simple creative exercise both familiarizes you with
these ideas and is useful for generating a variety of different story ideas. Just follow
along these steps:

1. Pick a specific location.

It can be a beach, a mountain, a city, a cabin, an airplane. Choose whatever you
want, as long as you can imagine it with some particular details.

2. Create a character to be the protagonist.

Define them very loosely and include details such as name, age, and what they
want out of life or at least right now.

3. Using that location and character, come up with a horror scenario for as
many of the sources of horror as you can.

The different sources can spawn very different kinds of horror plots for your char-
acter to deal with, such as the eight we mention in the section, “Identifying Sources
of Horror.”

4. Choose one of those story ideas that really appeals to you.

Pick one of the fearful emotions to be the primary emotional experience for
your audience with the story, like the ones we discuss in the section, “Feeling
Fearful Feels.”

5. Quickly outline the story.

Use a cycle of Unknown → Anticipation → Revelation, writing just a sentence
or two for each scene. Note how the chosen source of horror produces the
chosen emotion.

CHAPTER 18 Creating Dread, Fear, and Terror 269

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Using horror-specific techniques to

create characters

»» Making plots that terrify

»» Assembling horror narratives

Chapter  19
Fashioning Fearful Plots
and Sinister Scenes

A
n effective horror story is more than a collection of images and feelings
swirling around a character in distress. It’s a journey into darkness down
a set and dangerous narrative path that leads to a satisfyingly cathartic
conclusion. Even though your characters may be totally lost, you need to have a
map of where this journey takes them. This chapter helps you draw that map in a
way that heightens horror within an accessible structure.

Who Goes There? Characters

Who Journey into Darkness
The mysterious unknown drives horror stories. As Chapter 18 details, the cycle of
anticipation and revelation stemming from your story’s sources of horror propels
the plot and seizes audience interest. The audience wants to find out what’s going
on and so do the story’s characters.

In fact, sometimes the biggest unknowns for the reader are figuring out what’s
going on with these characters. What’s their story and what do they understand

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 271

 about the fearful unknowns and what will they do when they come face to face
with the monster? Use the following to help generate that sense of the unknown
in your story.

Controlling knowledge through

point of view
In every story, the characters and the audience know different things, and either
of them can know more than the other at any given moment in the narrative. Even
when the story unfolds solely from one character’s point of view (POV), what the
character believes about what’s happening and what the audience believes don’t
always align. Perhaps the audience knows a vampire is killing all those people, but
the skeptical protagonist assures everyone there’s a natural explanation for it all.

The audience is a willing participant in the experience and unlike the characters,
the audience knows it’s a horror story. But the audience doesn’t know what kind
of horror story they’re experiencing. Is something supernatural or science fic-
tional going on here, or is there a more grounded explanation for all these strange
occurrences? Keep going to find out. Is this the kind of story where the hero tri-
umphs over evil or the kind where everything ends in blood and tears? No way to
know for sure until you reach the end.

Chapter  2 describes the strengths and best uses of the most common points of
view in stories. Here we revisit a few of them and add a couple more, paying spe-
cial attention to how these POVs affect the horror audience’s knowledge about the
story’s mysteries:

»» First person and third-person limited: These two POVs are the most
common in fiction generally and have specific strengths for horror. In both
cases, the audience is sunk deep into the perceptions, thoughts, and feelings
of a single character. That’s ideal for creating empathic connections with the
audience. A story narrated in the first person, past tense strongly implies that
the POV character has lived to tell their story.

»» Third-person omniscient: When the story has multiple POV characters or

doesn’t dive deep into a lead character’s inner thoughts and point of view, the
distance between the audience and the protagonists widens. The audience
has room to logically suspect that those characters might in fact be hiding
something from them. Although this distance from the characters makes it
harder for audiences to empathize with them, it also breeds more mystery
and anticipation about what’s really going on. Furthermore, with no set POV
character, the possibility that anyone could suffer a terrible fate becomes
much more likely.

272 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 »» Epistolary: Here the audience experiences the story through a series of
documents like letters, journal entries, text logs, audio recordings, or video
diaries. The protagonist creates these accounts as the story unfolds and
therefore doesn’t have the benefit of hindsight that other stories presented in
the past tense do. It’s commonly used to present stories within stories, where
a protagonist finds an old diary or the notes from some grim experiment. This
POV combines the strengths of a deeply personal POV with the uncertainty of
a story with an outcome unknown to the narrator. As Bram Stoker’s Dracula
so aptly proves, it’s also possible to collect numerous documents from
different characters that come together like a set of puzzle pieces to form a
cohesive, frightening whole.

»» Unreliable narrators: Speaking of narrators, the unreliable POV is a powerful

but easily abused technique. The audience puts some trust in the person
telling the story, and nobody likes feeling cheated by the author. The tired
cliché of a first-person narrative where the person telling the story dies and
reveals they were a ghost the whole time doesn’t satisfy. But, a story where
the narrator misleads the audience while you, the author, leave enough clues
and doubts for the audience to at least suspect something’s going on can
work amazing feats of chilling empathy. For example, Stephen Graham Jones’s
book Night of the Mannequins (Tordotcom) has a strong first-person narrator
who steadily reveals through his actions and descriptions that in fact some-
thing quite disturbing is going on. By the time his true nature is revealed, it
makes total sense and yet still chills the reader.

Creating creepy and creeped-out

characters
Everything in Chapter 2 applies to characters in horror stories, but keep in mind
some specific concepts when writing horror. The following tips apply to stories
with horror and suspense elements in them and are particularly important when
creating your horrific cast of heroes, villains, and victims.

Realizing you’re doomed — Protagonists

and knowledge
One of the tougher storytelling maneuvers to master in writing horror comes
when your protagonist finally realizes and accepts that they’re in a horror story.
The audience has known all along, but most characters in most stories need some
convincing. How do they react when the character discovers evidence that some-
thing beyond the ordinary is truly going on: Ghosts are real, cousin Jay is pos-
sessed, They do in fact live and also secretly control the world. In other words, how
do the characters react to the impossible? Depending on their preconceptions and

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 273

 worldview, they may easily accept the truth or keep denying it until denial
is impossible.

Reading or watching characters stubbornly deny the central premise of the story
is often frustrating or dull when you’d rather see them start dealing with the
problem. A central tension exists between the believability of the story and the
characters in it and the patience and interest of the audience. As soon as the audi-
ence knows what kinds of impossible, horrifying things are afoot, you don’t want
to wait too long to get the protagonists on the same page. On the other hand,
there’s definitely some potent anxiety and dread for audiences who know exactly
what’s lurking behind the door while the characters blithely swing it open and
step inside. Find the balance that works for your story, and if you have some clever
or effective scenes planned for your skeptical or ignorant characters, great! But we
suggest letting characters accept the horror for what it is sooner rather than later
so they and the audience both can feel the fear of the next unknown.

Handling antagonists and their motives

Antagonists in horror run the gamut from your neighbor who collects human
hearts in his basement freezer to undead predators feasting on human blood to
vast, be-tentacled space gods who overload the human mind when seen for even
a moment. They have at least three things in common though:

»» They’re bad news for the protagonists.

»» They should be scary in some way.
»» They should do things for a reason.
An antagonist’s motives are often integral to the mystery at the center of your
story. Watching the protagonists uncover the evil entity’s goals and abilities is a
big part of the pleasure. As with any mystery, the revelation works best when it’s
both surprising and yet perfectly logical given all that has happened before. In
order to achieve that satisfying conclusion, the monster needs to have defined
goals within the context of the story and a binding set of rules it follows to achieve
those goals. Goals can be as simple as “kill all the campers in my forest” or a
complex scheme to enslave humanity to the will of an alien god. The point is to
focus their actions toward this goal in a way that, eventually, the audience can
come to understand, though they may not understand it initially.

Even if the audience and the characters don’t know exactly what rules the antag-
onist operates under, you should know them and follow them in order to ensure
the story’s core logic survives and satisfies to the end. They aren’t written in stone
and, sure, change things when a cool idea hits you, but take the time to think

274 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

through the implications of your vampire’s cool new teleportation trick. If she can
teleport in this gory finale, why wasn’t she doing it all along? Maybe she needs the
blood of a specific type of human or can only teleport during a full moon. Figure
out the logic and convey enough of it to the audience so they can feel fulfilled
instead of cheated.

Valuing the victims

Depending on just how deadly and dangerous your source of horror is, your story
can have a lot of victims. Perhaps many die some gruesome deaths, others lose
their minds to demonic possession or suffer in sleepless terror from nightly spec-
tral visitations. Although protagonists usually suffer more than enough to qualify
as victims, here we turn our attention to the supporting characters who have less
agency in the narrative and rely on the protagonists to (hopefully) deal with the
monsters. These poor victims support your story in a variety of roles:

»» Empathy generators: Innocent and/or likeable victims who suffer and the
audience feels pity and sorrow for them and the underserved traumas
they’re enduring.

»» Protagonist motivators: The hero will kick into high gear when people and
animals whom they value as much or more than themselves suffer. They’ll
take big risks they may otherwise avoid in order to save or avenge their
loved ones.

»» Monster trophies: The horrible fates your antagonists inflict on victims let
you show exactly how dangerous they really are, raising the stakes and
presenting a clear threat to those still alive to keep fighting or fleeing.

»» Schadenfreude sacrifices: If your story revels in the pleasure of watching

others suffer pain beyond what they deserve, then you need some sacrificial
lambs to die at the monster’s claws in satisfyingly outrageous and disgusting
ways. These characters shouldn’t be so sympathetic that the audience feels
deep sorrow at their loss.

Before you start stacking the corpses for dramatic effect, take some time to con-
sider the kinds of people you’re killing and the kinds of people you’re leaving
alive. For a long time, the default victim in horror was a conventionally attractive
woman and the default hero was a brave, straight, white man. The hard-hearted
detective whose wife/daughter/girlfriend/all of the above suffered terrible trau-
mas just to motivate him to hunt the serial killer is as tired a trope as there can be.
You and only you are responsible for the fictional lives you take, and everyone in
the audience knows it. Think through the messages you’re explicitly and implic-
itly sending, the stereotypes you’re reinforcing, and the clichés you’re repeating.

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 275

 Eluding the expositionist
Too often in horror, a know-it-all supporting character steps into the story to
dump a bunch of vital exposition. Authors sometimes gussy up these walking,
talking libraries with eccentric accents and quirky characteristics to hide the fact
that their only real purpose in the story is to point the hero in the right direction.
And yes, they’re doing important work. In horror stories that involve uncovering
mysteries (almost all horror stories), the heroes need to find those clues and
receive those revelations. (Chapter 7 explores techniques like this for conveying
facts and backstory vital to your plot in an entertaining and engaging way.)

Instead of having the town librarian happen to be a werewolf expert who explains
the process of harvesting wolfsbane and making silver bullets, have your clue
giver only provide a piece of the puzzle and let the protagonists be the ones to add
it to another piece they already have. Let the hero take two from here and two
from there and come up with four silver bullets on their own. A similar technique
works for passing on dreadful information to your audience that even the charac-
ters don’t know. A scene of the sheriff shamefacedly burning one of his uniforms
that has mysteriously burst at the seams followed by a scene with the plucky pro-
tagonist asking why he’s late to work this morning invites the audience to draw
their own conclusions. And when the plucky friend finds those uniform buttons in
the bottom of the ashes, they can start to catch on as well.

Plotting Your Host of Horrors

In his 1990 book The Philosophy of Horror, philosopher Noël Carroll presents a
theory of how horror narratives work and details two overarching plot structures,
the complex discovery and the overreacher. We take his concept as inspiration and
introduce a set of fundamental structures for telling tales of terror. These plots
aren’t set-in-stone outlines or templates that you should faithfully follow in
every detail. There is no hard-and-fast science for plot that works for every story.
These horror plots describe an overall sense of plot movement and story arc that
can help you organize your narrative to emphasize a particular kind of experience
for your characters and your audience.

They’re especially useful as a brainstorming tool when you’re first conceiving

your story. Maybe you have an idea for a particularly cool and gruesome ghost, or
you want to feature a specific type of protagonist. Perhaps you can picture the
perfect haunted house, but you haven’t figured out a story for it yet. These plots,
all common in horror fiction, can show you a well-trodden, dimly lit path forward
through the haunted woods to your story.

276 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

The Discovery Plot — Unearthing
dread secrets
Probably the most common plot, the discovery plot centers on investigating a mys-
tery of some sort that results in uncovering the source of horror. Unlike a detective
story, making the key discovery is just the first part of the story; after that, the pro-
tagonists still need to confront and survive the horrible truth they have uncovered.

Here are some basics to this kind of plot:

»» A source of horror such as strange killings or odd occurrences has caused

a mystery.

»» The protagonist is drawn into the mystery because solving it is important to

their core wants and ignoring it would come at some personal cost.

»» They discover clues or have encounters that raise anticipation and dread as
they learn more and more about the source of horror.

»» They reveal the truth about one or more fearful things.

»» Something terrible happens.
For example, consider The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (Penguin Classics).

The Overreach Plot — One step too far

Unchecked ambition and ill-fated pursuit of achievements drive the horror and
drama. Someone, either the antagonist or even a protagonist, purposefully pushes
the limits of what’s acceptable or advisable, their hubris bringing badness down
on themselves and those around them.

This type of story often includes the following:

»» Someone is trying to achieve something they shouldn’t try to achieve, despite

others warning them of dire possible consequences.

»» They do whatever their atypical moral compass allows them to achieve their
goals, naysayers be damned.

»» They achieve their goal, at least partially, and the result isn’t what they were
expecting or hoping in some way.

»» Their goal becomes a threat to the overreacher and other innocents around them.
»» Something terrible happens.

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 277

 Two examples of this plot device include Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Trespass Plot — You shouldn’t be here

Naive or foolhardy exploration or investigation reveals something that should
have been left alone. An ancient curse. A dormant virus. A slumbering beast. The
characters in this plot device aren’t looking for trouble, but they’re instead thrown
into it because of their actions and now must fight for their lives.

Common aspects in this type of story are as follows:

»» Someone goes somewhere or does something they shouldn’t, either through

ignorance or foolhardiness.

»» Their act of trespassing triggers a dangerous response.

»» They come to understand the true nature of their “crime” and how much
danger they’re in.

»» They try to escape back to pre-trespass normalcy before they made

their mistake.

»» Something terrible happens.

One example is the film Alien.

The Pursuit Plot — The hunt is on

Something is after someone and there are notably disparate power levels. The
strong pursue/threaten/oppress the weak. Perhaps the weak are the object of
obsession for a killer, the ideal victim for a monster, or the possessor of important
knowledge that some evil being needs for their foul machinations.

In a pursuit story, audiences are likely to find:

»» Someone is marked for pursuit, often unjustly.

»» The protagonist escapes or avoids the initial pursuit and learns terrible truths
about the pursuers.

»» The chase can take many forms, and it doesn’t have to be a literal chase, but
the stakes increase.

»» There’s a final chance at escape or turning the tables on the pursuer.

»» Something terrible happens.

278 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

Some examples of this plot device include the movies Halloween and
Rosemary’s Baby.

The Contest Plot — Facing your fears

Two forces, not necessarily equal, are battling one another, such as exorcist
versus demon, hunters versus vampires, and serial killers versus detectives. The
opposing sides are each bent on destroying the other. Although some discoveries
will be made along the way, this plot emphasizes the back and forth between the
two sides as the stakes and horror escalate.

The following are often found in this type of story:

»» The contestants become aware of each other and test their strength.
»» The two opponents size each other up.
»» They engage in a series of escalating clashes, revealing more about themselves.
»» Stakes rise and innocents often become caught in the crossfire.
»» Something terrible happens to one or both of them.
Examples include the movies The Exorcist and Seven.

The Breakdown Plot — It’s all gone to hell

Survival and stability are the primary goals for characters in a world that has gone
to hell. They could be trapped in their little part of the world because of a natural
disaster or lost in a hostile environment. The whole world may have broken down
through alien invasion or zombie apocalypse. Just staying alive another day or
even hour is all the characters can hope for.

A breaking-down story is likely to have the following:

»» The protagonist’s once-safe home is overcome by chaos and horror.

»» They survive the initial horror and search for safety.
»» The characters strive to survive and build a place for themselves.
»» The whole world is against them.
»» Everything is terrible.
One example is the TV show The Walking Dead.

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 279

 The Weird Plot — What the heck is that?
Weird things are happening and the characters don’t know why. Maybe they’re
suffering a mental breakdown, having hallucinations, or enduring hauntings.
Perhaps other worlds are impinging on their own. These are disquieting tales of
confusion and the surreal that can challenge characters and audiences alike.

The following are common elements in a weird story:

»» Regular life is interrupted by the uncanny. The threat and implications

are uncertain.

»» The characters struggle to understand what’s real and what’s not.

»» They’re forced to reckon with a world that’s stranger than they imagined.
»» They usually fail to understand or become lost in the strangeness, both of
which can be terrible.

One example is the film Eraserhead.

Creating Fear with Narrative Flow

You can start working out the scenes and sequences that flesh out that plot
skeleton. Chapter  18 introduces a formula for fear, a cycle of dread resolving
into story-changing events with ever-escalating stakes until it reaches the
cathartic climax:

Unknown → Anticipation → Revelation

Here we define and explore the sources of horror that drive that fearful cycle and
the emotions the audience experiences as they play out before them. In this sec-
tion, we focus on the small but important arrows ( → ) that link the stages one to
another. We call these narrative flows.

A narrative flow is a way of describing the experience your characters have as they
transition from one stage to another in the formula. A flow is a scene or sequence
where actions by the antagonists or protagonists push the plot toward a revelation
(key turning points in your plot). Remember, revelations are moments that sig-
nificantly change the course of the story in some way.

To maximize the effect of narrative flow in service of your horror story, employ
the following ideas and strategies.

280 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

Mixing and matching flows
Flows and revelations are always linked together. The flow describes the experi-
ence from the point of view of the protagonist or the audience as they approach
the revelation. Think of these flows as a set of templates or tropes that you can use
to give plot movements a specific flavor of horror mood and emotion. Meanwhile,
a revelation can introduce a new kind of flow as the story kicks into a different
gear. Mix and match flows with revelations as needed to create a richer and varied
narrative as the new revelations lead to more high-stakes narrative flows.

Here are some ways to do that:

»» Unknown Becomes Known. This is the simplest and most common narrative
flow: A mystery is solved, looming questions get answers, an important fact
about someone or something is revealed. The new knowledge sometimes
comes from classic detective work, like reading an old diary or combing
through newspaper archives to find out who was murdered in this house a
century ago. It can also include the introduction of new and probably suspi-
cious characters or characters the audience already knows revealing key new
facts about themselves. “Didn’t I mention? My mother fled the country after
the authorities learned about her gene-splicing experiments.”

»» Familiar Becomes Unfamiliar. The known becomes unknown in some way,

with strange changes to familiar people, objects, and landscapes. The things
that people expect to act normally behave unpredictably, causing disorienta-
tion and dread. These can be anything from eerie lights and unsettling noises
in their homes to neighbors acting weird to bouts of amnesia or confusion.
“Don’t you remember, dear? We always have pigeon pie on Thursdays, ever
since you were a child. I don’t know why you don’t recall.” The change isn’t
necessarily threatening or obviously the result of some evil source, but it’s
enough to arouse suspicion and fearful anticipation.

»» Past Becomes Present. The past is never fully past and something from
another age resonates into the modern world. This is the trademark move of
the Gothic, where old crimes and buried secrets resurface to cause new
problems. (Check out Chapter 18 for more on the Gothic.) A ghost that haunts
the person who murdered them, the malcontent child locked away in the attic
for fear of their deformities, the ancient curse the family bears for the evil
misdeeds that made their fortune. As the past rears its ugly head in the
present, characters reassess and likely start to worry about people and places.
Someone’s not going to be happy that the old secret is out — and might do
anything to bury it again.

»» Outsiders Become Trespassers. Someone goes where they’re not supposed

to go, usually against the rules or at least against playing it safe or using
common sense. They travel off the beaten path or go through the off-limits
door and are therefore a little complicit in their fate. It’s a mini version of the

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 281

 trespass plot (refer to the section “The trespass plot — You shouldn’t be here,”
earlier in this chapter), one that can fit into any story structure as characters
discover a clue in a locked room, flee a pursuer by hiding in the old mine, or
seek an advantage over their foe by pursuing forbidden rites. The trespass is
the price they pay this time to receive the linked revelation.

»» Safe Becomes Vulnerable. The characters’ secure, comforting existence is

breached in some way. What they relied upon as a source of strength begins
to crumble or vanishes completely. Those who usually think they’re untouch-
able become targets. This transition from safety to vulnerability leads to a
revelation that undermines someone’s sense of security and raises new
anxieties. A job is lost. A home is broken into. A loved one becomes sick or
injured. Disaster strikes, be it a sudden financial loss, an epidemic, an
invasion, or a natural disaster. The resulting revelation relates directly to the
loss of safety, raising the stakes for the protagonist.

»» Beloved Becomes Threatening. What characters once took comfort in now

causes anxiety in some way. Similar to the safe becoming vulnerable, this flow
has a stronger emotional impact because of the crossed emotional cues and
intense flip from source of comfort to a potential antagonistic threat. A child
or parent has a profound personality change. A lovable pet now snarls and
growls at their owner’s approach. A respected pastor directs their congrega-
tion’s ire against the protagonist. This flow challenges the character’s ideas of
who they can trust and what they should fear.

»» Strangers Become Even Stranger. The already strange or unusual reveal

new depths of eeriness. Their true, possibly horrifying nature becomes
evident and worse than imagined. In a story where earlier revelations have
established a baseline of the uncanny and dreadful, now it’s even worse. The
off-putting neighbor is seen burying a body. The strange lights and weird
noises resolve into words of warning. The charismatic church leader worships
an older and more malevolent entity than anyone imagined.

»» Stable Becomes Unstable. The story’s setting as a whole shifts into a

dangerous state. Societal norms disintegrate, either from external pressure or
internal strife. Rules of law and society evaporate, leaving everyone vulnerable
and bringing out the worst in people. This could be an angry mob, an abusive
police force, or something as widespread as nationwide riots and purges and
disasters. “The storm has knocked out all the power and washed away the
bridge, so there’s nowhere safe on the island.”

»» Knowledge Becomes Dangerous. This is the classic core of much cosmic

horror. The truth will destroy you, not set you free. Reading the Necronomicon
opens their eyes to the horrors around them and tests their mental stability.
Learning the killer’s identity marks the detective as the next victim. Using the
experimental technology puts them at risk of dangerous side effects. Here,
ignorance would be bliss if only the characters didn’t need the knowledge that
comes from the revelation.

282 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 »» Horror Becomes Undeniable. The horrors that have lurked in the shadows
are now howling under the full moon, and there’s no denying them. As a
result, everyone in the story must come to terms with the threat or succumb
to it (which may happen anyway). Aliens invade, zombies overwhelm, the
interdimensional being’s pseudopods ravage the town square. The only
mystery left is how to stop them — if indeed there is a way to stop them.

These narrative flows describe transitions from unknown and anticipation to

revelation, and the matching revelation should feel seamless and fully integrated
into the narrative flow when the audience experiences. Read on then, brave writer,
as we explore those horrifying revelations in more detail.

Shifting the narrative — Thrilling

and chilling revelations
The revelation is a turning point in your story, an event or discovery that shifts
the narrative in a new, probably worse for the protagonists, direction. Revelations
are the end results of the narrative flow scenes we describe in the preceding sec-
tion. These revelations are specific moments of dramatic climax within a scene.
They’re an occurrence that could scare in its own right but add anxiety and sus-
pense within the larger context of the scene and story. It’s the count baring his
fangs to reveal he’s a vampire or the couple coming home to find their babysitter
spread all over the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

With each one we note some common linkages between specific flows and specific
revelations, ones where the two interweave with each other to create a potent
pairing. But that’s not the only way to go! Each revelation can link with any of the
narrative flows. Again, use these are tools to organize your narrative, not rules to
blindly follow.

The Uncanny Occurrence

Something very strange happens that indicates there’s dark dealings afoot.
Mysterious appearances and disappearances, the flickering of lights, the ominous
phone call from a menacing stranger. Curiosity and/or anxiety are aroused. The
characters probably don’t know exactly what it means, but now it has become
clear that things aren’t normal. The uncanny occurrence usually happens early in
the story as part of the opening scenes of establishing the unknown and building
anticipation. An additional uncanny occurrence late in a story provides a change
of pace or a less-frantic moment while still moving the overall plot forward.

This narrative pairs well with Familiar Becomes Unfamiliar and Strangers Become
Even Stranger.

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 283

 Violation of Expectations
The rules that characters live by stop working or things don’t go the way they’re
supposed to. Someone violates cultural norms or behaves in unfamiliar and dis-
quieting ways. The violation can be as straightforward as internet or phone ser-
vice being cut without cause or a neighbor slashing their tires. Perhaps protectors
like police or doctors threaten and abuse the people they’re supposed to protect
and serve. Whatever the specifics, the protagonist suffers some direct harm from
a formally trusted source. The characters and the audience now know to trust no
one and are set on guard against threats from any direction.

This narrative pairs well with Familiar Becomes Unfamiliar and Beloved Becomes
Threatening.

Implications Become Clear

That moment of, “if that’s true, then .  .  .” when characters or maybe just the
audience put 2 and 2 together. And in this case 2 +2 equals sinister conclusions like
clues that prove the murderer’s identity, patterns in the monster’s attacks, or a
full analysis of just how bad it will be if this disease gets out into the world. With
this revelation, the characters can project their fear and anxiety forward into a
future that’s likely to get much, much worse for them. On the upside, now that
they see what’s coming, they can try and stop it.

This narrative pairs well with Past Becomes Present and Stable Becomes
Undeniable.

The Sudden Shock

Traps that spring into action, ambushes that attack out of nowhere, and the
sudden betrayals of close friends all deliver unexpected, quick shocks to the
characters and the audience. Now the protagonist has come under direct assault
by the source of horror in some way, and their survival instincts will kick into
high gear as they realize the enormity of their situation.

Jump scares are cheap tricks that take full advantage of the occurrent emotions
audiences feel while watching horror. They trigger a deep, evolutionary fear
response and get the heart racing, but they’re seldom satisfying when the audi-
ence discovers they had nothing to do with the plot. If you’re going to have some-
thing jump out at the audience, make it a monster, not a cat.

This narrative pairs well with Knowledge Becomes Dangerous and Safe Becomes
Vulnerable.

284 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

The Disgusting Mess
Seeing something grotesque is much like the jump scare. It’s literally visceral in
many cases and provokes that instant revulsion that most people instinctively
experience at seeing something disgusting. To be fully effective, the audience
needs to see at least some of the same gory details that the characters do: the
mutilated victims, the gravely wounded friend, the gore-soaked beast. In some
cases, the characters come across the disgusting display after the violence, in
which case it serves as proof of the antagonist’s threatening nature. Other times,
they may witness the disgusting process in action, maybe trying to stop it. Here,
the threat becomes imminent, and they risk their own demise if they can’t defeat
or escape the source of horror.

This narrative pairs well with Outsiders Become Trespassers and Horror Becomes
Undeniable.

The Terrifying Thing

The evil is finally revealed, and it’s clearly bad news. Audiences see the monster.
They have undeniable proof that there’s a ghost. These murders are the work of a
serial killer. The whole thing’s about to explode! There’s no one right time to
show the source of evil. Plenty of great horror stories open up with the slasher/
killer/soul-sucker doing its terrible worst to some poor victim and the protagonist
spends the rest of the story dealing with it.

But more often, the source of horror remains at least partially hidden until close
to the end. This delay allows more cycles of unknown → anticipation → revelation
to play out, building up the fiendish foe in the audience’s imagination. After the
thing itself appears, whether early or late, the story becomes not so much about
“what is that thing?” but rather, “what horrible things will it do?”

Monsters go well with everything.

CREATING YOUR OWN HORROR PLOT

This chapter identifies four different elements of horror stories to work as a set of tools
to help assemble an effective narrative. Like any set of writing tools, they aren’t hard-
and-fast rules or universally accepted terms. They’re one approach, and we encourage you
to use, adjust, and reframe them however works best for you. We suggest starting with a
source of horror and then matching it to a plot structure. Then outline a series of narrative
flows that lead to revelations, building tension and raising stakes as the plot unfolds.

(continued)

CHAPTER 19 Fashioning Fearful Plots and Sinister Scenes 285

(continued)

Here’s a quick exercise that shows the parts all working together. Use the following
table and stick to these steps:

1. Choose a source of horror to serve as the focus of a story that follows the
Discovery plot where a mysterious event or discovery leads the protagonist(s)
to seek answers that can only be found by confronting the source of horror.

2. Write an answer-seeking scene using one of two specific narrative flows: The
Unknown Becomes Known or Beloved Becomes Threatening.

That scene ends with the first revelation, using either a Sudden Shock or a Violation
of Expectations.

3. Write a scene where this first revelation presents a new mystery that the
protagonist(s) must solve or obstacles they must overcome.

This mystery/obstacle presents itself through your choice of two specific narrative
flows: Knowledge Becomes Dangerous or the Familiar Becomes Unfamiliar.

4. Write a final scene with the final Revelation and climax of the story, which
must be either The Terrifying Thing or Implications Become Clear.

Source of Horror Plot Structure Narrative Flow Revelation

Gothic Discovery Unknown Becomes The Uncanny

Known Occurrence

Spiritual Overreach Familiar Becomes Violation of

Unfamiliar Expectations

Monstrous Trespass Past Becomes Present Implications

Become Clear

Cosmic Pursuit Outsiders Become The Sudden Shock

Trespassers

Homicidal Contest Safe Becomes The Disgusting

Vulnerable Mess

Societal Breakdown Beloved Becomes The Terrifying

Threatening Thing

Environmental Weird Strangers Become

Even Stranger

Unexplained Stable Becomes

Unstable

286 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Making malevolent monsters

»» Reinterpreting classic monster types

»» Unleashing humanity’s worst

Chapter  20
Shaping Your Scares —
Menacing Monsters
and Human Horrors

C
reatures, aliens, and imaginative beasties have a role to play in all three
genres (science fiction, fantasy, and horror), but in horror, the monster
takes center stage. The threatening, dangerous, fear-provoking source of
all your story’s scares is almost always some kind of monster. Maybe it’s a human
being behaving monstrously or maybe it’s a former human arisen as an undead
creature. It could be an evil demon, haunting spirit, or otherworldly mass of ten-
tacles and mouths. No matter its form, the monster’s job in horror stories is to
make matters much worse for your protagonists.

We detail different sources of horror in Chapter  18, one of which we term the
Monstrous. There we define a monster as the horror taking on a physical form
that threatens the protagonists and highlights human frailty. Monsters are pred-
atory, dangerous, and aggressive. Not only can’t you just walk away from them,
they’ll chase after you when you try to run. This chapter offers tools and tech-
niques for thinking about monsters in terms of how they work to inspire fear,
dread, and other horror-adjacent emotions in your audience.

CHAPTER 20 Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors 287

Mixing Up Your Monsters
Noël Carroll in his book, The Philosophy of Horror, argues for a taxonomy of monster
types based on four principles he terms fusion, fission, magnification, and hor-
rific metonymy (refer to the nearby sidebar for more specific details about Carroll
and his book). He makes the case for his categories so well that we were inspired
to expand and refocus his monstrous elements into a set of monster characteris-
tics for you to reference as you dream up your own fear and disgust-generating
beasties. Most monsters have all the following characteristics to one degree or
another. You can use them as a kind of questionnaire to help you define your
monster’s nature and set down guidelines for how it will behave in your story.

If one or more of these doesn’t seem to apply to your monster concept, don’t
worry. However, before you dismiss the inapplicable characteristic completely,
give it a second thought and see if there’s some subtler way it may apply. No, your
attractive psychic vampire isn’t disgusting in an outward way in that they don’t
even drink blood. But could there be something emotionally revolting about the
experience of being psychically drained that your audience may find disgusting in
a moral way? Maybe!

Threatening
Every monster needs to somehow threaten someone, usually, the protagonist
and/or innocent victims. A monster can be threatening in a variety of ways:

»» Direct physical harm in all its many forms, from fangs and claws to weapons
and curses.

»» Indirect physical harm through disease, corruption, or infection that the

monster spreads in some way.

»» Psychological harm that damages or distorts the victim’s mental state. This
can be as straightforward as inducing panic to manipulating or altering
someone’s thoughts and emotions.

»» Social harm in the form of loss of financial, political, social, family, or profes-
sional ties. Social harm can be more subtle (the monster’s taint makes people
uncomfortable around the victim) or more drastic (the victim is cast out of
society into the wilderness).

Monsters can of course threaten in different ways at once, or in turn. Whatever

the threat, the protagonists can (hopefully) contain or counter them in some way,
but not without cost and effort.

288 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 MAKE YOUR MONSTERS THREATENING
AND IMPURE
In his book, The Philosophy of Horror, Noël Carroll makes the case that for a monster to
be a real monster, it needs to be both threatening and impure: Monsters can threaten
physically, with claws that rend and fangs that kill. They can threaten emotionally or
violate social norms. They bring up fundamental fears about food and sex and disease
and the unknown.

Furthermore, monsters defy the normal categories people impose upon the world.
They’re both one thing and another and yet neither of the two. Both living and dead,
both human and animal, both biological and mechanical, both animate and inanimate.
He also makes the important point that, “Thus, monsters are not only physically threat-
ening; they are cognitively threatening. They are threats to common knowledge.”

Disgusting
That thing is gross! Some aspect of the monster provokes those instinctual, occur-
rent emotions of revulsion that make the audience at least a little sick to their
stomach. Or the monster does something so offensive that the audience can’t help
but gasp in shock at the nastiness. Here are some revolting methods for provoking
disgust in audience and characters alike:

»» The physical appearance of the monster can disgust, with slime and gore and
open wounds or grotesque body features that turn stomachs.

»» Physical actions the monster takes can be equally disgusting, from causing
gruesome bodily harm to covering itself in blood or other disturbing substances.

»» Psychological actions and attitudes can sometimes arouse as much revulsion as

the physical, from hateful tirades to gratuitous cruelty and filthy expressions;
what a person says can make them as revolting as any blood-sucking freak.

The disgust can be constant (it just looks gross all the time) or intermittent (when
it feeds or attacks it reveals its disgusting nature). The revulsion can run the
gamut from full-blown carnage of a dismemberment to the subtle yet disturbing
trickle of blood from the corner of a vampire’s smile.

Humanish
Humanish refers to any aspect of the monster that encompasses or mimics human-
ity. This humanish quality creates a sense of uneasiness and cognitive dissonance

CHAPTER 20 Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors 289

 for audiences who can both recognize the familiar humanity in the beast and feel
repulsion at the way it expresses itself through the monster. (We discuss purely
human horrors in the section, “Hunting Down Homicidal Humans,” later in this
chapter) in the following ways:

»» Human intelligence that allows the monster to think as well as or better

than a person, elevating them above mindless beasts and adding to their
formidable presence.

»» Relatable motivations that at least echo human desires like anger, protecting
offspring, lust for power or wealth, or even the simple need to feed.

»» Speech that allows the monster to directly threaten, taunt, lie to, and creep
out its victims. This can produce an eerie effect when the voice is inhuman,
but the words are in a human language.

»» Expressions through body language and facial movements that are sort of
human and sort of monstrous like the killer clown’s smile, the demonic laugh,
or the piteous wailing of a childlike ghost.

When monsters have at least some humanish characteristics, the audience can at
least partially understand and thus more deeply fear their actions.

Animalistic
The world is full of frightening animals, from vipers to wolves to sharks, and a ton
of scary stories depict mostly natural animals as their central monster (the book and
movie Jaws being the most famous example). Pulling out elements of these real-
world threats and putting them in your monster is a proven way to up the fear factor:

»» Physical attributes like fur, tusks, claws, gills, tails, and tentacles that give or
imply the dangerous attributes of an animal.

»» Temperaments and drives that are primal or instinctual that cause the
monster to act more animallike. These are especially frightening when
otherwise the monster seems largely human.

»» Detachment from typical human social structures and ignoring human

customs like when and where to eat, breed, or carry out other natural
functions. Also, distinctly humanlike monsters following classically animal
group behaviors like a hive of insects or a flock of birds.

Combining the animalistic and instinct-driven with humanism characteristic

produces a combination of fascination and the fear that the monster is part or
wholly animallike. Here the cognitive dissonance comes from seeing a non-
animal behave in a beastly way, while the audience’s familiarity with animals
gives them a context to judge and worry about the monster’s capabilities.

290 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 Heightened
Aspects of the monster take normal phenomena and magnify them in some way.
Something that’s already frightening, like teeth and claws become even sharper
and deadlier, whereas something normally benign becomes very malign when
magnified. Heighten your monsters using the following techniques:

»» Bigger, tougher, more numerous instances of the everyday, from giant ants to
unstoppable slasher movie murderers to hordes of rats.

»» Obsessions and preoccupations become monstrous when taken to extremes,

from stalking innocents to collecting bones, anyone and anything that blows
past the conventional limits of interest into mania.

Anytime something exceeds its normal bounds, people become anxious. A group
of friendly neighbors becomes a stifling crowd when it gets too big or forced into
too small a space. One rat or cockroach disgusts most people, whereas a swarm of
them induces pure panic.

Unnatural
Something about the monster violates the laws of nature as commonly understood
by the characters in the story and/or the audience. The monster is far outside their
experience and threatens the very foundation of what’s real and what isn’t. Here
are some examples of the unnatural:

»» Any kind of impossible combinations or attributes that make someone say in

a fearful whisper, “that shouldn’t exist . . .”

»» Supernatural abilities and mystical powers of all types

»» Weird science attributes that transcend and distort the known universe
»» Alien or extra-dimensional origins
This unnaturalness creates a strong sense of cognitive dissonance and dreadful
anticipation because the rules and facts everyone uses to understand how the
world works are no longer relevant. They can’t predict what may happen next and
therefore they start to imagine the worst.

Corrupting
This is our version of what Carroll calls “horrific metonymy.” Not only is the
monster scary in its own right, but it makes the world around it scarier too. An

CHAPTER 20 Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors 291

 aura of evil or danger or just bad feelings surrounds it, or maybe just bad news
follows in its wake. Corruption can take the following forms:

»» Infectious or degrading miasmas that spread sickness and rot, including

emissions like radiation.

»» Attended by disgusting things such as flies, vermin, noxious odors, and

dripping slime.

»» Physical environmental changes occur in its presence, such as changes in

temperature, odd noises, or sudden storms.

»» Emotional and psychological impacts, creating negative feelings or impaired

senses in all those around the monster.

A corrupting aura can heighten an already fearful-looking monster or show the

evil influences of an otherwise unthreatening-looking entity. It can be obvious,
like a halo of darkness or subtle and unseen, its effects only discernible long after
the creature has moved on.

Captivating
Like a car wreck, audiences just can’t take their eyes off the monster. An awe-
inspiring element impresses audiences in some way even as it horrifies. Here are
some strong captivation techniques:

»» Creative monster design that impresses with its originality and creepiness
»» A magnetic or engaging personality that makes the monster a pleasure to
spend time with while it does terrible things

»» Amazing actions and over-the-top kills that almost feel like a thrill ride
»» Seductive and erotic elements that trigger other occurrent emotions besides
fear and dread

A captivating monster is the kind of creature that inspires toys, fan fiction, and
often steals the spotlight from the human protagonists in the story. It may even
be what makes the monster more of an antihero than a pure antagonist.

Making Metaphors Monstrous

Monsters are dangerous and disgusting and cause no end of trouble for protago-
nists, but what does it all mean? Sometimes it means: “don’t mess with monsters,
they’ll kill you,” but often authors use creatures, killers, specters, and spirits as

292 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 metaphors for something else. Dive into the literary theory and academic research
on horror, and you’ll find a host of well-reasoned and thought-provoking analy-
ses of the metaphors and meanings monsters can be seen to embody in horror
stories across literature and popular culture.

Making your monsters serve as metaphors for some other concept isn’t just some
fancy technique to make film critics opine favorably about your story’s deeper
meanings. Thinking in terms of metaphors really can make your story more emo-
tionally and intellectually engaging for your audience. A guiding metaphor can
focus your plot and inspire specific thoughts and feelings. Your monsters can not
only disgust and terrify, they also can let your protagonists and your audience
confront tough ideas. The evils of the world are made existential in the story.
Things people think of as bad that are intangible or diffuse become very tangible
right here and now. In fact it’s right behind you. Run!

Monsters are often a metaphor or stand-in for “the other” as defined by whoev-
er’s writing the story, someone different than them and therefore somehow seen
as scary. In countless stories over the centuries, authors have used their monsters
to embody harmful stereotypes and aggressively link negative ideas and emotions
to people the creators consciously or unconsciously don’t like.

You can do that. Some great stories target a certain class or attitude or set of beliefs
and turn them into monsters. But you must be aware of who you’re targeting, what
stereotypes you’re perpetuating, and how much of a contrarian you’re being. Watch
out for stereotypes that portray humans with disfigurements as being evil or inher-
ently corrupt in some way. And know that, in our opinion, no story you write is ever
going to be worth making real, vulnerable people’s lives even an iota worse.

Societal flaws personified

People as a whole suck a lot of the time. Sometimes monsters are just the sucky
parts given physical form. The monster or monsters distill the flaw to some
essential horror (zombies as thoughtless consumers). Or they may heighten exist-
ing horrors of oppressive ideas (dystopian police states). Institutional racism,
sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia can spawn monstrous avatars that take the
evil attitude and give it real teeth and claws.

Voice for the voiceless

The monster takes on the role of advocate or avenger for something or someone
who is normally powerless in society or for something people fear out of propor-
tion. The monster takes the actions that people imagine the voiceless would take
if they could, often with some sense of justification. Nature, suffering from pollu-
tion and environmental havoc, creates a monstrous being to destroy the human

CHAPTER 20 Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors 293

 polluters. A manmade or natural disaster, such as an atomic blast or an earth-
quake, gives rise to terrifying beasts that make the disaster even worse. Or maybe
it’s an expression of resistance from downtrodden castes, the supernatural spirit
of the oppressed who passes judgement on the oppressors.

Personal flaws made manifest

Everyone has inner demons. Sometimes they become outer demons. Greed,
hatred, cruelty, irrationality, jealousy, anger, callousness, and obsession all bring
out the worst in people. The monster is a heightened, imminently threatening
version of one or more of these flaws. Perhaps it takes the form of a serial killer
driven to murderous extremes by jealousy. A spirit of anger may manifest into the
world as a demonic monster.

Whatever form it takes, the monstrous version of the flaw is usually more
extreme and dangerous than it could ever be in a normal person. Defeating such
a creature means countering the fundamental flaw in some way, perhaps when
the protagonists exorcise the same flaw from themselves. Or maybe a chainsaw
to the anger spirit’s face will solve the problem, depending on the kind of story
you’re writing.

Deep difficulties turned terrifying

Chronic, deep challenges and setbacks like trauma, loss, addiction, and illness can
manifest in physical, monstrous form. Sometimes the difficulty itself creates the
problem, such as mysterious psychic outbursts from a disturbed mind or a strange
disease that transforms people in some monstrous way. The monster can also be
an external threat that attacks the vulnerability created by the difficulty: a ghost
of a lost loved one or a creature that thrives on some specific toxic emotion.
Confronting and defeating the monster requires facing and either accepting or
overcoming the underlying difficulty.

Universal experiences mutated

The monster embodies some fundamental and often frustrating aspect of human
life. These monsters are deeply reflective of the culture that creates them and the
experience they embody. Puberty and the disconcerting changes and challenges
it brings may turn someone into an actual new form. Old age and the infirmities
and weaknesses it brings may make someone vulnerable to a monstrous threat
or drive them to monstrous lengths to fend off death. Parental fears about
responsibility for a young life become terrifying when the child itself is evil in
some way.

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 Positive characteristics taken too far
In high enough doses, everything is toxic. Ambition, pride, and concern can be
taken too far, and the result may well be monsters. Caring too much about some-
one or some cause can become an obsession that leads to violence. Giving too much
of oneself and demanding others do the same can lead to cults and oppression.

Focusing on fixing one problem to the exclusion of all others can do real harm. The
result is a monster who seeks to control, cleanse, or fix others in their own twisted
way. A vengeful ghost or slasher villain wants justice and doesn’t care who it kills
to get it. A devoted fan wants another book from their favorite author, no matter
what the cost. Overcoming the monster means restoring balance and perspective.

Interpreting the Classics

Horror stories have their own rich history of well-known creeps and creatures,
and there’s no shame at all in taking a classic monster and making it your own.
Vampire, zombie, ghost, and werewolf stories continue to bring in big audiences
year after year, and there’s no reason you can’t join in the fearful fun.

Classic monsters already have audience acceptance. Your job is to advance beyond
the clichés in some way and make your version unique and exciting. Employing
one or more of the metaphors from the previous section can help you do that, as
can mixing and matching the different monster characteristics from the section
“Mixing Up Your Monsters,” earlier in this chapter.

Chapter 6 explains the power of piggybacking in building story worlds and bor-
rows the dictum Most Advanced Yet Acceptable (MAYA) as a great tool for both
tapping into your audience’s existing knowledge and offering them something
original and exciting at the same time.

Here we offer a third tool: sets of creativity-prompting questions specific to the

most well-known and popular classic monster types. If you can dream up cool and
creepy new answers to these fundamental questions, you’re on your way to
making a MAYA monster worth writing about.

Aliens and cosmic entities

This monster came from another world and is fundamentally alien and mysteri-
ous. Maybe it’s a being of a natural world, but not our natural world. It may be
malevolent or mindless or destructive without even noticing humans are there.
Like the Xenomorph from Alien or the titular blob from The Blob, an alien monster

CHAPTER 20 Shaping Your Scares — Menacing Monsters and Human Horrors 295

 should feel well and truly alien, the kind of creature that would never evolve here
on Earth. For stories rooted in cosmic horror, the stranger and less earthlike they
are, the better. Chapter 11 gives you a lot more to think about when writing aliens.
These questions can help you make your alien monsters more otherworldly:

»» Where did it come from and why is it here?

»» What are its physical properties and what do they say about where it’s from?
»» What are its mental and technological capabilities?
»» How does it think, feel, and desire different from humanity?

Cryptids and creatures

These types of monsters include mystery monsters and hidden creatures who
have a fundamentally natural origin, but which are largely unknown to the rest of
the world. Bigfoot, Chupacabra, the gill-man from The Creature from the Black
Lagoon, and King Kong are some classic examples. They aren’t supernatural or
otherworldly and part of what makes them exciting and frightening is the idea
that they could really exist out in some hidden corner of the world. Ask yourself
the following questions about your cryptid:

»» How and why has it remained hidden?

»» Who knows about its existence?
»» What do people believe about it and what’s right/wrong about those beliefs?
»» What is its natural habitat, and what does it feed on?
»» What happens when it’s removed from its natural habitat?
»» How aggressive is the cryptid?
»» How intelligent is it?

Demonic and supernatural threats

These monsters include demons, witches, sorcerers, and otherworldly beings that
have a physical form but employ magic and the supernatural to threaten others.
The Mummy as shown in both the original movie and the 1990s version falls into
this category: something that was once human but has become something more
powerful through forbidden magic. Other monsters of this type may come directly
from some hellish dimension, summoned into this world by foolhardy humans or
cosmic occurrences. Before making any infernal pacts, know the answers to the
following questions:

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 »» What are their powers and how can they use them to threaten others or get
what they want?

»» What is the theology or rules that govern and limit their powers?
»» What cost do they pay to use those powers and what weaknesses do
they create?

»» What do they want from the mundane world and what do they abhor about it?

Experiments and evil scientists

Something has gone wrong or someone has done something amoral, resulting in
a normal person becoming monstrous in some way or the creation of something
terrifying. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the most famous version of this tale, rivaled by
The Fly (in both its movie versions). The audience will accept a lot if you provide
even a basic scientific rationale. That science-gone-wrong origin implies a
science-gone-right solution, or at least a brave attempt to find one. Think through
all the implications of your monstrous experiment with these questions:

»» What was the cost for carrying out this experiment?

»» What was the original purpose or goal of the experiment?
»» Who paid the cost and how did they pay it?
»» Can the experiment be repeated?
»» What was learned or what truth revealed?
»» Can it be reversed or cured or defeated?

Ghosts and evil spirits

This monster includes any kind of ectoplasmic or ethereal entity that haunts or
bedevils the living. These beings can’t be overcome by physical force, but they may
themselves cause physical harm. Perhaps they are the soul of a dead person or an
entirely supernatural being. Because of their insubstantial nature, overcoming or
appeasing a ghost or spirit requires moral, spiritual, and mental strength rather
than physical ability. Commune with your spirits by answering these question:

»» Why does the entity interact with the living?

»» Does the entity want to cause harm, be left alone, or pass on some message?
»» How can it affect the living? Physically? Psychologically? Possession?

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 »» Is it tied to one place or object or is it free to haunt where it pleases?
»» What can defeat it or put it at rest?

Golems and constructs

This man-made monster is designed to serve but ends causing trouble and even
disaster. The monster from Frankenstein is the ultimate example, as are tales of
killer robots and genetically engineered creatures. These creations are more than
human physically and other than human mentally and spiritually. Chapter  12
offers lots more advice about writing artificial lifeforms. Come up with a frightful
construction plan by answering these questions:

»» Who made it and why?

»» What costs did they pay, rules did they break, shortcuts did they take?
»» What makes this construct more than human?
»» What makes it other than human?
»» How can it be controlled?
»» How can it be destroyed?

Lycanthropes and shapeshifters

This monster is an individual who can shift between two or more selves through
some supernatural or scientific transformation. The werewolf is the iconic ver-
sion, and there are as many variations on them as there are dog breeds. The oth-
erworldly shapeshifter from the movie The Thing, who can mimic others, is another
version. In both cases the monster can pass among humans sometimes, but the
monstrous form lurks just beneath the surface waiting to be discovered or let
loose. Get you shape changers under control by answering these questions:

»» How and why do the shifts happen?

»» How much control does the monster have over the shifts?
»» What strengths and weaknesses does each form have?
»» Are the forms distinct personalities or shared expressions of an individual?
»» Is there a cure or way to stop the shifts and would one or more of the selves
use the cure if they could?

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 MY HERO, THE MONSTER
Some folks just love a baddie. It’s no surprise: Monsters though they are can also be
sexy, powerful, and cool. They’re the ultimate rebels. They do what they want and don’t
care about what normal people think. You can absolutely have a monster as your hero.

The easiest way to make this work is to have your monster be the lesser of two evils,
fighting an even nastier and less appealing monstrous foe. Or the monster can be a
tragic figure, someone or something whose point of view the audience understands,
but whose evil nature dooms them to a fate that audiences recognize as just even as
they’re a little sad to see the cool monster go.

Vampires and the undead

The undead exist in that nebulous, unsettling space between life and death. They
thus have connections to both worlds and properties of each. Whether they’re a
flesh-eating ghoul dwelling in the sewer system or an aristocratic vampire in her
castle, the aura of death and decay surrounds them. Only by taking from the living
can the undead fend off death’s final embrace. Before you defy death, consider the
following questions:

»» What does it take from the innocent and living in order to survive and thrive?
»» What is its fundamental nature, scientific or supernatural?
»» What are its strengths and vulnerabilities?
»» How humanish is the monster? Can it pass as one of the living or is its visage
purely terrifying?

Hunting Down Homicidal Humans

From Norman Bates in Psycho to Annie Wilkes in Misery to Hannibal Lecter in
Hannibal, human beings can cause just as much fear and dread as any lake-lurking
gill-man or leather- and spike-clad demonic executioner summoned from hell.
Although fantastical monsters offer dark pleasures of their own, an entirely natu-
ral killer can create a special kind of realistic horror and dread. The following
breaks down the disturbing elements of writing fiction about killers who can seem
all too real.

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 Confronting all too natural-born killers
The most frightening thing about human monsters is that the audience doesn’t
have to suspend their disbelief. Both history and the daily news are full of terrible
tragedies caused by profoundly evil and horrifying people. The precedent is every­
where and the precise threat is very imaginable.

The idea that a killer lives in the neighborhood, that they could be anyone and
could kill anywhere is deeply disturbing. These homicidal humans may be rare,
but they’re not impossible. The dreadful anticipation created by a suspicious
neighbor and the shocking revelations of what can really happen behind closed
doors literally bring the horror home. More than anything, these stories suggest
that anyone could become a monster.

Beyond the existential fear of the murderer around the corner, many are also
morbidly fascinated with the macabre and sometimes bizarre details of serial,
ritual, and mass murder. Horror stories with homicidal humans as antagonists
typically dredge up inspiration from the darker and more extreme cases. Chapter 5
on worldbuilding advises that you start with Earth. Starting with the details of real
murders means to some degree letting a psychopath inspire and guide you. That
research into actual atrocities can be truly traumatic and isn’t for everyone. One
of the reasons horror stories are cathartic for audiences is that they’re fiction. The
fictional framework insulates the audience from the full implications of death
and agony.

True crime stories are more numerous than ever, from books to documentary
series to podcasts, and audiences have developed a taste for them. Successfully
and responsibly telling a true crime story takes research, skill, and thoughtful-
ness. Even then you risk disrespecting the true criminal’s victims or casting
unfounded suspicions on the potentially innocent. This section, indeed this whole
book, is about fiction, and we don’t necessarily think the approaches to writing a
horror story are the same as what you need to write true crime.

Solving dramatic and mysterious murders

Freed from the challenges and obligations of true crime, make your human mon-
sters dramatic characters first and foremost custom-made to inspire the specific
kinds of horror and dread your story demands. All the techniques for metaphor
and monster characteristics detailed in this chapter still apply, even for stories
that include no supernatural or science fiction elements. A human who behaves
animalistically (say, eating human flesh) is monstrous and frightening even
though they don’t have wolf claws or vampire fangs.

Don’t be afraid to heighten your homicidal humans for dramatic effect. Fictional
serial killers often transcend the mundane murders with massively complicated

300 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 means of murder weighed down with meaning and motive. They seem capable of
being in multiple places at once and always plan six moves ahead of the protago-
nists. The immense cost, time, and labor involved in carrying out their baroque
schemes go unmentioned, and audiences are fine with this for the most part. It’s
not only okay, but often it’s awesome to give your killer a little bit of more-than
possible in order to heighten their horrific impact and keep the cycle of unknown →
anticipation → revelation flowing.

Fictional killers exist on a spectrum between unimaginable and all too possible.
You have to make them at least somewhat believable in order to get the fearful
frisson of “it could happen to me” from your audience. But real crimes are seldom
as imaginative as horror fiction audiences desire. Here again, MAYA is a useful
guide (see Chapter 6). Make your killer’s actions too imaginative and over the top,
and the tension dissipates into a pulpy farce (which maybe you want, maybe you
don’t). Too real and it risks becoming depressing and revolting rather than thrill-
ing. Avoid making your killers too one dimensional, however. They can’t just be
pure evil.

At one end of the spectrum lurk the iconic slashers of movie franchises like
Halloween, Friday the 13th, or Saw. Those films have thrills and chills by the bloody
bucketful, but no one in the audience believes that kind of thing can happen to
them. As those franchises have gone on, the killers themselves have become
supernatural monsters more than homicidal humans. At the other end of the
spectrum are more grounded and emotionally disturbing movies like Henry:
Portrait of a Serial Killer and Monster, which work hard to ground the horrors in the
gritty, mundane details of reality, making them all the more horrifying for their
plausibility.

Exposing deadly cults

Real world cults caused some of the most disturbing and horrifying mass casualty
events in recent history. The tragic 1978 murders and suicides at Jonestown, Guy-
ana, made Jim Jones and his cult world infamous and introduced the macabre
expression “drinking the Kool-Aid” into the popular lexicon. Cults are as much an
object of morbid fascination as serial killers and have been the subject and setting
for many great horror stories.

With cults you get not just one homicidal human, but also a whole church/gang/
sect full of seemingly normal people whose worldview has become threatening in
some way. The real antagonist is the cult leader or leaders, who often don’t get
their own hands bloody, but enthusiastically encourage their followers to do their
work (see Charlie Manson). The cult leader claims some connection to a higher
power or some greater understanding about the universe. They offer their follow-
ers enlightenment or salvation or worldly power, and in return they expect full
and complete devotion. Cult followers are isolated from their friends and family,

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 giving themselves fully to the leader’s skewed view of reality. This break from the
consensus worldview makes cultists particularly unsettling.

One of the creepy-cool things about cults in horror stories is that, as often as not,
the cult leader is right! They really are in touch with some otherworldly power or
privy to secret wisdom. Maybe the dark power they worship is manipulating and
using the leader, but that demon or ancient god really is giving supernatural gifts
in return for those human sacrifices. Real-world cults have a terrible record at
predicting the end of the world, but those failed predictions may well come true in
your story. Similarly, the Satanic Panic of the 1970s and ’80s in the United States
saw the publication of dozens of stories of devil worshippers. Although none of
these stories were in fact true, they’re full of outrageous tales of cult activity to
inspire your fiction.

Winning the duel of wits

Chapter 18 explains how important the unknown is in creating a sense of dreadful
anticipation. The mystery of the unknown is a super-alluring tool in all kinds of
stories, and of course it’s key to the wildly popular mystery and suspense genres.
An entire whole other book could explore all the techniques for writing great sto-
ries in those genres, but you can use some core techniques from those genres in
your horror fiction.

Chapter 19 provides basic structures commonly found in horror narratives. Two of

those, the discovery and contest narratives, work especially well for homicidal
human-driven plots:

»» Discovery narratives focus on the mystery of uncovering the source of

horror that’s murdering people and trying to stop them. The audience knows
little about the killer as the story opens and learns more along with the
protagonists. Figuring out the puzzle keeps the audience engaged, and the
clever twists, turns, and revelations along the way provide the thrills. The
protagonists can be law enforcement, potential victims, or even curious kids,
anyone who struggles to preserve or return the community to safety and
normalcy in the face of the antagonist’s monstrous actions.

»» Contest narratives focus on the clash between the killer and those trying to
stop them. Here the audience gets to know a lot about the homicidal human,
usually much more than the protagonists in the story. They spend time in
scenes from the killer’s point of view, the tension building as the crimes grow
more and more intense. The dramatic question involves whether the protago-
nist overcomes the human monster or not, and if they do, what cost will
they pay?

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 Both narratives create a game of cat and mouse between the two sides, and often
the line blurs between who is the hunter and who is the hunted. Taking that for-
mula from the classic mystery/suspense story into the realm of horror means
working in all the other techniques in Chapters 18 and 19. In addition to curiosity,
what other emotions does the story invoke? How do the revelations continue to
ratchet up the horror toward catharsis? What characteristics make this homicidal
human not just a killer, but a true, threatening, impure monster?

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 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Writing creepy details that develop

dread

»» Haunting a house (or anyplace else)

Chapter 21
Lurking in Every Shadow:
Where Horror Resides

H
orror stories as a form of entertainment really came into their own in the
17th century with what became known as Gothic literature. Horace
Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764) kicked things off with a wild, weird,
and creepy tale of an ancient castle, a cursed family, skeletal spirits, and a giant
helmet that appears out of nowhere to crush a bridegroom on his wedding day.
The Gothic continues to be a thriving genre of its own and went in all sorts of
interesting directions, all of them sharing at their core uniting element: a partic-
ularly potent place of mystery and dread.

As a source of fear (refer to Chapter  18), the Gothic is firmly rooted in a very
specific and usually extremely spooky place. This evocative environment sets the
dark mood for everything that happens in it, from ghosts and vampires to
murderous mad patriarchs and deep family secrets. You also can discover a lot
from the Gothic’s use of setting to enhance dreadful anticipation, no matter what
your story’s setting or source of horror is. This chapter builds on those crumbling,
cursed Gothic foundations to provide a set of tools for making all of your horrify-
ing locales as effective as possible.

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Constructing Environments
That Raise Dread
Sometimes a writer, usually a beginning writer, will say something like, “The city
of New York is really the main character in this story.” When we hear a student
say that, warning bells go off. It usually means the story is lacking an interesting
antagonist and may not have anything resembling an engaging plot. However, in
a horror story, the setting sometimes really is the antagonist, and it can be every
bit as dangerous and proactive as a monster. And even when your setting isn’t
actively trying to kill your protagonists, you want it to be doing everything it can
to establish the right mood and tone.

Any place becomes freaky if you turn out the lights and fill it with spiders, but you
can make a location put characters and readers on edge in more subtle and versa-
tile ways. The following sections are some of the creepy characteristics common
to many horror story locales. As with the monster characteristics in Chapter 20, an
environment can incorporate some or all of these to varying degrees. Think of
them as levels you can lower or raise or perhaps as sinister spices that let you
season your setting to taste.

These elements are useful for any part of your setting, from the site of your dra-
matic finale to a weird curio shop the protagonist visits to find a clue to the
demon’s origins. Later we give you even more tools for creating key locales that
are central to your story.

Isolated or inaccessible
Dreadful locales are almost always cut off from the outside world in some way,
which allows them to work as contained, focused settings for horror. This isolation
means that characters can’t easily come in and, more importantly, can’t easily
leave. With escape routes cut off, the heroes have to face the horrors instead of flee-
ing. In the classic Gothic formula, the isolation is usually geographic: the strange
house on the hill, the sinister swamp at the edge of town, and so on. But your scene
can be right next door to a busy grocery store and still be isolated in some other way.

Here are some narrative uses for isolated or inaccessible places:

»» Physically cut off: Whether it has high walls and locked doors or is off the
main roads and beaten paths that locals are familiar with, it’s hard work to
enter and leave. In a supernatural story, the location may seal itself off
through magical means, making both finding and escaping it a reality-defying
challenge.

306 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 »» Economically or socially committed: The characters can’t afford to leave
without paying a price they’re not prepared to pay, and nobody outside the
location can help them. They invested their life savings or are duty-bound to
stay for the sake of their career or family.

»» Psychologically ensnaring: The location holds some powerful sway over the
minds and imaginations of the characters. It can be hypnotic or supernatural, or
perhaps the characters’ own personal obsessions keep them there. Whatever
the cause, they want to stay, no matter how much sense it makes to run.

»» Out of time: The location is temporally distant from the contemporary world
of your story either because it hasn’t kept up with the times or because the
people there choose to live life out of touch with modernity. It doesn’t have
electricity, the landline is unreliable, and the unpaved roads wash out in a
heavy rain. More than likely, it has seen better days, but now it has fallen
toward ruin with crumbling walls and unstable floors. Visitors can’t rely on the
technology and/or ideas they’re used to, isolating them from the world they’re
most comfortable and capable in.

Intimidating and foreboding

The location doesn’t welcome visitors with open arms and a cup of hot cocoa. As
you approach, the high walls, ancient woods, or fog-shrouded moors all make
folks think twice before stepping in. The place probably has a grim reputation
among locals, with a long history of crimes or tragedies or mysterious goings-on.
That doesn’t mean it’s hard to get to or inaccessible. The dangerous neighborhood
can be two subway stops away, the cursed woods just at the edge of town.

Intimidating locales usually include some or all of these characteristics:

»» Domineering: The place physically and/or psychologically looms large in the

surrounding community. It may be the cruel baron’s castle, an oppressive
outpost of the police state, or a crumbling hospital, home to cruel treatments.
Everyone knows it’s there, they just chose to look away for fear of drawing its
attention.

»» Legendary: The place has a reputation with those who know of it — and it’s
not good. It was the scene of horrific crimes, the location of a tragic loss, or
home to an infamous dabbler in the dark arts. There’s a witch out in those
woods, or maybe it’s a werewolf. You may get different stories, depending
who you talk to, but everyone agrees something spooky is there, even if
they’ve never seen it themselves.

»» Restricted: The space is quite welcoming, if you’re the right kind of person.
Otherwise, stay away! Secret corporate research facilities, military bases, cult

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 compounds, and reclusive or insular communities all raise suspicions amongst
the many people who aren’t allowed in. These spaces emphasize the disparity
of knowledge between the protagonist and other characters, implying that
there’s not only a secret worth keeping, but one that may be worth killing for.

»» Dangerous: This place can flat-out kill you. It can be naturally perilous: a
crocodile-infested swamp or avalanche-prone mountainside. Perhaps
dangerous people or monsters protect it, attacking anyone who approaches.
It may be toxic or cause psychic harm or be filled with booby traps. Outsiders
may or may not know about the dangers that lurk within. Either way, most
who trespass suffer direct harm, and only a plucky or lucky protagonist can
survive the experience.

Uncanny and unsettling

The place just doesn’t behave like a place should. It doesn’t have to be supernatu-
rally weird, but it should be out of the ordinary in ways that cause unease or sug-
gest unhinged origins. The real-world Winchester Mystery House in California
famously has a seemingly endless series of rooms with stairs that go nowhere
and doors that open onto nothing. Whether or not it’s actually haunted depends
on who you ask, but the reasons Sarah Winchester had it built that way are well-
known and no less unsettling for it.

Here are some characteristics that make these locations so disquieting:

»» Weird: The location has pockets of strangeness that is otherwise pretty normal:
A corner in a sealed room that always drafty. A clearing in the woods where
compasses spin wildly. A gaunt, silent doorman who never blinks but smiles a
toothless grin when he opens the door for visitors. The contrast between the
odd and the normal signifies something’s afoot, which puts visitors on edge.

»» Unusual: The denizens of the place have odd customs and local rules that
defy logic and tradition: Always knock three times before opening the closet
door. Never go into the woods after midnight. Don’t wear red on a Sunday.
Locals take these kinds of behaviors for granted and visitors are likely to
ignore or forget, which often in turn gets them into trouble.

»» Too perfect: The house is just too good to be true in some way. It’s exactly the
right price for a down-on-their-luck family. Everything is spotless, nothing
collects dust, and the furniture is so comfortable you never want to leave.
Ever. No matter what.

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 »» Shifting: Unpredictable changes occur too quickly or without explanation.
Locked doors that open themselves. A different clerk at the shop counter
every time a character comes to the curio shop. A cuckoo clock that chimes a
different song every day at noon. Those familiar with the place have learned
to take these changes in stride, but for an outsider they cause confusion and
curiosity. And you know what curiosity leads to . . .

Assembling Haunted Houses

and Other Lairs of Fear
The ancestral estate, decaying and glowering behind its high wall. The shuttered-
up family home at the end of the lane where no one’s lived for years. The some-
times luxurious mansion whose visitors sometimes never leave. The haunted
house is one of horror fiction’s great icons, a setting for stories that is familiar but
also home to endless variations. Its power is in large part from the inherent ten-
sion that comes from a place that’s supposed to shelter and comfort but instead
threatens and even kills. It sets the aspiration of having a home against the anxi-
eties of being trapped in a house that’s doing harm instead of good.

And not just houses house the monsters, mad scientists, and other antagonists of
horror. The lost cavern inhabited by primordial lizard people, the circle of standing
stones high atop a hill where witches and warlocks perform their rites, and the
cement bunker in the deep desert where amoral geneticists splice together things
that shouldn’t be, all serve similar narrative roles to the classic haunted house. Evil
and mystery lurk in these are places, and visitors risk skin and soul upon entry.

Because our love of haunted houses runs deep and true and because they have so
many iconic elements to explore, this section focuses on the haunted house. Note:
The principles here apply to all manner of dread locales.

Recognizing the types of haunted

houses — What lies within
There’s no one way to haunt a house, but haunted houses do have some broad
categories based on what dramatic purpose they serve in your narrative. Think
about what kind of characters may journey into the house and how the house itself
entices or repels potential visitors:

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 »» Forbidden houses: They’re off-limits for some reason. The house or entities
in the house don’t want to be disturbed, or the people around the house have
declared it dangerous. Characters have to go out of their way to go into the
house, becoming overreach plot protagonists (where characters purposefully
push past limits and restrictions; refer to Chapter 19 where we discuss these
protagonists in greater detail). Nobody comes inside without some hint or
warning that it’s a bad idea. They enter prepared to face at least some
possible threats.

»» Hungry houses: They lure people in because the house or the entities inside
want to harm hapless humans for some nefarious reason. They’re traps,
seducing visitors with tantalizing promises, often using either complicit or
ignorant outsiders (like real estate agents) to lure people in, who then become
trespass plot protagonists (where characters unknowingly stumble into danger;
see Chapter 19). Characters stumble into the house with little or no concept of
how dangerous it really is and often have no preconceptions or capabilities
for encountering the dangers within.

»» Mystery houses: They contain compelling clues to a mystery about the living
in some way. A main character’s loved one was murdered here or perhaps the
secret to a family curse lies within. The house becomes a set of obstacles in
the way of the character’s discovery plot (where characters investigate a
mystery of some sort; see Chapter 19). Characters come to the house with an
agenda, but they likely don’t really understand how deeply mysterious the
house will turn out to be.

As you think about the nature of your house, you can draw upon the tools for
making monsters in Chapter 20. Ask yourself these questions:

»» In what way is it threatening?

»» Does it behave like a sentient human or a wild animal in some way? Is it
heightened in scale or decor or mood, overfull of cobwebs and bristling with
gargoyles?

»» What smells, textures, tastes, and sounds do visitors encounter?

»» What unnatural and corruptive auras does it exude?
»» Are there any disgusting secrets, a rotting corpse, or a room filled with flies?
»» What specific design elements captivate the audience’s imagination, a massive
greenhouse or room-sized pipe organ? If your house is going to be an
antagonist, make it monstrous.

These are all questions to help you think of your house as more than just a loca-
tion, but also as a special kind of character that has as many distinctive and creepy
aspects as your story’s antagonist.

310 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

Welcome, foolish mortal
When writing and creating your haunted house, identify what brings your protago-
nists to this house. That depends on how the house relates to the character’s core
wants and objectives. How you define the house’s purpose for your plot should
guide the ways you furnish and inhabit its interior. Consider the following:

»» Subjects of study: These houses are places where outsiders come looking for
answers. The haunted house is an alluring subject for those fascinated by the
afterlife because these homes can hold the key to the mystery of life and death.
Or they can unlock the potential of humanity’s latent psychic abilities. The house
may or may not resist being studied, but it often becomes the battleground for
the classic conflict between the skeptic’s technology and the believer’s seances,
struggling to make sense of the home’s mysteries. Neither side usually comes
away happy from the experience . . . if indeed they come away at all.

»» Objects of envy: They’re impressive buildings that highlight class differences

and sharpen money problems. A haunted house is often a manifestation of
the price of opulence. These grand homes are dream houses, aspirational and
enticing, but most people can never afford such a place, unless something is
wrong with it. Perhaps something is wrong with the people who can afford to
own it. Any great mansion must be built upon the pain and suffering of the
poor. Its existence is inherently exploitative. All that pain and trauma brings
out the worst in those stuck there, often families who have spent all their
money to buy this “great bargain” and now have no way to leave it without
suffering financial ruin.

»» Shelters for dread: They’re houses for something or someone unsavory. The
dread denizens use the home as an actual home; it shelters them and their
secrets from the outside world. Far from being abandoned, the house is kept
up in the grim manner that best serves its inhabitants. A hungry house can
house an angry spirit or some creature who feeds on outsiders. A classic
Gothic house is the ancestral home of the menacing heir to a family fortune
built on bloody deeds. The house directly expresses the wants and actions of
its owner, often to the detriment of visiting protagonists who have to enter if
they want to defeat the antagonist.

Tapping into what came before

Every haunted house has a history, and something from that past is reaching out
into the present to cause trouble. You don’t want to invent the house’s history
until you’ve established its role in the story, but after you’ve done that, you can
have fun with its history. Finding out the dark past of how this place came to be
haunted or cursed should be a real pleasure for the audience.

CHAPTER 21 Lurking in Every Shadow: Where Horror Resides 311

 Look to Chapter 7 for more about writing exposition, and remember that the key
is to make the backstory a fully formed story with a beginning, middle, and end
that features characters audiences hope and fear for. In horror, presenting the
house’s history is a great excuse to tell a mini ghost story within your bigger story.
Short short horror stories are their own artform, and they can land a mighty
dreadful punch in just a page or two.

When imagining the house’s history, ask yourself these questions:

»» Where is it located?
»» Who built it and why?
»» How has it changed since it was built?
»» Who has lived (and died) in it?
»» How did it become haunted?
»» Why does it stay haunted?
Remember, when we write “haunted,” we’re including not only by ghosts but also
possessed by demons, occupied by cultists, used for evil research, or infested with
giant killer bats.

Sizing up the scene

After the characters step through those creaking doors, envision what’s it like
inside the house. How expansive is your haunted house? There’s no right answer
because both a hundred-room grand mansion and a dingy apartment with a mys-
teriously sealed closet door have horrors lurking, just waiting to be found.

Here are three ways to make your house’s interior heighten the horror for those
characters unfortunate enough to step inside:

»» Labyrinthine houses: They have more locked doors and cobwebbed corners
than the characters can ever explore fully. There’s always another place for a
monster to hide or for a secret to be discovered. The threat of the unknown
never fully dissipates in such a place. Even worse, getting lost in a maze of
rooms or turned around in a trackless wilderness creates a special kind of
helplessness. Your readers know what being lost feels like and can easily
sympathize with the desperation and frustration that sets in when you don’t
know where to go next.

»» Confined spaces: They present their own unique advantages. Readers can
come to know every corner in a confined location and hold it in their minds.

312 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

 They know where the exits and entrances are and how one space relates to
another. The sense of confinement combined with the isolation of many
haunted houses (refer to the section, “Recognizing the types of haunted
houses — What lies within,” earlier in this chapter) creates a stifling claustro-
phobia. That confinement means when the weird things start to happen,
there aren’t as many places to hide. It also means that when something
strange changes — a door that wasn’t there before, a crack in the bathroom
mirror, a shift in the lights — the readers will notice.

»» Shifting structures: They’re more unusual, places where the hallways and
rooms aren’t always in the same place and new ones may appear. Such
changes usually require either supernatural or science-fictional sources of
horror and are often the hallmark of an aggressive, antagonistic house. These
radical changes to reality immediately put visitors on edge and can send them
into a full panic if the door out disappears.

Combining two extremes or switching from one to the other within the same story
and even the same location is possible. Investigators of a haunted house and resi-
dents in rundown Gothic manors often pick just a handful of rooms to use as a
kind of base camp or home within a home. These rooms become places of security
and comfort in the face of the wider house’s mysteries and threats (at least for a
while). And nothing is creepier than finding a new space within a home that
shouldn’t be there. Mark Z.  Danielewski’s mind-blowing haunted house novel,
House of Leaves (Pantheon Books), is a perfect example of taking this bigger space
within a smaller space to an intense extreme.

A ghost will follow you home . . .

A haunted house or other accursed and dangerous place seems like a container for
the evils within. There’s an implicit assumption by the audience and characters
that the bad stuff is in there, and as soon as the trouble starts, getting out means
reaching safety. That works well for many stories. Make sure you have a clear goal
for the characters, something specific the audience can hope for. Escape the
haunted house couldn’t be clearer.

Except sometimes, leaving the house isn’t an escape. As in Susan Hill’s 1983 novel
The Woman in Black (Hamish Hamilton), sometimes the ghosts follow you home
and bring the haunting with them. The protagonist’s ordeal within the house has
left them corrupted or cursed with no easy escape. The story shifts gears and the
narrative moves from one of discovery or trespass to one of pursuit or contest
(Chapter 19 details these plot types). This change usually comes as a surprise to
the reader and characters alike and can reset the audience’s expectations about
the story, increasing the levels of anticipation and dread.

CHAPTER 21 Lurking in Every Shadow: Where Horror Resides 313

 Taking the haunting out of the house works best when the external haunting feels
as closely connected to the house it came from as possible. If the ghost from inside
has journeyed out, find ways for its actions and desires to reflect the origins and
nature of the house. Is it trying to drag the protagonist back or re-create the
haunted house in a new location? Maybe the ghost doesn’t actively exit the house,
but rather a psychological obsession or connection that follows the character
home. Figure out how the ghost’s behavior outside reflects the haunting inside.
Often these stories loop back to the house for the finale, the protagonist forced to
face the unfinished business they fled from.

ASSEMBLING YOUR DREADFUL LOCALE

We encourage you to play with different combinations when you’re writing your horror
story to create a realistic setting. Although the set of settings that we discuss in this
chapter isn’t exhaustive, it is versatile, and we encourage you to play with different com-
binations. Whether you’re constructing a haunted house, an ancient ruin, or an uncanny
corner store, try and answer these questions:

• How do its environmental elements create dread? Look to see whether the
location is isolated or inaccessible, intimidating and foreboding, or uncanny and
unsettling, and to what degree.

• What’s the dramatic essence of the location? Determine whether the location is
forbidden to visitors, hungry for victims, or a vault in which mysteries are kept.

• Why do your protagonists come to the location? Figure out whether the location
is a subject of study, an object of envy, or a shelter for some dreadful thing they
must confront.

• What is the place’s history? Tell the story of who, what, where, when, how, and
why this place came to be as dreadful as it is.

• What is the size and scope of the space? Figure out if it’s vast and confusing or
confined and claustrophobic. Assess whether it shifts and changes in response
to intruders.

314 PART 5 Horror: Journeys into Fear

6
The Journey
from Writing
to Publication
IN THIS PART . . .

Understand how professional writers edit and revise

their stories.

Use the drafting process to discover, explore, and

enhance story themes.

Bring in the right experts and outside help to push

your story to the next level.

Find out what you need to know about literary agents,

editors, and the increasingly interesting world of
self-publishing.

Embrace the power and potential of networking.

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Revising with a clear plan

»» Doing things in order

»» Thinking about theme

»» Giving it one final polish

Chapter 22
Revising and Editing
Like a Pro

S
o, you’ve written a complete draft of your story. That’s an accomplishment
worth celebrating! Many beginning and early-career writers struggle to get
to THE END. Take a moment to feel proud. You deserve it, even if you have
mixed feelings about the story draft at this point.

After you’ve taken a moment to honor all the hard work that went into creating
that initial draft, you’re ready to honor the story itself by putting in the rest of the
work to make it the best version that it can be. The first version is just you telling
the story to yourself; subsequent drafts are you figuring out how to best tell the
story to others.

Now’s the time to fall out of love with your story and ask the hard questions. If a
friend showed you this story, would you recommend they send it out for publica-
tion as soon as possible? How does this story compare to the best of what’s being
published today? How many ways to improve the story can you think of? If the
story were 100 percent totally awesomely perfect, how would it be different than
what you have in your hands?

Odds are that you have some work to do. And that’s fine because no one writes
perfect first drafts. No one. This chapter helps you begin with a clear, actionable
revision plan to keep you on track. We explain how revision has to go before

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 317

 editing because revision includes big-picture stuff that can affect or even require
deleting smaller things you may otherwise have spent a lot of time on. We also
address finding, improving, and revising for theme, which is an underutilized but
vital aspect of any story. Lastly, we talk about final draft concerns, such as editing
and proofreading.

Create a version history of your story by keeping copies instead of working on the
same one over and over. You’ll never lose anything this way. Just save a new file
with the story title, draft number, and date (for example, Day_of_the_Dread.
v3.101022). Some authors do this before each work session to help motivate them;
looking at all those drafts in a folder on your computer can energize you if you
ever hit a writing funk.

Creating a Revision Plan

After you’ve put all that time into creating your first draft, the best thing you can
do is not look at it for a week or two. Preferably a month. Why? You’re too close to
the story. You need to cleanse your literary palate by enjoying other stories and
getting some distance from your own. You need to get to the point where moving
away from your initial creative impulses doesn’t feel like a profound betrayal.

Seriously. Give yourself space and time.

When you’re more excited about the possibilities of your story than nervous about
the workload required to explore those, you’re probably ready to dive back in.

When you’re ready to revise, don’t just wing it. You need a plan. “Making things
better” isn’t a plan. Nor is “fixing everything.” Problems identified are problems
solved, so your plan should be to locate and deal with the many problems a first
draft has, but in the most orderly way possible.

Here are a few ways to create a revision plan. Use one or more of them, as you are
so moved.

Putting on your reader’s cap

Take your writer’s hat and throw it out the window. You’re a reader now, and
that’s all you’re going to do. You’re not going to try to fix one darn thing yet. Fol-
low these steps to start acting like a reader:

318 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

1. Read the entire story from the first line to the last without pausing
(if possible), taking notes, or fixing anything.

The goal is to see the entire thing as a complete whole versus the fragmented,
convoluted mess it was during the act of creation. It may still read like a
fragmented, convoluted mess, which is okay. First drafts are supposed to
be a mess.

2. Read the entire story again, this time slowly and carefully.

Make notes on a page-by-page, scene-by-scene, and chapter-by-chapter basis.

Document everything that bugs you, confuses you, challenges you, or raises
any questions. Mark gaps in logic, things that are missing, and things that are
out of sequence. Note anything you wish were better.

If you have two computer monitors going, you can have two files open at once
and easily work with two documents. You may find it more effective to print
out the story and make notes in the margin. Another option is to work with the
story on your screen but take notes by hand on paper or in a notebook.

Think more about character, plot, conflict, and setting aspects than small
things you’ll deal with later, such as sentence structure, grammar, or word
choice. Focus on the big stuff here. Writers revise first and edit later.

Resist the overwhelming urge to tweak, adjust, delete, and all that. This isn’t yet
the time!

3. Put your writer’s hat back on and work through each of your manuscript
notes in order.

If you solicited the help of outside readers (more on this process in

Chapter 23), incorporate their notes into yours and deal with them in the
same way.

Pay special attention to the cause-and-effect logic of plot, the motivations and
actions of the characters, and all types of conflict.

Remaking the outline

On a wall, door, table, or whiteboard, create a visual chapter-by-chapter, scene-
by-scene, or even a moment-by-moment outline. Yes, this is going to get big. In
many ways, the bigger you make this outline, the more easily you’ll notice
problems.

We recommend using notecards or sticky notes, but go with whatever makes

sense to you. Consider using colors to track story elements, such as blue being
clues that move the main character closer to the solution of a mysterious magic
crime or red being scenes that take place in a dreamworld.

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 319

 Watch for imbalances and disconnects in terms of characters, conflicts, plot, and
setting. Refer back to the outline as you’re handling revisions so you don’t lose
track of important issues or fix one thing only to unfix something else.

Going high tech

No story exists or has ever existed that you can’t lay out in a graph, chart, or
spreadsheet. Mine your story for useful data. For instance:

»» Chart out how many scenes are in each chapter.

»» Mark what the per-chapter word count is.
»» Discover the frequency a villain or rival appears or is mentioned.
»» Find out the average sentence length and overall lexile (the reading difficulty
rating of a text generated through the Lexile Framework for Reading). You
want a relatively consistent rating or the writing will feel jarring since it’s
fluctuating between reading levels.

The data you’ve gathered will reveal gaps, imbalances, disconnections, and unin-
tended consequences that go unnoticed when performing a more traditional read-
through. Addressing these issues becomes your revision plan.

Going low tech

Using sticky notes doesn’t get more low tech, but they’re a versatile way to help
manage revision. Purchase a few packs in a range of colors, sizes, and shapes. Play
with them for a bit because you know you want to.

Then get serious about revision using one or more of the following ways to make
the sticky notes work for you:

»» Read a physical copy of the story and mark each page with a color-coded note
to indicate what type of revision is needed. For example, orange may be scene
expansion, green may be adding more description, yellow may note a
low-conflict scene, and so on. Afterward, go back and handle all of one color
at a time, then repeat the process with the next color.

»» Read a physical copy of the story and mark each page with a color-coded
sticky note to indicate which character has an important scene. You’ll likely be
shocked at how frequently this simple activity reveals that characters are
more (or less!) important than you suspected by virtue of how many impor-
tant scenes they’re given. Adjust as needed.

320 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 »» Without going back to your story yet, write your main character’s primary
want and primary need on its own sticky note. Place those in clear sight of
your work area so when you return to work on the story, you can’t help but be
reminded that every moment of the story should affect and be affected by
those two things. Perhaps want/need notes for important secondary charac-
ters and antagonists might also prove useful?

»» Make notes about your story in the whirlwind of your day and smack them
onto a wall, mirror, or whiteboard. (This one’s great for super-busy people!)
When you actually carve out to time to revise the story, address the issues,
concerns, and thoughts one note at a time.

If you firmly pull a sticky note forward versus peel it backward to detach it from
the pack, it’ll remain flatter and stick better. Try it and see!

Answering first-draft questions

Every writer develops their own set of questions that get to the heart of what’s not
working in an early draft. Veronica Roth, the author of the massively successful
Divergent trilogy, has blogged about her revision process, including revealing the
questions she asks about her own story drafts. Mystery writer and Writer’s Digest
contributing editor Elizabeth Sims has detailed her revision process and questions
she asks of her stories in her fine writing how-to book, You’ve Got a Book in You.

Ask the revision questions that these pros do, or use the following:

»» Where am I in this story? What makes it a story only I can tell?

»» Where does the real story begin? And where must it necessarily end?
»» What are the emotional stakes for the main character? For the other
characters?

»» How much do the character arcs actually arc? Does the story clearly demon-
strate character change?

»» What can I cut without losing meaning? (“If I had to pay $27 per word for each
word in this draft, do I really want all those words in there?”)

»» Which characters could most easily be combined into one?

»» Which scenes am I most excited about? Least excited about? Why?
»» Does every scene have conflict? Is the conflict strong enough?
»» Am I able to identify the purpose of every scene?
Your answers become a targeted revision plan. Act on it accordingly.

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 321

 Using second opinions
Seeking an outside reader or two at any point in the revision process is acceptable,
especially if you’re unsure where to direct your efforts. Just realize that your story
is likely a mess because creativity is messy, as are early story drafts. It’s already
asking a lot of someone to read any manuscript, but one that’s going to be
extremely flawed? That’s a huge ask. Make sure the person knows what they’re
getting into and reward them appropriately.

Chapter 23 reveals how to find, work with, and thank outside readers.

Revising First, Editing Later

Both revision and editing require tools. Revision is bulldozers, cranes, and cement
trucks. Editing is dental picks, brushes, and a polishing cloth. Read on for ideas on
what happens in the revision process to move your story toward being
audience-worthy.

Some people use the term “story development” to talk about revision and
“copyediting” or just “editing” to refer to sentence-level fixes and general
proofreading. So long as you do them in the correct order, we don’t mind what
you call them.

Figuring out who this story really is about

Revision time means everything gets reconsidered. That includes your protago-
nist. Again and again, we see student and client stories where the most dramati-
cally interesting character is  .  .  .  the antagonist. Or a supporting character. Or
simply someone who isn’t the alleged protagonist.

Stories are about a protagonist who deeply wants something, is willing to work
hard to get it, and changes through their engagement with the forces of opposi-
tion that get in their way. Being interesting needs to be part of the whole package.

If that’s the situation in your story, you have two options:

»» Revise your protagonist into someone equally interesting.

»» Admit that the story is really the antagonist’s or supporting character’s or
whoever’s story and pivot to embrace that fact. There’s no shame in making
the right choice a bit late in the process.

322 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

It’s easy for us to just say “Change your main character!” because we don’t have
to do the hard work of making your story viable. Changing whose story it is rep-
resents a massive undertaking that has seismic repercussions throughout the
whole manuscript. You may need to cut sections, add new ones, change point of
view, and more. But if that shift moves you toward the best version of the story,
do it right now. This is the second-best time to make big changes. (The first-best
time is in the planning, prewriting, and outlining stage  — before you write a
single word of the actual story. Chapter 3 is where we talk at length about all the
planning and plotting stories require.)

Discovering what this story really is about

Odds are that when you wrote the first sentence of the story, you were pretty sure
the story was about one thing, like a wisecracking robot butler that becomes sen-
tient. Now that you can see the entire thing after spending so much time with the
story and creating it from beginning to end, no doubt you see it’s potentially about
cryogenics, the Fate Lords, black holes, and perhaps a dozen other things as well.

There’s a huge difference between things that happen in your story and what your
story is actually about. What a story is about is the thing that nonwriters are most
attracted to when you describe your plot. That’s The Cool Thing. The Hook. The
Wow factor. It’s the story aspect that will help you sell your story and earn a
sizable audience.

Readers may mistake what simply happens in a story for theme. You need to guide
them toward theme, and we talk in greater detail about that very thing in the
next section.

If nonwriters don’t consistently get attracted to a single thing, you may have
problems. A story about too many things is just as problematic as having it mean-
der without any particular focus. You’re the writer. Every creative choice is yours,
so make them. Decide what the story wants and needs to be about, and then deliver
on all the promises and potential of that focus.

To zero in on what your story should be about, answer the following:

»» What do you most want audiences to take from the story?

»» What’s the most important plot line?
»» What’s a single image (or symbol) that characterizes the story?
»» What’s a single word that characterizes the story?
»» What’s the most meaningful way your protagonist changes?
»» What’s the primary theme of your story?
CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 323
 After you’re settled on what your story is about, revise with that agenda in mind.
Tweak your protagonist’s backstory and desire. Adjust plot to highlight the story’s
new focus. Scrutinize character arcs, the climax, and the ending. Also, layer in
complexity and nuance as appropriate so your story isn’t overly one-note about
its focus.

Focusing on Theme — It Isn’t Just

for Eighth-Grade Book Reports
Writers can get evasive about theme. It’s understandable because the idea of
talking about theme feels awkwardly reductive, like the audience is tapping their
feet, yawning, and checking the time as they whine, “Just bottom line it for
me — what’s this story about?”

Writers want their work to be read, appreciated, enjoyed, and reflected upon. They
want any meanings to be the natural result of that multifaceted story experience.
That’s fine, but theme is inevitable, even in a story where the writer insists: “Aw,
shucks! It’s just a story!” Stories bring up questions, explore possibilities, present
conflicts, and examine the consequences of character action. Given all that, there’s
simply no way for audiences not to find meaning in those words. Even if it were
possible to write a meaningless story, who’d volunteer to experience such a thing?

Start with the larger, overall feel of the story before getting down to the
nitty-gritty details. Writers can easily get lost in trying to perfect a single
paragraph — or even a sentence! — and then may lose the heart of the story.

To make the most of themes in your story, you need to understand exactly what
theme is. Then you need to find the themes that are already likely tucked away in
your written pages before embarking on a plan to amp up those themes. The fol-
lowing sections guide you in those steps.

Understanding what theme is

General readers might call theme the meaning of a story. Literary critics consider
theme the point of the work. As writers, we prefer to talk about theme as the core
idea of a story: Theme typically reveals a truth about the human condition to audi-
ences. A mother’s love has limits. Always take your shot because regrets haunt
you until you die. Absolute power corrupts everyone it touches.

324 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

As we mention in Chapter 2, theme isn’t a statement that must hold true for all
stories or even in real life. The theme need only be authentic to this story, given its
unique characters, circumstances, conflicts, and choices. Theme deeply connects
to and informs what your story is about.

Given that, you can easily see how theme infuses a story with greater meaning. It
also helps you plot a story by unifying its parts. Even though plot gives you the
what, theme gives you the why. Knowing that will help you both write and revise.

For example, consider Thomas Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs. The core thematic
dilemma is this: Is it worth dealing with one monster to catch another? No matter what
you do, you’re dealing with at least one monster.

Finding an elusive theme

You may not know your theme, which is okay. Many writers focus on plot and
character in the first draft because they’re just figuring things out. The job of
revising is to do big-picture work, and building up a potential theme is an effec-
tive big-picture way to improve your story fast.

Here are places to look for the kernels of theme hiding in your manuscript:

»» The logline: If you’re summarizing your story in a sentence, surely the theme
is suggested because the story’s key elements are — or should be! — present.
Scrutinize nouns and verbs for clues to related themes. For example, if you
use the word “school,” then knowledge, maturation, justice, or revenge might
be potential arenas for a theme.

»» The conflict: Yes, the theme must connect to the primary conflict, but it likely
makes an appearance in other conflicts, too. Look for recurring threads that
can be tied together to build, challenge, and finally demonstrate your story’s
theme.

»» The character arc: The challenges facing your protagonist as they grow and
change offer a fine opportunity for the exploration of a theme. Think about
the character’s desires, fears, and flaws, too. Potential themes are tucked into
those areas without a doubt. Chapter 2 discusses character arcs in greater
detail.

»» The ending: Identify the takeaway you’re creating for audiences in the climax
and resolution That mood, idea, or the new norm for the protagonist’s life is
connected to the story’s theme. Unpack it and you’ve got something to layer in
all the way back to the start.

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 325

 You may still be tweaking your theme well beyond the second draft. That’s okay.
Revision is like renovating an old mansion. You need to install, take down, or
adjust all the walls, doors, and windows before you get down to decorating (in this
analogy, that’s the final editing).

You may wonder whether it’s okay to have more than one theme. Of course, just
like you can have more than one plot in a story. Remember that only a single
option is the main one, however. Make sure it does the heaviest lifting.

Themes don’t have to be wildly unique in terms of the insight they offer. They
often reveal a timeless truth, though your particular take on it should feel fresh,
different, and relevant to the audience’s real-life world at some level.

Avoid the temptation to outright state the theme so you’re 100 percent sure audi-
ences will get it. Themes are far more effective when audiences have to work a bit
to suss things out. They’re actually more interested in the subtle, nuanced layers
of meaning related to your theme than anything pithy you can slap on a fortune
cookie slip or bumper sticker. Plus, audiences hate speeches and words of wisdom
masquerading as dialogue or exposition.

Revising for theme

When revising theme, think of it as a character. Think of all the things a character
can do in a story: Advance the action. Generate tension. Become increasingly com-
plex. Attack or be attacked. Suffer a glorious, terrible, or ironic fate. A theme can
do all of that, too. So, let it. Chart out its own progress throughout the story. Does
it experience meaningful change the same way you want characters to in small,
medium, and large ways?

A character may also literally be a theme, or at least the theme personified. For
example, the character of Frankenstein’s monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
unmistakably represents the obligation of a creator to that which they create,
which is related to larger concerns about the dangers of uncontrolled scientific
progress. (Refer to Chapter 12 for more on the responsibility regarding the making
of artificial lives.) What Frankenstein’s monster does in response to being shunned
by society is part of the story’s comment on that obligation.

In terms of embodying a theme within one of your own stories, look for characters
whose goal or dramatic situation is in alignment with your book’s theme. Own
that opportunity. Let their internal and external conflicts reveal the nuances

326 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

inherent in your theme. Allow their character arc to mirror the development of
theme in your story.

As early as possible in a story, have a character ask or think about a question

related to the primary theme. Of course, you don’t answer it yet, or if you do, the
answer is insufficient or incorrect. The true answer necessarily comes from all
that follows, as if the story is making an argument and needs to present all the
evidence before a final judgment can be made.

Theme should be woven carefully throughout the story versus be lumped all
together in the climax or at the very end. In fact, if you’re dealing overtly with
theme in the final scenes, you’ve probably done an insufficient job of developing
it naturally in the previous scenes. You shouldn’t need to hammer it home at
the end.

Here are three of our favorite tips to help when you’re revising for theme:

»» Think small. It’s relatively easy to make your bar fistfight scene or screaming-
at-McDonald’s date-gone-wrong moment about the theme, because the
theme is surely tied to the primary story question, so naturally all big conflicts
relate back to it. Keep the theme persistent throughout the story by layering it
in small ways in many scenes. Tweak the small conflicts and choices a
character makes to connect with the theme in small ways. Those small
moments will accrue meaning and end up being quite potent.

»» Think drama. Characters having intellectual debates about philosophical,

political, psychological, or social ideas is a snore in most stories. Audiences
want drama, so find ways to make theme come alive visually. Use descriptive
language to establish mood and theme in these moments of action. Think
about strong verbs and nouns more than just piling on the modifiers. Think
about conflict. Make your theme earn its top billing over all the other potential
and counter themes.

»» Trust the audience. Assume that the audience is smart and thoughtful. Trust
that they’ll figure out any key issues in play because you’ve done what we
write about in this chapter and have layered theme appropriately throughout
the story. Don’t overcompensate at the end to ensure everyone gets it or you
may get called out as being preachy. Have faith that audiences will get it
without a booming “Hey, this is what I meant!” announcement or speech at
the story’s conclusion.

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 327

Buffing, Polishing, and Shining —
The Final Edit
When every plot point is logical and well-placed, the characters are three-
dimensional and properly motivated, the story world is ripe with character-
revealing conflict, and theme flexes its well-earned muscles in a firm but not
overly flashy manner, it’s time for the buff, polish, and shine — the final edit.

Trusting your ears

Human brains are problem-solving machines. They’re so adept at fixing things
that they can correct the spelling or add in missing words before you notice the
issue. Trust your ears instead. Read your story aloud — not silently in your head —
at a normal pace, similar to the speed audiobooks are read on other professional
formats. Your ears will pick up clunky language, awkwardness, and missing words
that you’ll miss if you read quietly to yourself.

Getting someone else to read it to you is even more effective. They may stumble
over a line that you wouldn’t have because you wrote it. If so, recheck that line for
syntax, rhythm, and diction.

An always-available option is one of the many free text-to-speech programs. Run

these as many times as you need to guide your editing process.

If you can’t get someone to read your entire story, ask them to read key scenes,
like the first five pages, an important argument, or the story climax. If possible,
bring in multiple readers to handle dialogue-heavy scenes so they can each take
their own role like it’s a play. Everyone has more fun this way, including you.

Editing your way to a better story

Your word-processing software has built-in grammar and spellcheckers, so
use  them. However, don’t trust them blindly because they’re not perfect.
Ultimately, you need to figure out these things yourself, as all aspiring profes-
sional writers must.

We don’t have the space to cover all the language and grammar skills you need to
use in a final edit. So, we instead urge you to rely on these three sources:

»» Grammar Girl: This award-winning free online resource (www.

quickanddirtytips.com/grammar-girl) is used by millions

328 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 because the advice is good, the explanations are practical, and the examples
are funny. Much of her advice have been compiled into multiple books, if you
prefer that format.

»» Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style: This slim book has been a
must-read for writers since it came out in the 1920s. It’s been updated
numerous times, which has only made it stronger. Time magazine even
called this one of the 100 best and most influential books written in English
since 1923.

»» Roy Peter Clark’s Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer: He
knows writing and story as well as anyone. This book is silly-good and
extremely clear in the tips, advice, and examples.

It boils down to this: Strong language/grammar muscles of your own paired with
spellcheckers and outside readers is a winning combination. For guidance on
finding and using outside readers (which can include hiring a freelance proof-
reader), visit Chapter 23.

Many writers find it easier to narrow their editorial focus for a scene or chapter to
one area versus try to fix everything. That’s fine. Do a dialogue-only edit,
description-only edit, action-only edit, and so forth, as you see fit.

Don’t try to master every one of your grammar hiccups at once. When you realize
you’re making a mistake — like the there/their/they’re snafu — write the defi-
nitions on a notecard with clear examples that you fully understand and recog-
nize. Tape that notecard cheat sheet next to your computer screen, and every
time you encounter a story situation that involves that particular issue, check
yourself. After some time, you’ll internalize it. That’s when it’s time to tackle the
next issue.

CHAPTER 22 Revising and Editing Like a Pro 329

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Asking for feedback on your story

»» Seeking expert advice about your

story’s content

Chapter  23
Getting Second Opinions:
Editors, Experts, and
Sensitivity Readers

A
t some point in the revision process, second opinions are necessary. You
may want to use them to guide how you create draft two, to be the final set
of eyes on the second-to-hopefully-final draft or to support you all
throughout the entire process — that’s up to you. Outside opinions let you know
if your story works in all the ways it needs to.

Although writers are the first audience for their own stories, they’re not the
primary audience. Second opinions from outside sources help gauge the response
of your intended audience. This chapter focuses on how you get feedback from
second opinions on the story, authenticity advice from subject-area experts, and
sensitivity reads from a qualified professional.

The competition for publication or production is fierce. You may be tempted to

skip this chapter and hurry ahead to all the how-to-submit information in
Chapter 24. Second chances don’t exist for a story when it comes to agents and
editors. They’re simply far too busy to look at revisions of something they passed
on, so assume that any no they give is a no for good. With that mind, make sure
they’re considering the best possible version of your story.

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 331
Receiving Good Story Feedback
You may feel reluctant to share your work with others. “What if they don’t get it?
What if they get it but don’t like it? What if they tell me to give up writing and go
dig ditches? What if they steal my idea?” These fears are common, but the benefits
of receiving feedback far outweigh potential negatives.

In our combined half century of experience as writers, we personally haven’t run

across a single case of someone stealing a story. But if that still worries you, remem-
ber that your work is copyrighted from the moment it’s written whether you include
a copyright symbol © on the document or pay the increasingly expensive fees to
officially register your work. Visit the U.S. Copyright Office for details on the whats,
whys, and hows of registering creative work (www.copyright.gov), though look
online for what writers, editors, and agents have said about this subject as well.

Feedback is an integral part of the storymaking process. For many writers, finding
a regular source of quality responses to your work is the difference between reach-
ing your publication goals or not. The following ideas can help you find or create
a feedback situation that works for you.

Making the most of a critique group

Your goal is to partner with a group that’s focused on supporting others and pro-
viding honest, actionable feedback designed to elevate every work-in-progress
they review.

Here are a few suggestions:

»» Social media platforms: Facebook and GoodReads offer critique group

options, though they vary widely in quality.

»» Groups affiliated with industry organizations: Locate groups that are

affiliated with — or have members who are part of — industry organizations
such as Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) or Horror Writers
Association (HWA).

»» Local libraries, bookstores, and coffeeshops: They’re common places for

writers to host and promote critique groups.

There’s nothing wrong with having a single critique partner. The benefit of a
group, though, is that you’ll receive multiple ideas on your story every time it’s up
for review. The magic sometimes happens best when people bounce ideas off each
other in the live discussion portion of a meeting, which doesn’t happen at the
same level if it’s just you and one other person.

332 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 Eyeing the characteristics of an effective
critique group
Every critique group’s goal must be to support each other as writers, to create
accountability, and to offer informed, actionable opinions on what’s working and
not working in a story. How that happens can look quite different from group
to group.

Some groups read things right on the spot whereas other groups read in advance
and provide written feedback, for example. Some groups are super editorial
whereas others are far more big-picture conceptual. However your group prefers
to work is fine so long as the members are content with what they’re doing and
being asked to do, and that your writing is improving.

Here are clear signs that your group is a healthy one:

»» “We follow our own rules.” The best groups have clear rules, such as all
stories being turned in 24 hours before they meet, every story gets no more
than 25 minutes of discussion, or they take turns with receiving critiques so
everyone ends up going every other session. Make sure newcomers to a
group know and agree to the existing rules in advance.

»» “We do what we agree to do.” Quite simply, they don’t flake out. They read
what they agree to read, and they show up to the meetings as promised. They
value the group enough to commit to it.

»» “We’re honest with each other.” Vague criticism or ephemeral praise isn’t
helpful. Successful groups agree to tell the truth. They share what’s wrong,
what’s missing, what isn’t clear, and what doesn’t make sense. The writer
listens and doesn’t take the feedback personally.

»» “We make sure to point out the positives.” For some, the word “critique”
or “criticism” means something akin to “rip apart, tear down, and
destroy . . . ideally with lots of sobbing.” In contrast, quality feedback is
generous, thoughtful, and specific, plus it’s offered with respect. It should
include questions and positive things versus just what’s not working.

»» “We listen to the writer.” Feedback on a story isn’t a one-way street.

Effective groups engage the writer to understand what weaknesses they
perceive in their own work and the thoughts they have on how to overcome
those. Most groups allow the writer to ask questions up front when sharing
the story so that everyone knows to address them in the feedback.

»» “I feel energized after we meet.” You should leave a session feeling hopeful
and bursting with ideas that you feel confident will improve the story. Feeling
confusion, sadness, or disempowerment is a clear sign of an unproductive
critique session. If it happens once in a blue moon, just move on. If it’s
frequent, there’s a pervasive problem with the group.

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 333
 »» “We celebrate each other’s successes.” Writing isn’t a zero-sum game. If a
group member gets a publication offer, it’s not one less publication opportu-
nity in the world for you. It’s just proof that people like you can succeed. Take
it as a positive — a win. Steer clear of frustration, resentment, and jealousy in
yourself or others.

»» “We discuss the business of writing and publishing.” If the goal of every
member is earning meaningful publication, sharing information is reasonable
and useful. These groups set aside time in meetings to discuss industry
changes, agents/editors, and the submission process, as well as their hopes,
dreams, and fears related to their writing career. These conversations don’t
take the place of critique sessions but serve as a bonus add-on and a nice
change of pace.

If you group is lacking in one or more of the preceding points, perhaps a candid
discussion can change things for the better. If not, thank the group members for all
their help and politely move on. Join a better-functioning group or start your own.

Struggling writers aren’t especially well-equipped to help other struggling writ-

ers. Typically, they offer unhelpful vagueness (“This doesn’t work!”) or equally
unwelcome suggestions (“This is how I would do it!”). Ideally, a critique group
has one or more members who’ve had writing and publishing success — they’re
likely well-trained to assess story problems and encourage effective writing. The
model they provide helps others elevate their feedback ability, too.

Seeking input, not solutions

The purpose of peer feedback is not having other people fix things for you. If you
want that, hire a professional editor. What you want from peers are their honest
feelings, reactions, questions, and ideas. You want to be able to see your story
through the viewpoint of others. You want honest insider information about
what’s working, what’s wrong, what’s missing, what isn’t clear, and what just
plain doesn’t make sense.

You’re plenty smart enough to figure out a solid solution of what to do next. After
all, you know the characters and world of your story better than anyone else.
Practically speaking, the buck stops with you because your name is on the piece.
You’re the one who has to fully believe in and be able to defend any choices you
employ in the final draft.

The more insecure or unqualified a responder feels, the more likely they are to
lean on vague phrases such as “I liked the intro — it was really good!” or “I just
don’t like your protagonist!” or “The fight scene made me want to run out and
kick some zombie butt!” What you want is specificity. Trust the power of why,
what, and how:

334 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 »» Why are you responding so positively to the introduction?
»» What about the protagonist specifically irks you?
»» How did the writer create a fight scene so good that it made you want to leap
into the undead fray?

Cultivate a golden reader

A golden reader is the perfect reader of your work. They’re someone who gets your
writing in all the ways that matter. These amazing people read your stories gener-
ously, thoughtfully, and carefully. Then they offer astute feedback that answers
both the questions you have as well as those you didn’t yet articulate. We call them
golden readers because they’re worth their weight in gold.

A golden reader may not have the same range that you do. They may be dynamite
at responding to high fantasy and body horror, yet they can’t abide slashers or
urban fantasy. Or maybe they don’t like to read scripts, but they love a sprawling
novel series. Recognize their limitations while valuing their strengths.

A golden reader doesn’t need to be another writer. Any reader with a keen sense
for story can serve in this role. In fact, you may have better luck with a golden
reader who has zero aspirations for writing; writers are often too busy to spend
their limited time and energy helping other people do the very thing they them-
selves yearn to do.

We’re big believers in literary karma. If your golden reader doesn’t need or want
the thanks they deserve, pay it forward. Be someone else’s golden reader, or at
least a fervent supporter. Writing great stories is hard work. Help out your peers.

Hiring freelance editors

Language issues, grammatical gaffes, and story hiccups are relatively easy to spot
in the writing of others. With your own work? It’s incredibly difficult to identify
because you know what you meant. This kind of blind spot is something all writers
have at some level. Don’t be ashamed — it’s been our experience that even the
strongest of writers run into this problem. If it weren’t a real problem, there
wouldn’t be so many fulltime freelance editors thriving today.

You can save money by asking a friend to edit your story, enlisting the help of a
bargain-basement freelancer, or hiring someone from a work-for-hire site. How-
ever we don’t recommend these options because the quality is suspect. An editor
who isn’t properly trained can create as many new problems as those they fix.

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 335
 They may mean well, but intentions aren’t results. Ultimately, you tend to get
what you pay for.

Not all editors are the same. Make sure you’re hiring the right type of editor to
address your story’s needs:

»» Developmental editor (DE): The DE comes first in the editing process. This is
the Big Stuff, like character relationships and plot points, but it also includes
scene and chapter construction. Hiring just this type of editor may make the
most sense before having an entire first draft, though a DE is able to help you
more by seeing the scope of your vision via a full, complete draft.

»» Line editor (LE): The LE comes after developmental editing. Line editors often
have several rounds of back-and-forth with the writer to get the point of view
consistent, keep the language precise and fresh, and tighten scenes to make
them more effective. They care about things like atmosphere, tone, pacing,
narrative logic, and the emotional impact of the writing. Line editors don’t
scrutinize your manuscript for errors.

»» Copyeditor (CE): Copyediting comes after line editing. Because CEs are
concerned with the mechanics of writing, they scrutinize your manuscript for
errors. They care about correctness, readability, and adherence to the rules
of a specific style guide. They’ll also fix factual errors and inconsistencies in
the text.

A popular misconception is that in-house editors will fix your story after they buy
it. If it has more than the occasional surface error, it may not get bought in the
first place. Editors are limited in terms of how many titles they can acquire and
how much time they can spend on each one. A problem-ridden manuscript doesn’t
hold a lot of appeal. The level of competition is so high that you can’t afford to
send in anything but well-edited, polished work. Many writers are hurting their
chances of earning a “Yes!” by not getting professional-level input during one or
more stages of revision.

HOW TO HIRE A PROOFREADER

After you’ve revised and edited everything to the best of your ability, you may opt
to hire a freelance proofreader to look over the almost-final manuscript. Hiring a
proofreader — even if you hired a professional editor — is smart because the
proofreader can look over the manuscript after you’ve accepted or rejected the
editor’s edits. Here are the steps we recommend before signing someone up to
handle the full project.

336 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 • Read reviews. On their website or in social media, professionals make sure that
potential clients know about past great work. If you can’t locate positive client feed-
back, assume there isn’t any. Move on.

• Find out if they specialize. If they don’t do sci-fi and your story is loaded with
robots, blaster cannons, and warp drives, you probably should look elsewhere,
even if they seem to be qualified at editing in general.

• Request a sample. Ask if they’ll work on a few pages of your story — perhaps one
chapter — to see if you’re a good match. You may have to pay for this, but wouldn’t
you rather be out the cost of one hour of your proofreader’s time than them doing
the entire job at a lousy level and still insisting you pay their full rate?

• Check their rates. The Editorial Freelancers Association (https://the-efa.org)

or the Chartered Institute of Editing and Publishing (https://ciep.uk) have rate
information as well as robust directories of professionals. Trust these sites over
places like Upwork (www.upwork.com), Fiverr (www.fiverr.com), or Freelancer
(www.freelancer.com). You may find a well-priced professional at these three
sites, but your odds of a successful interaction are higher with the EFA or CIEP.

Supporting Your Story with Expert Help

Creating a sense of believability to the characters and story world is a must for any
story. Even though you’re surely doing all you can to get things accurate, some-
times you need experts to confirm that things are correct.

Aspire for more than just factual correctness, however. Life is full of rich com-
plexity and depth. It’s appropriate for every type of story, genre or not, to use,
value, and celebrate that fact.

As a writer, be kind, generous, and thoughtful about all people, cultures, and
ideas — not just because it’s a movement to be more diverse, inclusive, and fair,
but because it’s the right thing to do.

Depending on the story you’re writing, using one or more of the following types
of experts may push your story to the next level. For example, when creating a
First Peoples Futurism story or alternate history based on projecting an existing
culture into the future, having a sensitivity reader with a background in that area
may help you avoid clichés and common misrepresentations — both problems can
easily overshadow an otherwise well-written story. And if you’re building a tech-
heavy sci-fi tale, talking to someone at NASA, Stanford, or Apple might give you a
wealth of authenticity and detail.

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 337
 Talking to subject matter experts
We’re going to share something potentially shocking here, so brace yourself.
People love to talk about their work. How does that help you? Don’t be afraid to
directly ask questions of someone who works in the same field as one or more of
the characters in your story, or for a job/industry relevant to the plot. If you do it
in a manner that’s respectful of their time, you can even approach people you
don’t know.

Here’s an example of an email you can send that usually does the trick:

We’ve used versions of this note with great success, earning chats with NASA
scientists, Pulitzer-winning journalists, and city mayors. A 20-minute interview
can easily turn into hours, and a two-question request might go on for weeks or
months. Experts love to talk about what they’ve devoted their lives to. If you dem-
onstrate a sincere interest, they’re going to want to talk to you, especially if you’re
making a real effort to get the facts right.

Keep the initial request small. Glancing at your watch at the 19-minute mark and
saying, “Oh, I’m sorry, I promised to keep this to 20 minutes and we’re nearly out
of time!” often results in them suddenly discovering more time to talk about
themselves and their work.

338 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 Tapping into the universe of universities
Another underutilized source for experts is colleges and universities. If the insti-
tutions are public, they have a state-sponsored commitment to bettering the
community. If the institutions are private, the fact that they’re teachers says they
have a personal commitment to help.

If you’re not sure who to reach out to, try department heads. They’ll know the
abilities and areas of expertise of their peers. Steer clear of administrators, though
because they have a different agenda than do teachers.

In addition to reaching out directly to professors for information, many institu-

tions have libraries, resources, and events that could be a story boon. At bigger
research institutions, you’ll find an equally compelling range of speakers in the
sciences and other areas that may help with a current project but could also give
you the idea and inspiration for future ones.

University professors know a lot of people in their field, be it other professors,

researchers, or professionals who do the thing itself versus study it. Ask them this
million-dollar research question: “Who else should I be talking to about this?”
Odds are they’ll not only have a few names of people who are perfect, and you’d
never know about them otherwise, but the professors also likely will offer to make
an introduction.

Using sensitivity readers

Author and sensitivity reader Patrice Williams Marks explains that sensitivity read-
ing “is an emerging industry available to content creators who want to alleviate
unintentional racism, bias, or misrepresentations in their books, in magazines, ad
campaigns, television, film, gaming, app development, and more. Sensitivity read-
ers point out any possible racism in projects’ descriptions/actions of characters or
story. They may also point out any possible stereotypes in descriptions/actions of
characters or story, and suggest how to address the issue.”

Marks reports that two frequent problem areas in manuscripts are character
descriptions and dialogue. “Authors may only describe the Black characters by the
color of their skin, perhaps even using a food metaphor,” she says, “while describ-
ing non-Black characters using rich descriptives and characteristics. Some may
also have the tendency to have all their Black characters living in ‘the projects/
ghetto,’ ‘speaking slang/broken English,’ or dealing drugs.”

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 339
 Another area of concern for sensitivity readers is issues around gender and sexu-
ality. Beyond just running into the usual issues of writing outside of lived experi-
ence, writers can just as easily strike false notes even when actively trying to
achieve political correctness. Identity is an increasingly important consideration
in stories, especially in light of how genre audiences will see themselves in the
characters you create. In sum, authenticity in character creation is more than just
ticking boxes. It requires writers to have an honest curiosity and willingness to
learn, as well as the ability to ask questions — and carefully listen to answers —
when expert help is needed.

Fantasy writing, in particular, can suffer from issues of bias and insensitivity. For
example, Marks asks, “Do the wizards have to be described as white or Black?
Perhaps using descriptions, such as ‘pure, light,’ to convey the good guys and,
‘ominous, retched, menacing,’ etc. for the bad. But if that is not possible, and the
writer wants to stick to the ‘norms,’ then they should make sure ‘Black’ is not a
reference to their race or skin tone, but their soul, perhaps.”

For more information on sensitivity reading, listen to Patrice’s Author Uncut

podcast (www.patricewilliamsmarks.com), which also has tips and information
about screenwriting, novel writing, and being an indie author.

Some people believe sensitivity readers are free-speech police or thought censors.
That’s a reductive, false way to examine the role they play in building better sto-
ries. Having a range of perspectives is valuable to any story’s development.

AVOIDING OTHERING IN
CHARACTER CREATION
To avoid othering or presenting unintentional bias or misrepresentations, Patrice
Williams Marks recommends:

“Connect with people who are not like you and maybe step out of your comfort zone.
Seek out activities where the people are diverse. That way you’ll start to see people as
they really are, and not treat everyone of a certain race as monolithic. Also, when creat-
ing characters and situations, think about switching the races. If your character were
suddenly Caucasian, how different would that look? Would that change the dialogue,
the attire, the neighborhood, their education, their job? That exercise would help you
hone in on how you’ve created a character and could pinpoint stereotypes you may not
have seen before.”

340 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 Using cultural consultants
Related to sensitivity readers is the role of a cultural consultant — someone who
has a deep, lived experience in a particular culture and is willing to share their
expertise to ensure a writing project accurately portrays that culture. For example,
if you’re creating a role-playing game about Aswang, which are vampires from
the Philippines, you may hire a Filipino cultural consultant to offer thoughts on
how you present village life, the Tagalog language, and general Filipino ideas
regarding the supernatural. Even if you spent a few summers in Manila when you
were a kid, that’s not enough. You’ll have gaps in your knowledge, and the visitor
and kid lenses through which you viewed that city surely missed key things.

If you’re using real-world cultures in your story beyond your own lived experi-
ence, consider running your writing by a cultural consultant. It’s shockingly easy
to create harmful and upsetting misrepresentations of a group of people. Insensi-
tivity and misrepresentation has real consequences — boycotts, social media fury,
loss of sales, and scathing reviews. Plus, it’s just a lousy way to treat people.

When in doubt, bring in an expert.

Cultural consultants (and sensitivity readers) don’t make corrections. Their job is
to identify and explain issues, and, if needed, provide research links for your own
follow-up. Similarly, they don’t proofread or edit your manuscript unless you pay
extra for that, and they’re qualified to do so — it’s an entirely separate service.

Looking beyond your own experiences

You may think the safest way to avoid inauthenticity or inappropriateness is to
simply adhere to that old writer maxim: “Write what you know.”

However, Marks doesn’t agree, saying, “I think that is terrible advice. What a
boring world that would be! Books, films, even commercials take you to places
you’ve never been and people you may never meet. I’m not Hungarian, nor did
I know anything about the Hungarian Revolution, but I wrote a screenplay with it
as a backdrop. Research is the way to make that happen.”

Research is so important that we devote Chapter 6 to it. Although including things

you personally know in your stories to create that welcome authenticity is sound
advice, doing so isn’t enough. If it were, you’d probably just write an autobiogra-
phy. This book is about writing science fiction, fantasy, and horror, after all,
which means stories you (probably!) haven’t lived.

So, you may wonder if you have permission to write about things beyond your
experience.

CHAPTER 23 Getting Second Opinions: Editors, Experts, and Sensitivity Readers 341
 Absolutely. As Marks says, it’s all about research. Do the necessary work before
you write, then do your best while knowing you’ll likely still get things wrong.
That’s okay. The revision process exists not only to address story issues and weak
writing, but also to overcome bias, insensitivity, and ignorance. Take the time to
handle all your story’s flaws and shortcomings.

Your obligation is to make sure that when the story is ready to be submitted for
publication that it’s full of integrity, nuance, and care, along with all the things
that the audience wants from stories, such as character, conflict, change, and
emotion. Take all the time you need to make that happen.

Make sure you examine your intentions for writing outside of your own lived
experience. Writing authentically across differences is a charged topic. Don’t do it
without reflection and deep contemplation first. This is more than just a trend —
it’s the right, responsible thing to do.

LOOKING FOR MORE HELP

If you want more guidance in this area of challenging your own biases and
embracing how diversity is more than a buzzword or being politically correct,
consider the following sources:

• The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop: How to Decolonize the Creative Classroom by

Felicia Rose Chavez (Haymarket Books)

• Writing Diverse Characters for Fiction, TV or Film by Lucy V. Hay (Creative Essentials)
• Writing the Other: A Practical Approach by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward
(Aqueduct Press)

342 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Understanding industry gatekeepers:

Agents, editors, and producers

»» Pitching your way to a yes!

»» Going the self-publishing route

»» Promoting your hard work through

marketing

Chapter  24
The Three Ps: Publication,
Pitching, and Promotion

W
hen it’s time, it’s time — your story is the absolute best you can make
it. Any work you’re putting into the manuscript now feels superfluous
versus making it better. Outsider readers verify that you have some-
thing good. You still believe in this story and honestly think it’s on par with the
things you’ve found at Barnes & Noble, on Amazon, seen on Hulu, or played at
your local game store.

Great! That means it’s time to get serious about sharing your story with the world.
This chapter can steer you in the right direction.

Teaming Up: Agents, Editors,

and Producers
If you aspire to see your work come out through mainstream media outlets, you
need partners. In essence, you’re asking for someone — many someones, really —
to invest time, energy, and money on you. Any New York publishing house that
chooses to publish a novel is investing a minimum of $50,000 in it, which has to

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 343

 cover printing, marketing, editing, art, the salary of all the publishing folks work-
ing on the novel, and the writer’s advance. For TV and film, the number is far, far
higher because so many more people are involved at every stage of the process.

Be honest. Is your story worth $50,000 at this point? If so, read on. If not, revisit
Chapter  22 on revision and Chapter  23 on soliciting outside feedback to further
improve your story. Follow the advice there until your manuscript is $50,000 good
or better.

Recognizing what an agent does

A literary agent represents a writer and their work to media industries. They help
shape material to make it salable, they handle contract negotiations, and they
coach you all along the way. Some even find you paid writing opportunities
between your own projects. The best agents also offer career guidance, brainstorm
story ideas, and support you as a gentle friend or pushy taskmaster, depending on
what you need.

In return, agents typically charge a 15 percent commission on all writing of yours

that they sell. That means that you’re in a success-based partnership. If the work
doesn’t sell, neither of you make money.

One big plus with agents is that they negotiate better terms for you when it’s time
to sign a contract. In fact, they should be able to earn you extra money that covers
their 15 percent cut. Plus, they know what rights to keep and which to let go. They
also know the gatekeepers who are most likely to want a story like yours.

After the deal is struck, the agent — for the most part — steps aside and lets an
editor or producer take it from there. Editors and producers are going to have a lot
of ideas about how to shape, develop, and fine-tune your story even further.
Agents are available to step in and mediate the situation if creative differences
slow or stop forward progress.

Figuring out whether you need an agent

An agent can do a lot for you, but the question might remain: “Do I really need an
agent?” The answer is a resounding . . . maybe.

The type of media you’re writing for may help you decide. For short stories, pod-
casts, tabletop games, video games, or immersive experiences, agents aren’t
really a thing. Having an agent just isn’t the industry norm at the moment. For
novels, films, TV, and plays? Agents are very much the norm.

344 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

Here are three extremely practical reasons that you may want an agent:

»» Most of the top media companies exclusively consider work submitted by

reputable agencies.

»» Agents get responses to submissions far faster than you will on your own, and
these responses often include feedback versus the “Dear Submitter(s) . . .”
rejections non-agented writers mostly receive.

»» If an agent is handling all your business matters, you have more free time to
actually write.

We know a few successful novelists and screenwriters who aren’t represented by

an agent. It’s entirely possible for you to succeed without one, too. But if agents
are the norm for your industry, they’re the norm for a reason. Carefully consider
what you believe you’re gaining by not having an agent, or being actively in pur-
suit of one.

Having a bad agent is worse than having no agent. “Bad” doesn’t mean “villain-
ous,” but more like a bad fit for you. Common complaints about agents are that
they don’t return calls/emails promptly, give up on submissions too easily, have
more excuses than answers, charge up-front or extra fees beyond the commission
on sales, or insist on story changes you don’t believe in.

If your agent isn’t responsive, encouraging, and openly transparent, have an

earnest conversation first and see if they’re open to changing. An agent works for
you, after all — you don’t work for them. If things can’t be mended, part ways
without burning bridges. Although your agent might deserve a good blowing-up-
at, doing so is never worth the fleeting moment of satisfaction. The fact that
you’re justifiably upset won’t matter if you come across like a sociopathic barbar-
ian. Leave all barbarians, sociopathic or otherwise, to the pages of your stories.

Landing an agent: The how and where

If you’ve ever dated, you have the skills required to get a literary agent. Do your
research. Be picky. Realize it’s about a strong match versus finding the perfect
person. Make sure you have shared goals and expectations before making things
official. Recognize that not all relationships last.

An agent is your representative to the publishing world. Are they making the right
impression? Do they accurately represent what you are all about? In this way,
they’re more than just a private partner — their role is very public.

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 345

 The nuts-and-bolts process for getting an agent is fairly straightforward. Locate
an agent who represents and sells the type of story you have, then send them a
polished, persuasive query letter, which we explore more in the next section. If
agents like your query letter, they might ask to see some or all of the story. If they
like that, they may offer to represent you.

If you’re interesting in finding out more the world of agents, we suggest these
resources:

»» Publisher’s Marketplace: For about the same price of watching a movie in a

cinema (with a small soda and a box of candy), you can purchase access for a
month and find recent titles sold, deal specifics, industry trends, and specific
agent contact information. Check out www.publishersmarketplace.com to
see if that’s something that can help you in your publication journey.

»» Writer’s Digest: Another option is the annual marketplace guidebooks

from Writer’s Digest which have thousands of updated listings for publishers,
magazines, contests, agents, and more. Buy print copies at your favorite
local bookstore, or get free marketplace updates and spotlights at www.
writersdigest.com.

»» Manuscript Wishlist: Although this option is less comprehensive, it’s also

a far more up-to-date resource with industry people linking to tweets and
articles with comments like “Someone send me this YA novel right now!”
Check out www.manuscriptwishlist.com.

»» Writer’s Guild of America West: For agencies that specialize in scriptwriting,

check out this free directory. Look up www.wga.org for details.

»» In-person meeting and networking: You can also meet film or TV agents in
person at film festivals and scriptwriting conferences. Refer to the section
“Making the most of conferences,” later in this chapter for tips.

Although finding the names of agents is usually easy, their client lists often aren’t
public knowledge. One sneaky-good way to uncover the identity of a novelist’s
agent is to check the acknowledgments page of their books. Odds are, they’ll thank
their agent by name (just as we’ve done in this book).

Be sure to bypass a kneejerk “No!” by doing your homework before you submit.
Submission guidelines for all industry people are easily found online. So are their
specific story requirements in terms of genre, style, medium, and more. Follow
those guidelines. Too many writers assume they’re the exception and submit work
that has zero chance of success for that particular industry person.

346 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

Pitching Like a Pro
At the heart of getting your work considered for production is pitching. Written or
verbal, the pitch is your first chance to earn a “Yes!” from industry people who
have the wherewithal to bring your story to the world.

Generally, small products like a short story or audio fiction don’t require
pitching  — it makes more sense to just look at the thing itself. For anything
larger, however, pitching is the primary way for someone to quickly assess
whether it’s worth their time to commit to examining the whole thing. The fol-
lowing sections explain just what you need to know about pitching.

Crafting the query

In nearly every media industry (novels, film, TV, and so forth), a written pitch is
typically called a query letter, which comes from the word “inquire,” meaning to
ask a question. The question you’re asking is some variation of this: “Has this
one-page pitch hooked you enough for you to ask to see the rest of my story?”

Similarly, in all media industries, the query letter includes the same three parts,
which are as follows:

»» What I’ve got! This is an exciting snapshot of your story idea, given as a one-
liner or short paragraph. Also include a projected final word count or length as
well as audience/marketing information. Here are a couple examples:

• “This will be an 80,000-word young adult urban fantasy novel set in

Chicago during the Great Depression.”

• “This proposed eight-episode miniseries is a space police procedural set on

Pluto in the near future.”

»» Why you? Because you’re not sending willy-nilly to just anyone, share your
specific reasons for sending to this industry person. Feeling chosen puts them
in a far happier state of mind than any scattershot “Dear Occupant” letter will.

We suggest citing a recent sale they’ve made that sounds exciting or referenc-
ing one of their interviews or conference presentations that impressed you.
Just to be safe, prove you’re not offering false praise by offering something
specific about it. (We discuss more about the power of writing conferences in
the section, “Making the most of conferences,” later in this chapter.)

»» Why me? What special experiences, training, or relationships do you have

that inform or support this project? What previous publications, writing
awards, or degrees make you ideally suited to write this particular story? If
you don’t have much to list other than enthusiasm, keep this part short. Like
“John Doe is a writer who lives in the Seattle suburbs” short.

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 347

 Even though you’ve spent weeks, months, or years on your story, too many writ-
ers dash off a query letter in an hour or an afternoon, so beware of this pitfall. This
is your first chance to be rejected. Don’t give them a reason to say “No!” by show-
ing anything but your best writing.

Most fantasy and sci-fi novelists think big — a series. Don’t try to sell more than
the first book in the series. Just trust the power of this phrase: “This is a stand-
alone story with series potential.” Focus on selling one book. If it’s a hit, trust
us — they’ll want more. If you really want to sell a massive series a single deal,
write for TV.

Breaking down the three-floor

elevator pitch
Whether you actually find yourself on a 25-second elevator ride with the head of
a top publishing company, a world-famous director, or whomever, you need to be
able to succinctly explain your story on demand, as needed. The goal of an elevator
pitch is to communicate the main character, the primary conflict, the main force
of antagonism, the setting, and the title. That’s all you need at this point. You can
share the later after you’ve hooked someone well enough to hear those three
magic words: Tell me more!

Here are elevator pitch best practices:

»» Go short. It’s 30 seconds tops; 20 is even better. Time yourself to verify how
long you’re going. As with so many aspects of writing, the phrase “less is more”
holds true here.

»» Only give the basics. There’s not enough time to give everything. Why? See
the previous bullet. Highlights are all you’re giving here.

»» Names don’t matter. It’s too much to remember, and it can get confusing.
Trust the power of the adjective + noun combo. A wisecracking space
mercenary. A Bigfoot-hating psychic detective. A power-hungry witch queen.

»» Get straight to the point. Lose the filler phrases and words. Instead of “This
is a story about this ex-detective who witnesses a spectacular alien abduction
in one of those old-fashioned New Orleans cemeteries and after being unable
to stop thinking about it, he wakes up one morning and decides to set out to
learn if it was real or not” say “An ex-detective witnesses an alien abduction in
a New Orleans cemetery and won’t rest until he proves it’s real.”

»» Practice, practice, practice. You should be able to give your pitch at any
time without cheater notecards or lots of “Oh yeah . . . and then there’s this!”
moments. If you’re stumbling or misremembering, you don’t yet know it
well enough.

348 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 To practice, stand in front of a mirror with a timer and pitch again and again
until you’re comfortable with both the pitch and the art of pitching.

If your elevator pitch helps earn a deal, a version of it will become what your
agent, editor, or producer will use later to sell this project to their team and others.
Keep working at it until it sizzles.

Identifying the challenge before you

The volume of people submitting content is high. So high, in fact, that agents and
other industry gatekeepers have to say no to stories and projects that are promis-
ing or even pretty darn good. You can’t afford to aspire for anything but writing a
great story. “Good enough” isn’t good enough in an industry that aspires for
massive success. Neither is hoping something will sell because that topic or type
of story is trending. Trends don’t last. Great stories do.

Being a pro in every step of the process can help you stand out because so many
authors don’t bother with professional standards like following directions.

In the world of fiction, the industry standard for writing software is Microsoft Word.
In the world of film and TV scripts, the industry standard is Final Draft. For pod-
casts, comics, and games, you have multiple acceptable options. If you refuse to go
with the industry standard software, make sure what you’re choosing to write with
can accurately and easily convert your story into the industry standard formats.

Remember that turning in a manuscript is never a one-and-done thing. There’s

always some level of back-and-forth, which often takes place within the features
of that industry standard software.

TRANSLATOR, PLEASE: DECIPHERING

WRITING AND PUBLISHING JARGON
One barrier to getting your stories sold is understanding the jargon used by the writing
and publishing industry. Here are a few key terms you’ll see a lot:

• Advance: Money paid in advance of your story being published. It’s a signing
bonus, of sorts. You won’t make additional money from the story until the advance
is fully paid off via sales, which is when the story is said to have earned out. If your
story doesn’t earn out, you don’t have to pay back the difference, though future
publishers may be hesitant to buy your work if your track record shows multiple
stories that don’t earn out.

(continued)

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 349

(continued)

• Comps: Competitive or comparable titles. A good comp is something aimed at a

similar audience that’s published within the last five years. A comp doesn’t have to
be exactly like your book in style, tone, size, and medium, but it should be similar in
noticeable ways.

• Copyright: The exclusive, legal right to reproduce or sell a creative work. You don’t
need to place a copyright notice © on your work for it to be copyrighted — it’s copy-
righted from the moment it’s created. Few writers pay the money to register each
work with the U.S. Copyright Office, though if you ever need to sue someone for
using your work without permission, registering your work gives you the maximum
amount of protection.

• IP: Intellectual property. These are the intangible creations of the human intellect.
All original stories you solely create are your IP.

• P&L: Profit and loss statement. Companies will run a P&L using comps to estimate
the profit potential of your project.

• Royalties: A calculated percentage of profits that an author receives for each copy
of their story that’s sold. Royalties are negotiated in the contract stage, so make
sure you’re happy with the terms, whatever they are. You can’t change them after
you sign a contract. Many royalty agreements have escalator clauses, which means
the better your book does, the higher your rate of return becomes, such as you
earning 10 percent on net sales for up to 10,000 copies sold, getting 12.5 percent
on 10,001 to 25,000 copies sold, and maxing out at 15 percent for 25,001 and up.

• Subsidiary rights: All rights beyond the right to publish the story itself. These
include film rights, TV rights, book club rights, translation rights, audio rights, and
performance rights. Subsidiary rights also include licensing rights to make breakfast
cereals, T-shirts, action figures, video games, and amusement park rides. (Lawyers
often call these derivative works.)

Going It Alone: A Self-Publishing

Success Plan
In the past, the only viable way to get a novel, movie, comic, or game out into the
world used to be through established publishers and production companies. Now
the technology used to produce and distribute those stories is easily and relatively
cheaply available to everyone. That means you can do it yourself. But should you?

For certain kinds of projects, such as making a themed short story anthology or
print-on-demand role-playing game, self-publishing has become a quick and effi-
cient way to get those into the world. For other projects, the norm remains the more

350 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

traditional routes like New  York publishing for novels, Los Angeles production
houses for TV, and so forth. Given that, what’s the best option for you and your story?

Answering whether you can really do it all

You’re a writer. Are you also a layout and design person? A cover artist? Can you
handle publishing, marketing, and sales? If you can do all of those things, be
honest — is your work truly at a professional level?

“Good enough” isn’t good enough when writing a story, and the same holds true
for all the related tasks in making and selling a novel, TV series, podcast, graphic
novel, or story for other types of media. This isn’t the time to overestimate your
abilities or interest when wanting to self-publish.

Succeeding in self-publishing
Many self-published novels still have a stigma. The ease of technology to go from
a Word file to Kindle Direct Publishing is too tempting for many, so they send out
something that’s simply not ready. People succumb to that same temptation in
other story media, too, though in fewer numbers only because the production
aspect is typically more demanding.

Regardless, stories that get launched into the world by through self-publishing
often feature frequent problems. Here are ways to avoid those expected
shortcomings:

»» Commit to flawless editing. A traditional media company uses a profes-

sional editor or two, so invest in one yourself regardless of how good your
editing chops are. Visit Chapter 23 for more on working with editors.

»» Get a great cover. Unless you’re good enough to have been paid money for your
art many, many times, get someone else to do it. Avoid using templates or clip
art, or getting a family member to create it (unless they’ve been paid money for
their art many, many times). And trust an artist’s input on images and style, too.

»» Go for gorgeous design. Writers don’t think visually like artists and designers
do. Bring in a professional. Layout designs such as typography, margins, and
running headers matter far more than you’d think.

»» Be ready to sell, sell, sell. More than 2 million books are published a
year. What’s being done to alert people to the existence of yours? Have an
actionable plan in place and start marketing well before the launch of your
book, film, web series, or whatever form your story takes. Refer to the
section, “Promoting You and Your Work — Making the Most of Marketing,”
later for more specifics.

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 351

 Estimate the costs of all outsourced work so you know what you’re getting into
before you begin hiring people left and right. A budget can be your best friend.

Putting the crowd to work for you

One of the biggest changes in the world of self-publishing is the introduction of
crowdfunding or crowdsourcing. Thanks to Kickstarter, Indiegogo, GoFundMe,
and similar websites, people can directly invest in your project before you even
have to create the actual thing. In return, investors earn perks related to their level
of support, which you decide in advance.

Crowdfunding only works if the creator is making a product that’s enticing, and
they’re willing to work hard to promote it before and during the campaign. Care-
fully examine the most well-funded campaigns of products similar to yours and
borrow some of their strategies. Visual products like film, graphic novels, and
video games often fare better in the crowdfunding world than text-only stories
like a novel because the samples are multisensory.

Here are our tips for creating a successful crowdfunding campaign:

»» Stay realistic. If you’re a new writer or the scope of your project is relatively
small, don’t ask for $75,000. Choose a goal that’s achievable and appropriate.
Do your homework so you know your budget is reasonable. It’ll also help in
that you can clearly explain to contributors where the money will be going.

»» Have a clear production plan. It’s far better to deliver early than late. Before
starting the campaign, secure manufacturers for your story and any rewards.
If you need distribution, figure that out in advance, too.

»» Remember shipping. It costs more to mail things than people realize, and it’s
far more expensive yet to mail overseas. Budget these factors in before
arriving at your funding goal. And do you really think you’re going to hand-mail
5,000 rewards yourself? If the answer is no, work with a production company
that will also handle distribution. Remember that shipping can take more time
than expected, so take that into account too before promising delivery.

»» Keep the campaign short. Create urgency by keeping it short. Data shows that
the most money is earned in the first and last week. Avoid that saggy middle by
keeping it as brief as you can while still giving enough time to reach your goal.

»» Devise a Plan B. What are you going to do if you’ve only hit 84 percent of your
goal and the campaign is ticking out the final few hours? Crowdfunding is an
all-or-nothing proposition at most sites. Have emergency money set aside to
ensure you hit the goal if you’re going to come up a wee bit short.

352 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

 SEEKING OUT PATRONS
Another option for writers is based on the idea of patronage, where a wealthy
individual or organization supports a creative, such as yourself. The website Patreon
(www.patreon.com/) does this, allowing content creators like you to be paid by mem-
bers via a monthly subscription fee. Patreon members don’t have to offer any rewards,
although the most successful Patreons offer at least two reward levels.

Popular reward options for writer accounts include access to early drafts, bonus unpub-
lished material, acknowledgement in a published work, behind-the-scenes photos or
videos, private Q&As, the use of a patron’s name for a character in a story, and free
downloadable stories (new or previously published).

If you want to see successful models, check out Seanan McGuire’s Patreon (www.
patreon.com/seananmcguire). Her rewards range from digital downloads to original
poems to monthly hangouts. Author and interactive game designer Lena Nguyen (www.
patreon.com/rinari) offers levels of rewards that include exclusive polls, Q&A
sessions, a private Discord server, “secret plans,” and more.

Remember: Don’t get carried away with offering rewards. Providing content for Patreon
supporters shouldn’t interfere with your main writing goals. Patreon is more of a
side income versus your real job. Let its community energize you and help you stay
motivated . . . unless you start making huge bank, as a few members do. If that
happens to you, go for it — if you want.

Promoting You and Your Work —

Making the Most of Marketing
You can never start early enough promoting and marketing yourself as a profes-
sional writer. “But I’m just a beginner!” you may point out. “Is it fair? Legal?
Appropriate?”

No certificate, degree, or publication magically transforms you into a writer. You

become one the moment you commit to writing the best stories you can. Own that
truth. Embrace it. That’s all the permission you need to call yourself a writer. Let
the world know you’re a writer, too.

Begin with free options, like actually telling people you’re a writer both in person
and on social media. Increasingly invest in marketing in new ways as your inter-
ests, needs, and career demands it. We recommend two paid options to get you
started. Spend $20 at Got Print, Zazzle, or Vistaprint to get 500 or more

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 353

 nice-looking business cards. Go simple with just your name, contact info, and
maybe “writer” as a title. Nothing fancy. Give these babies out like candy.

The other low-cost writing startup option we recommend is creating your own
website. Get your name as the domain name if you can, or if it’s taken, pick a rea-
sonable alternative (try adding “writer” or “books”). Again, simple is the key.
A one-page site with a well-written About section and a Contact Me area is a fine
start. Update it as you see fit and your career grows.

If you choose to have a writer website, it must look professional. Keep it simple
and polished. Anything less is more like anti-promotion.

Keep reading for more ways to promote yourself and your work.

Standing high on a platform

You became a writer to write, not to do marketing and branding. We get it. But the
reality is, regardless of your target medium, a writer’s platform matters.

A platform may seem to be social media because people use the term “platform”
there in everyday conversation. That answer is partially correct, but a writer plat-
form is more than just what social media you have. It’s your cumulative visibility
and influence as a writer, which translates into a certain number of story sales
because audiences already like you. Basically, it’s the number of people actively
paying attention to what you do and say on online, in real life, and through your
work, whatever that is.

If you’re a celebrity, that’s part of your platform. So is an Instagram following,

being a frequent conference presenter, having your own radio/TV show, or putting
out a monthly newsletter. Taken together, the combination of things such as these
becomes your platform.

And here’s a tough truth: Most writers don’t have an effective one.

Well before your first story is out, consider building an effective writer platform
from the ground up, starting with any of the following options.

Social networks
Even if you have a writer website, prospective agents, editors, or producers will
also check you out on social media. Do you really want them poking through your
zoo pictures, tequila recipes, and political posts? Choose one or two social media
sites that you like and create writing-specific accounts for yourself. Keep the con-
tent there solely about writing and related matters. Post with whatever regularity
you find comfortable.

354 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

You’re building a brand as a writer. Proofread everything before you post, and
always triple-check content for current or potential issues that may affect how
it’s received. The internet has plenty of people unofficially policing it  — don’t
give them something to attack. Stay true to your brand in tone, style, and content.
The followers you attract will then be more likely to purchase your stories if your
public posts are in line with your writer brand.

Writing groups and organizations

Your fellow writers are a viable part of your platform. Not only are writers
interested in the same things other writers are, but they like to raise up their peers
and support one another.

Consider doing the following to build your brand:

»» Join critique groups or reading clubs. One of the best ways for people to get to
know you as a writer is for them to hear you to talk about the stories of others.

»» Seek out professional groups organizations. For example, look into the
Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), which covers kidlit
up to and including middle grade and young adult works. You don’t even have
to be published to join SCBWI.

With the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers for America (SFWA), you do need some
level of paid writing sales to join, whereas the Horror Writers Association (HWA) has
various levels of membership, going from beginner to well-published pro.

Newsletters
We save the best for last. When you start to experience success as a writer, create
a newsletter. Even if you’re only sending out that newsletter once a month or even
less frequently, delivering interesting free content deepens that bond. When it’s
time to announce that your next story is available for purchase, the folks who
receive your newsletter will be interested.

Most writers have moved to e-newsletters since stamps get costly fast if your
snail-mail list gets big. It’s your call, however, on whether a print or digital news-
letter best suits your writing brand. Just make sure that if you’re emailing, you’re
sticking to a schedule to respect people’s inbox.

Newsletters aren’t self-promotional sales pitches. That should be less than 10

percent of what you offer because constant “Buy my stuff!” pushiness will make
your audience dwindle fast. Instead, offer things your audience will enjoy and
appreciate: book/movie/game recommendations or reviews; short interviews with
agents, editors, publishers, or fellow writers; links to how-to articles you found

CHAPTER 24 The Three Ps: Publication, Pitching, and Promotion 355

 useful, and so on. If you run across things in your research that won’t make it in
your story but is still really cool, include that. You can also reveal a bit about you
the person via an occasional pet photo or rose garden updates, but keep the
primary focus on the world of writing.

Making the most of conferences

Going to a genre-specific or general writer’s conference can pay off in many ways.
Because writing is such a solitary act, surrounding yourself with people who get it
creates a welcome sense of community and shared endeavor. Most likely, you’ll
come back energized and ready to dive deeply into your own writing and revising.
You’ll have a clearer sense of both what you and need to do, as well.

Conferences also deliver resources you can use for years to come, such as handouts,
audio recordings, story recommendations, and more. You may discover about some
publishing opportunities, contests, awards, trends, and new markets for your work.
You may even be able to write it all off on your taxes — how’s that!

Don’t think of writing peers as rivals or adversaries. It may feel that way sometime,
but it’s not a zero-sum game. Your friend, cousin, or neighbor selling a slasher
novel doesn’t mean they win, therefore you lose. Instead, consider it clear evidence
that hard work, good writing, and a splash of luck can win the day. The pathway to
publication is real — someone you know just proved it. That’s very encouraging. In
short, create and build relationships. Think long term, not transactionally.

One of the most popular benefits of a conference is the potential face time with
industry people. Whether you’re paying for a 15-minute critique session with an
agent or just drinking a beer at a hotel bar with a Netflix producer, those moments
are priceless. Even if you’re not pitching something, just hearing these insiders
talk in semi-casual moments can help you understand their role better and see
what you need to do to win them over when you finally submit your work.

356 PART 6 The Journey from Writing to Publication

7
The Part of Tens
IN THIS PART . . .

Find out how to make writer’s block a thing of the past.

Discover how to generate more story ideas than you’ll

ever need.

Be aware of the most common pitfalls for genre

stories and explore techniques that turn those
weaknesses into strengths.

Use story modes to build audience expectations

and layer in depth and emotional complexity in
your stories.
 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Looking for ideas in news story

headlines

»» Journaling in a notebook — physical

or digital

»» Going on an excursion

Chapter 25
Ten Ways to Jump-Start
a Stalled Story

S
ometimes, the words don’t come when you face a blank page. Sometimes
you run dry when you’ve got a little, half, or most of a story written. No
matter when it strikes, writer’s block stinks.

There’s hope, though.

To blast past writer’s block, generate new ideas instead of continuing to struggle
with what you already have on the screen or page . . . which is how you got stuck
in the first place. Clearly, you didn’t have enough ideas.

To unlock new possibilities, we recommend creating not just one fresh idea, but
lots of them. If one doesn’t work, no worries! Try another. Creating story ideas is
a no-pressure, low-stakes act of discovery. Have fun with the process, and you’ll
soon be inspired to fill page after page with writing.

Sometimes a stalled story has nowhere to go. It’s perfectly valid to put it aside and
work on something new. Perhaps you can repurpose that stalled story — or part
of it — into something new.

Use the following ideas in this chapter to create an endless supply of new story
ideas. These techniques are equally useful for launching your next story or helping
you break through a block on your current project.

CHAPTER 25 Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story 359

 Make sure you have a physical or digital way to keep track of all your ideas as they
emerge. Use your brain to create, not to serve as a filing cabinet.

Extra, Extra — Reading Story Headlines

Look at newspaper, magazine, and website headlines for ideas. Don’t read the
stories themselves, just the headlines. What sparks a story idea for you? Try
changing a word or two to come up with some new ideas.

Swap out the nouns in the headline to those particular to your story. Character
names and geographic locations tend to summon all kinds of possibilities.

For example: “House Fire in Elmwood Park Leaves Two Hospitalized” to “Tavern
Fire in Elmwood Park Leaves Two Elves Hospitalized” “Americans Overseas:
Can  Their Phones Be Hacked?” to “Soldier Bots Overseas: Can Their Brains
Be Hacked?”

Don’t limit yourself. Headlines in a gossip magazine might be as fruitful as The

New  York Times. Go ahead and check The Huffington Post, The Onion, and any
favorite internet sites for source material. Just don’t get caught up in reading the
stories — it’s all about the headlines!

Taking a Ride on the PPE Story Machine

For nearly a century, writers have been using variations on the Person/Place/Event
story machine, also known as the PPE story machine. It works like this: Make a
three-column list. At the top of column one, list ten types of people. At the top of
column two, list ten places. At the top of column three, list ten events. Pick one
thing from each column, combine them, and watch the story possibilities practi-
cally create themselves. Table 25-1 is an example of a PPE story machine.

Use characters from your story in the Person category and story settings for
Places. Have fun with the Events category, too. Including unexpected options
there will result in tons of surprising options for breaking past your story block.

For example, could you do something with librarians having a funeral at the town
dump? Or an assassin at a formal dance aboard a flying zeppelin? What about a
grave digger having an unexpected job interview inside an interstellar space
leviathan?

360 PART 7 The Part of Tens

TABLE 25-1 Generating Ideas with the PPE Story Machine
Person Place Event

banker zeppelin birthday party

assassin mountain peak funeral

librarian town dump formal dance

grave digger ice prison job interview

space pirate belly of an interstellar leviathan fistfight in the dark

And so on. . . And so on. . . And so on. . .

Roll dice to make unexpected pairings. For a whole new crop of ideas, swap out the
words in one or more columns.

Writing to Free Up Your Blocks

Many writers love freewriting, which is the idea of writing as fast as you can about
for a specific amount of time. Whether you use a prompt or not to get you going
(like “write about forbidden places” or “write about dreams you never had”),
don’t hold back.

Try using a core phrase such as “I want to write about .  .  .” or “My character
wants . . .” which you repeat in writing until something else emerges, which it will
after you’ve written that phrase three or four times in a row. Follow whatever
comes next. If you run out of creative energy, return to the core phrase and repeat
it until something else sparks to life. Trust us. It will.

Don’t edit. Don’t look back. Don’t stop until the time’s up. The goal is to outpace
your brain with all its filters and limitations.

Noodling in Notebooks
Journaling is different than freewriting because you can journal in a notebook
(or on your phone) anytime, anywhere, without rules or restriction. There’s no
time constraint or speed requirement. It can be leisurely, meandering, and
roundabout.

What do you fill that notebook with? That’s up to you!

CHAPTER 25 Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story 361

 Consider doing the following to jump-start your journaling:

»» Fill your notebook with any manner of story-related things in any type of
media you choose (we especially enjoy sketches, collages, and mind-map
charts). Eventually, those entries will cumulatively empower your creativity to
discover a way through, over, or around the story block. Give it time to
accrue power.

»» Jot down possible names for a vampire lord’s lair (Tomb of the Gentle Spider?
Ironvale Sanctum? Duskhorn Delves?). Make a fantasy city map. Doodle the
layout of an underground moon base.

»» Journal in new environments, at different times, and with different writing

tools (crayons, colored pencils, watercolor paint, and so on).

»» Keep your journal — physical or digital — nearby when you wake up. Dreams
are a rich source of strange, interesting things that can fuel a new story.

Taking a Field Trip

In Julia Cameron’s inspiring book on creativity, The Artist’s Way, she recommends
going on an artist’s date. Essentially, the idea is to take a solo expedition to
recharge your creativity by “wooing your consciousness.” The venues don’t have
to be overly artsy to be effective — a museum, art gallery, public library, or craft
store can all serve as good venues to spark some creativity.

Take the main character of your story with you on an artist’s date. Ask yourself the
following questions about your main character:

»» What inspires them about the venue?

»» What do they react to?
»» If they went on their own artist’s date without you, where would they go?
What might they do there?

»» In what ways might their own solo date nourish their soul?
»» Where might your story’s plot allow an actual artist’s date to fit?
Take along a notebook and jot down anything that strikes you, makes you curious,
or tugs at your imagination. As often as not, you’re discovering the kernels of
story. Even when you’re not feeling stuck, Cameron suggests going on a weekly
artist’s date to fire up the imagination and keep the inner well of inspiration filled.

362 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 For more on Cameron’s idea of the artist’s date, go to her website (www.
juliacameronlive.com) for a free short video on that topic. She also wrote an
ebook that shares 52 ideas on how to use the artist’s date to “nourish your soul.”

Figuring Out What the Story Is

With a friend or on your own, take any real-world stimulus — broken sunglasses
on a park bench, a single blue rose on a highway, you name it — and postulate a
possible story behind it. See how many different options you can create for each.
Because genre stories have fewer limits than real-world ones, bring your creativity
A-game to bear.

For example, you see a #2 pencil jammed into a wall, so you ask, “What’s the
story here?”

»» Idea 1: Just for a moment, gravity worked sideways in this room.

»» Idea 2: You just missed ninjas battling it out with school supplies.
»» Idea 3: The pencil is a lever that opens a secret hatch in the ceiling.
Incorporate a real-world “What’s the story?” idea into your story. Or examine
what’s already in your story for unusual things that might be the way they are for
reasons beyond the norm. Play “What’s the story?” until you find reasons that
creatively move you forward.

Answering the Great “What If?”

Playing the “What if?” game is a favorite of many writers, including the amazing
genre writer, Neil Gaiman (see Chapter 9). He writes about this very thing (along
with similar ideas and funny anecdotes) in his “Where Do You Get Your Ideas?”
essay in the “Cool Stuff” section of his website (www.neilgaiman.com).

Shut your eyes, open your mind, and ask “What if?” Here are some suggestions
to get your ideas flowing:

»» What if . . . my cat could talk?

»» What if . . . anything I drew with this pencil became real?
»» What if . . . mirrors were a magical gateway?

CHAPTER 25 Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story 363

 »» What if . . . World War II never happened?
»» What if . . . vampires were the dominant species on Earth?
Play the “What if?” game about various aspects of where you’re stuck in your
story, including the characters, setting, plot, and so on. Don’t hold back! Let logic,
reason, and commonsense drop away if they’re keeping you from coming up with
more ideas.

Blending, Stirring, and Mixing

Consider how introducing a character, conflict, or theme from another story
would affect the blocked scene. Perhaps choose a purposefully unexpected or even
bizarre choice to challenge your creativity to think anew. Small or large, any addi-
tion will spur numerous fresh story opportunities, whether you actually incorpo-
rate those new story elements into your story or not.

Whether Hollywood movies are actually sold via an “It’s like [insert Story A]
meets [insert Story B]!” pitch or not, it’s easy to see how that tactic aptly describes
some existing stories.

For example, isn’t Sharknado just Jaws + Twister? And the story bible for Stranger
Things literally says it’s “a love letter to the golden age of Steven Spielberg and
Stephen King.” Yet another A + B formulation!

How might this look for genre stories that you could write? Maybe Die Hard meets
Star Wars? Lord of the Rings  .  .  .  with robots? Halloween  .  .  .  on a generational
star cruiser?

This method isn’t only about slamming two titles together. Mixing and matching
characters or themes gets you somewhere potentially exciting as well. The goal
isn’t to plagiarize or covertly copy anything, but to get you thinking in original
ways using elements you already know.

Beginning with an Idea

Instead of starting with a character, plot, or setting, begin with a premise, an idea
that a story can explore. The most memorable are your beliefs that contradict
what people commonly believe. For example:

364 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 »» Justice is always just a second crime.
»» Relationships don’t survive on truth alone.
»» Love means always having to say you’re sorry.
After you settle on a premise, think about characters, conflicts, and settings that
would help get to the heart of the idea. Layer those until a story begins to take
shape. Challenge and investigate that premise.

Add a second premise to your story. This one may directly relate to the primary
premise, or it may be part of a subplot. How may this new premise interact with
the existing premise? The characters? The plot? How does the introduction of this
new premise give rise to solutions to bypass your block?

Using Someone Else’s Words

You can use an epigraph to stoke your imagination and generate some ideas.
Plenty of great novels include epigraphs, which are a quotation, phrase, poem, or
song lyrics used at the beginning of a story, though you can find them at the start
of acts, sections, or chapters as well. You can see them in games, comics, TV, and
film, too.

Because plagiarism is a reasonable concern when dealing with words someone

else wrote, always cite your sources. Include the original author and source in
every epigraph you use, as you see in these examples from three genre works:

Haruki Murakami’s IQ84

“It’s a Barnum and Bailey world,

just as phony as it can be,

but it wouldn’t be make-believe

if you believed in me.”

—“It’s Only a Paper Moon”

by Billy Rose and E.Y. “Yip” Harburg

Neil Gaiman’s Coraline

“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that

dragon exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.”

—C.K. Chesterton

CHAPTER 25 Ten Ways to Jump-Start a Stalled Story 365

 Kate Griffin’s A Madness of Angels

“We be light, we be life, we be fire!

We sing electric flame, we rumble underground, we dance heaven!

Come be we and be free!

We be blue electric angels!”

—Anonymous spam mail, source unknown

Consider adding an epigraph at the start of a problematic chapter or section. Ask

yourself the following questions for inspiration:

»» How does the epigraph inform what follows?

»» What layers, nuances, or tensions does it potentially create?
»» Would it be useful to add an overarching epigraph to the entire story?
»» What about including one at the start of every chapter or section?
Search online for “best epigraphs” or “best poetry lines” for options or locate
them on your own through literary grazing at the local library or your own book-
shelf. Whether you ultimately include the epigraph in your story or not doesn’t
matter, so long as you get inspired.

366 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Remembering your story

fundamentals

»» Knowing what’s already been done —

and what audiences expect

»» Avoiding the trap of trends

Chapter 26
Ten Common Pitfalls
in Writing Sci-Fi,
Fantasy, and Horror

A
udiences are smart — they won’t react well if you’re not delivering what
they expect. Yet they’re also dissatisfied when you give them exactly what
they’ve seen before. Don’t worry. There’s a sweet spot in the middle, and
this chapter is designed to help you stay right in that lane.

Whether you’re just starting out or you’re deep into your fifth draft, the following
will be of use. These tips remind you of specific areas and ways that a genre story
can fall short of what audiences want and need. Taken together with Chapters 2
(character), 3 (plot), and 22 (revision), this chapter can help hone your craft and
sharpen up your ability to write compelling stories.

Perhaps equally important, the following are some of the most common things
that merit an eyeroll or rejection from agents, editors, and producers. If you’re
serious about getting your work out to audiences beyond self-publishing, avoid-
ing these pitfalls will absolutely help move you closer to that goal. Your future
audiences will also really appreciate that you’re avoiding these oh-so-common
pitfalls, as well.

CHAPTER 26 Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror 367

Putting Surface before Substance
Genre stories, including sci-fi, fantasy, and horror, often have an inherent
spectacle that’s compelling. But spectacle —the flashy, striking visual aspect of
something  — isn’t what stays with audiences after The End. What audiences
remember later are characters they can hope and fear for. They remember how a
well-crafted story made them feel, not how many blaster fights happened.

Don’t be so enamored by your cool, genre-y things that you neglect story sub-
stance. No amount of deep space battles, vampire takeovers of the government, or
CGI magic will overcome thin characterization, plot holes, or themes that resonate
with emotion and truth.

Chapter  2 has what you need to make dynamic, interesting characters, and
Chapter 3 can help you fill those plot holes.

Overrelying on Coincidence
In stories, a perfectly timed coincidence feels like a cheat. Up until that point, logic
and cause-and-effect ran the show, but suddenly randomness now dictates plot?
Audiences don’t love when that happens.

Yes, coincidences do happen in real life, so seeing one in a story isn’t unreasona-
ble. Just avoid them if you can. If you can’t, then limit yourself to one coincidence
per story and try not to make the story pivot as a result.

For example, you be able to get away with a gun jamming just before the fatal final
shot or a rope breaking just as the hero reaches for it on the side of a cliff. Because
this feels so stunningly convenient, audiences may rightly say, “Pffft! Yeah,
right.” They won’t react that way when logic, commonsense, and cause-and-
effect drive the story ahead.

For more on the importance of story logic and plot, flip to Chapter 3.

Worldbuilding with Endless Details

Although having the Second Robot Rebellion occurring in the Alpha Centauri
system 3,700 years ago because of a single faulty organic neuroprocessor chip
may be interesting, you don’t want to create too much detail when worldbuilding.

368 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 After all, readers of your story really don’t need that level of detail in order to
understand, appreciate, and enjoy your story.

You can research, create, and dream as much as you want. Just keep it to yourself
unless it’s actually necessary to include in the story.

For more on worldbuilding, revisit Part 2.

Not Reading Enough

This tip is so vital that it probably should’ve received top billing in this list. Read-
ing widely, deeply, and thoughtfully is such a positive way to grow as a writer that
doing so will likely help with nearly every other issue on this list.

We suggest you invest the time to experience great stories. Ideally, more than
once. The first time is for pure audience enjoyment. Subsequent times are to care-
fully consider the craft choices the writer made.

Here are our other suggestions:

»» Read award winners. We urge you to read the prize-winning stories in your
genre, like Hugo, Nebula, British Fantasy Award, and World Fantasy Award
winners, as well as those that won Oscars, Tonys, Emmys, Pulitzers, or other
industry-specific versus genre-specific awards.

If you don’t have time to take in some of the noteworthy classic or contempo-
rary stories in your specific medium, at least read what quality reviewers have
written about them. Even better, read those reviews and put your own eyes
on the original texts, even if it’s just skimming.

»» Check out the recommendations online. To find gems beyond the critically
acclaimed ones, trust the “Books You May Like” recommendations on Amazon
when looking at other books in your genre. Libraries and bookstores often
have special sections for staff-recommended titles, and those are often
personal faves versus well-known classics. Netflix and other streaming sites
recommend a host of new titles for you, as well.

»» Trust writers. We get some terrific horror books recommendations from following
Stephen Graham Jones on social media. All genres and media have people like him
who always seem to be in the know about great new writers and stories.

»» Read outside of your specific genre and medium. Good stories are good
stories, no matter what genre they are or how you encounter them.

Refer to Chapter 6 to see how reading can play an important role in story research.

CHAPTER 26 Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror 369

Reusing Aliens/Werewolves/Elves
If you’re trusting your experiences with J.R.R. Tolkien’s books or a secret love of
cryptozoology to populate your story world, you’re missing out. Readers have seen
those exact creatures before and want something original, so keep your readers
engaged and be careful about recycling creatures.

You have two options here with creatures:

»» Invent entirely new ones, which might just be blending together aspects of
existing creatures in interesting ways.

»» Tweak existing creatures to transform them into your own brand of aliens,
werewolves, or elves while retaining the archetypical features that audiences
expect.

When tweaking, one or two noticeable ways should be enough. Perhaps your
dwarves have all given up on mining and instead are deeply involved in a
species-wide pyramid scheme versus humans. Maybe your werewolves only
shift while asleep, so spells have been developed that allow wizards to control
werewolves without waking them, thus creating an army of snoring
lycanthropes.

You know you’ve gone too far if your elves are ten-foot-tall barbarians with
50-year lifespans who live in makeshift villages atop the back of monstrous land
turtles. Go ahead and use them, but just don’t call them elves. Invent a new name
for this warlike species.

For more on how to make creatures, consult Chapter 11 for aliens, Chapter 17 for
fantasy story creatures, or Chapter 20 for horror story monsters.

Embracing a Richer Worldview

Most writing classes and how-to books are firmly rooted in Western storytelling
traditions. It’s no surprise then that many writers end up writing Western stories
that are based on many explicit and implicit Western assumptions — often those
of privileged white males. For more on this idea, refer to Chapter  23 on using
sensitivity readers and cultural consultants. Don’t fall into this same pitfall.

The world has a vibrant, rich range of storytelling modes and styles. You can
and should consider cultural and historical contexts, and how gender, race, and

370 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 sexuality affect lives. Those same things need to affect your stories, too, even if
your story isn’t in alignment with the culturally dominant population, whether
that population is human Caucasians, space vampires, or lycanthropes of any ilk.

Following Trends Too Closely

You’ve been told to give audiences what they want, and from recent media suc-
cesses, they want . . . found-footage horror. Or they want weather catastrophes
that threaten life on Earth. Or they want steampunk fantasy. Or whatever new
trend you discover in movie theaters, bookstores, and the world of gaming.

Following an active trend might feel like an ideal strategy, but by the time these
stories hit the marketplace and you become aware of them, the industry has been
working with them for years. Literally. Odds are, they’ve already bought years of
fresh material in this same trend and are in the lengthy production process of
putting all that out there. That means that the on-trend piece you’re planning to
submit is going to meet more competition than something considered off-trend.

Don’t toss a story just because it’s working within a trend. Just be aware the mar-
ket might be oversaturated. You may have to shelf that particular story and work
on something else until industry folks and audiences are once again ready for that
kind of book.

Chapter 24 has more information about trends in relationship to the publishing

industry.

Overusing Fantastic Language

Fantastic worlds need fantastic characters and fantastic plots. Shouldn’t it need
fantastic language, too? Not if it sacrifices clarity. That’s not to say you can’t pull
character names from a Nordic word bank or that you can’t create a cool name for
the purple-leafed medicinal herbs that will cure your character’s shadowland
nightmares in the second act.

However, if you’re writing k’qqaffe for coffee, you’re making things unnecessarily
hard for audiences. When in doubt, value clarity over potential confusion. If you
miss these potential issues, asking outside readers (Chapter 23) for feedback on
any potential sources of confusion often yields helpful results.

CHAPTER 26 Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror 371

 Another pitfall in the realm of naming characters is making them too similar to
tell them apart. Readers sometimes look at the first letter of a character name and
skip the rest of the letters, assuming they know who it is, so “Revnar the Bold”
and “Ragar the Destroyer” becomes an issue. Just use a different initial letter for
names and you should be fine.

Forgetting the Promise of the Genre

You can easily get so caught up in writing the story that you somehow neglect to
make the horror scare, the fantasy fantastic, or the sci-fi amazing. Audiences like
genre stories for a reason: They consistently deliver common elements and expe-
riences. Although you don’t have to give them every single thing they’ve seen
before (note the next section), if you aren’t fulfilling the promises of your genre,
audiences will be disappointed, confused, or worse.

Peruse this book’s Table of Contents and review specific chapters on your genre to
remind yourself what audiences both want and need. Then rely on the genre con-
ventions while bringing your creativity to bear to make yours unique. Industry
folk sometimes call this the “same, but different” goal. Audiences want the same
type of story as their favorites, but not exactly the same story.

To fully appreciate all that goes into each genre, we recommend reading Part 3 for
science fiction, Part 4 for fantasy, and Part 5 for horror. That’s a lot to read, we
realize, but there’s a lot to know about each genre.

Utilizing Clichés
At one time, writers came up with something interesting, memorable, and crea-
tive. Then audiences ran across the same things again and again to the point that
these once-terrific things have nearly become a joke — enter the cliché — a phrase
or expression whose effectiveness has been lost through overuse.

If you’re doing any of the following in your stories, consider other options or find
a different spin to make them feel fresh. Fast!

In sci-fi:

»» Evil aliens are ugly; good ones are attractive or have humanlike aspects/qualities.
»» Technical mumbo-jumbo covers plot holes.

372 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 »» Future Earth is always post-apocalyptic and dystopian.
»» Big Business wants to use a living creature as a weapon.
»» Humanity’s problems are secretly caused by aliens.
»» Aliens/robots remark on the peculiar nature of humans (often to comic effect).
In fantasy:

»» Evil exists simply because writers need easy villains. (Dump the Dark Lords,
or give them a believable reason to do bad things!)

»» Every group of gods (or godlike creatures) plays chess with humanity.
»» Damsels always need rescuing.
»» Villains insist on a midnight-black or blood-red wardrobe.
»» Professional soldiers are easily bested by untrained protagonists.
»» Mentors must be old, decrepit men.
In horror:

»» When being chased, characters lose the ability to open doors, climb a fence,
or run without tripping.

»» Any grizzled old dude who correctly warns future victims is ignored
or mocked.

»» Monsters are good for one final jump scare . . . even after everyone is sure the
monsters have been defeated.

»» Authority figures are totally useless — especially (and ironically) police officers,
security guards, and parents.

»» Characters are heroically self-sacrificing, saying things such as “Kill

me . . . before I turn . . .” or “I’ll hold off that zombie horde!”

»» In a dangerous situation, characters think the best course of action is always:

“Let’s split up!”

There are far more genre clichés than the ones listed here. Search online for
lists  — you can find lots of them out there  — and check your story elements
against them just to be safe.

CHAPTER 26 Ten Common Pitfalls in Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror 373

 IN THIS CHAPTER

»» Fulfilling reader expectations

»» Embracing the strengths of story

types

»» Mixing and matching story modes

Chapter 27
Ten Popular Story Modes

G
enre is a type of creative expression that has a common set of special
characteristics, such as those we explain in this book regarding sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror. But many writers, librarians, teachers, and academics
like to push this concept further by using a related term, subgenre.

We understand that subgenre is widely used, but we don’t love it. We much prefer
the term modes. To us, it does a better job of suggesting a set of storytelling expec-
tations that audiences have. These modes are a series of layers you can add to
augment or expand a genre story (like sci-fi, fantasy, or horror). A mode connects
or cuts across these genres and other modes in interesting, exciting ways.

Ultimately, knowing what audiences love about particular modes may help
you  empower your writing and guide your creative decisions to create truly
great stories.

You aren’t limited to merely using one mode in a story. Pairing sci-fi with an
adventure mode may equate to an effective tale, but you’re allowed to do more if
you want. A fantasy story can be both dark and epic, for example, just as a horror
story can be apocalyptic, comic, and historical. In short, modes aren’t mutually
exclusive. Put a few in a blender and hit the puree button, if you think the outcome
might be delicious . . . narratively speaking.

In this chapter, we select ten popular modes that match up well with sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror. Other tried-and-true modes are available beyond these ten
(such as thrillers, westerns, and spy stories, to name just a few), so feel free to

CHAPTER 27 Ten Popular Story Modes 375

 investigate modes not on this list on your own and use as you see fit, though the
ones we include here are real audience pleasers.

Danger at Every Step — The

Adventure Story
In an adventure story, audiences follow your main character along a series of
encounters that showcase derring-do, exploration, and discovery. These stories
tend to be fast-paced and full of experiences well beyond the ordinary, which
means dangerous situations pile up one atop another in relatively short order.

Adventure stories often

»» Throw characters again and again into dangerous circumstances. The

result is a story full of thrills and near-misses because real danger is afoot
from the start.

»» Amp up the tension. Whether it’s a counting-down clock or increasingly

challenging stakes, audiences keep guessing “What will happen next?” which is
the question at the heart of great fiction.

»» Offset the thrills with moments of lightness or humor. It can’t all be

high-stakes action and conflict, so sprinkle in some comic relief or something
that’s not cranked to the max. The contrast will serve the story well.

»» Use a picaresque/episodic story structure. Because adventure stories

include a lot of movement, the settings change as the main character moves
from place to place. Whether these settings are exotic or mundane, the
overall effect creates an episodic feel, even if the story is just a one-off tale
versus a massive series, as so many adventure stories are.

To create dynamite adventure stories, make sure you have a driving plot (Chapter 3),
a setting fraught with peril (Chapters 5 and 8), and a powerful antagonist (Chapter 2)
fully committed to making things hard for your main character.

“It’s the End!” — The Apocalyptic Story

Civil wars, world wars, environmental mayhem, biological/scientific disasters,
alien invasions  — although unwelcome in real life, these situations are the
strength of a high-stakes, riveting apocalyptic story. Stories focused on the end of

376 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 civilization may seem like they wouldn’t be bestseller or big-box-office options
for writers. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Apocalyptic stories often

»» Showcase human resilience. Audiences love to see humanity assert itself in

the face of overwhelming large-scale adversity. Go, mankind!

»» Magnify environmental/political/scientific threats. The challenge to

humanity doesn’t come out of nowhere; these stories create a logical pathway
of destruction that can shed new light on existing things that can easily get out
of hand, if left unchecked.

»» Reveal societal fragility. People have so many local issues that few worry
about civilization because everything is going fine . . . until it’s not. And then it
breaks at every possible stress point in dramatic, powerful ways that make for
good stories.

»» Examine the effects of resource depletion. Few things push a character to

the limit and force them to reveal their true selves as effectively as running
out of ammo, fuel, food, or water. And toilet paper.

The richness of the setting is paramount, so let Chapters 5 and 8 deeply inform
your story. Audiences must care about the world as much as the characters because
the stakes for each should be existential. If the setting (or, gasp, the characters!)
don’t generate empathy from audiences, the story will fail.

Because apocalyptic stories deal with the destruction of billions of lives, let
Chapter 23 offer ideas on how to be sensitive about that mind-boggling horror.
Some writers treat the apocalypse like it’s just a simple adventure like any other,
which is a huge mistake.

Gags, Sketches, and Snark —

The Comedy Story
Who doesn’t love to laugh, right? Whether you’re parodying a popular story, using
irony, employing slapstick, including bumbling characters, or using a zinger-
filled voice, humor can serve as a potent, welcome pause from high story tension.
When done well, comedy transforms a sci-fi, fantasy, or horror story into some-
thing truly memorable.

Because humor writing requires serious study, we suggest reading a book like
Scott Dikkers’ How to Write Funny (Writer’s Digest Books) in addition to

CHAPTER 27 Ten Popular Story Modes 377

 scrutinizing the best humorous genre writing you can find to use as models and
mentor texts. Examine stories that only occasionally use humor to good effect as
well as those that aim for the guffaws all the way through.

Comedy stories often

»» Use proven comedic moments. Whether the entire piece is comedic or it’s
just a perfectly timed HA! in an otherwise serious story — the humor has to
land. Don’t just trust your own sense of what’s giggle-worthy. Revise and
tweak until your test audiences reacts in the right way.

»» Use characters primed for humor. Give them a terrific sense of humor, a
keen sarcastic voice, or biases that go to a hilarious extreme. Everyday
characters won’t do the trick, unless they’re the non-funny one (often referred
to as the straight man) to contrast a humorous character or event.

»» Turn conflict into comedy. Try amplifying a problem into epic comic
proportions. Examine near-endless ideas on how to do it from the pros
who’ve been making this happen for decades — TV sitcom writers.

»» Play off genre expectations. Knowing what makes a fantasy (or any genre)
story good allows you to undercut or overplay an element to comic effects.
Subvert expectations to surprise your audience.

Because plot can set up comic outcomes, refer to Chapter 3 for ideas on how to make
that happen. Another fun option is to check out the genre-writing pitfalls in
Chapter 26 . . . and do them to the nth degree. Follow the pathway down the wrong
routes to see if there’s humor at the end of those tunnels. (Spoiler: We think there is.)

Capers, Cons, and Heists — The

Crime Story
Whether your characters are the criminals or the ones chasing criminals, at the
center of a crime story is — no surprise here — a crime and the subsequent inves-
tigation. Few story modes sell better than crime stories because the stakes are
high, the action is fast, and the battle of good versus evil is embodied in the dog-
ged pursuit of the criminal.

Crime stories often

»» Vividly depict the crime. Audiences are showing up for the crime. Let the
tension crackle, and don’t skimp on the magic, tech, and tools the criminals
employ. Let audiences vicariously participate in the exciting moment, whether

378 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 it’s rendered in rich in-the-moment scenes or strikingly described by someone
in the final scenes of the story.

»» Have a competent detective figure leading the chase. Even if it’s just an
amateur detective, they should have the instincts, resources, and drive to
really get after the criminals. If not, where’s the tension?

»» Share the clues the detective gets with the audience. Audiences want to
guess and predict alongside the forces of justice. Play fair with them. As the
detective learns things about the crime, share them.

»» Have ambiguous clues and multiple suspects. Anything less than this and
it’s far too easy for audiences to figure out. If your audiences crack the case
before the story’s authorities do, they’ll be disappointed.

»» Utilize twists and tricks. A detective may play dumb to coax a suspect into
revealing more than they intended, or a con artist may generate misdirection
to steal the elven crown.

To keep crime stories from merely being about a crime, let Chapter 2 help you cre-
ate satisfying ones to give depth to the criminals and those who seek to imprison
them. Chapter  23 gives ideas on how to enlist expert help  — from lawyers and
police, perhaps? — to raise the level of authenticity in your story.

Doom and Gloom — The Dark Story

Even though horror is already intrinsically dark, sci-fi and fantasy stories can
benefit from layering in horror, menace, mystery, or a general feeling of unease.
In short, a dark story is genre with an edge. The magic is more potent and costly,
the setting is just plain nastier, and the general story has a toughness to it that
might make audiences squirm.

Dark stories often

»» Happen in a dark world. Not necessarily literal darkness, but the setting
should be thick with history, atmosphere, magic, technology, or potential
conflicts that aren’t upbeat. Set a somber mood. Think gritty. Think nasty.

»» Embrace the middle ground. No white-hat/black-hat morality here. Everyone

and everything — from characters to governments to religion to magic
systems — is nuanced and complex, with a hard lean toward the dark side of
things. It all exists in the murky gray.

»» Don’t end well . . . for anyone. If you want happy endings, look elsewhere.
The heroes don’t always win in a dark story, and even if they do, the cost is

CHAPTER 27 Ten Popular Story Modes 379

 tragically high. (Remember that audiences have to care about the characters,
though, or the story doesn’t mean anything, whether those characters win,
lose, or draw.)

»» Force audiences to confront uncomfortable things. The lines between

good and evil are so blurred that a character audiences love might well do
something horrendous. Audiences will have to deal with fears, unknowns, and
uncertainties that are at the oozy center of dark stories.

When creating a dark version of a genre story, make sure the setting (see
Chapter 8) and the monsters and minions (see Chapters 17 and 21) have teeth,
real or figurative. The sharper the better! Plus, you want to use flawed characters
(see Chapter  2)  — there are no shiny, rainbow-farting unicorns or squeaky-
clean heroes in dark stories!

The Grandest of Scales — The Epic Story

Epics are big, and we mean big. For books, that usually means a trilogy or more. In
terms of narrative timespan, epic stories can cover years, decades, or centuries.
Equally common is how epics are built upon a sizable backstory or setting well
beyond the norm of most stories.

Clearly, creating an epic requires a lot of planning because of the sheer amount of
characters, settings, and plot points, but that’s what readers love about epics —
the deep, sometimes near-fathomless dive into a riveting world that goes on and
on and on as well as the bigger-than-life struggles that take place there.

Epic stories often

»» Unfold over a long period of time and/or geographic space. Your story is
big, after all, so make sure that the time or space covered is proportionate.
A common strategy is to start small and snowball into the vastness that is
your story.

»» Have intricate plots. And subplots, too. The epic has room to explore narrative
options, so deliver on those possibilities with conflict-rich plots and scenes.

»» Include lots of characters. Having many characters gives you lots of point of
view options, puts more people at risk, and allows for complex, multilayered
conflict. Put those characters to work for the story.

»» Require big stakes, big problems, and big solutions. The size and scopes of
epics let writers dream up big wonders, present huge scenes, and allow the
story to operate on a magnificent, grand scale.

380 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 To create audience-pleasing epics, invest extra time into building a rich world
that’s ripe with the potential for conflict (Chapters 5 and 8), and populate it with
characters with enough complexity to carry story and after story (Chapter 2). And
go big with the word count of your stories — like really big.

The Power of the Past —

The Historical Story
As opposed to worlds built mostly or entirely from the imagination, historical
stories are set in a specific, recognizable period of human history (generally more
than 50 years in the past) like the Victorian period, the Old West, or ancient Rome.

Audiences love history-based stories because the story is like a literary time
machine — they’re transported to the past in a compelling, meaningful way. They
get to witness historical events unfold, and certain times, places, and situations
from the recent and deep past hold ongoing appeal. Equally important, the literary
experience of engaging with the past can help audiences appreciate and under-
stand the present, too.

Historical stories often

»» Are based on deep research. Of all the modes in this chapter, this one may
require the most planning and research. We’re not just talking using Google,
either. Visit your library and perhaps even reach out to real-world experts.
Research is more than just dates and places; it’s also how people thought,
where they went for fun, and what they feared.

»» Weave history into the plot. History isn’t just a backdrop. Connect it to the
happenings in your story. You’ve picked this specific moment of history for a
reason — make it more than just scenery.

»» Blend imagination and fact. Let “What if?” questions guide you to blend the
exciting aspects of your genre with the most interesting parts of this particular
place and time in history.

»» Privilege readability over era-authentic dialogue. Too many writers want

dialogue to sound real, so characters speak in nearly indecipherable lan-
guages or dialects. Avoid that temptation. Drop in a hint or a word now and
then to remind your readers, but write it in clear, understandable English. Aim
for authenticity, not accuracy.

CHAPTER 27 Ten Popular Story Modes 381

 The challenge of writing a historical story is that you both start with and stick
with Earth for nearly all of your creative choices (see Chapter 6 for guidance on
mixing reality and imagination).

Fighting on the Frontlines —

The Military Story
A team of dwarven sappers taking out a castle. A troop of Martian ant warriors
besieging a smuggler’s space port. A horde of werewolves raging across the
battlefields of World War II. Audiences are drawn to these kinds of moments
because so many interesting things happen at once: bravery versus cowardice,
justice versus injustice, order versus chaos, and so much more.

Military stories often

»» Acknowledge that soldiers have flaws. Having military training gives them a
specific area of expertise. That doesn’t mean they’re a ninja-deathlord-killing
machine. They likely don’t know how to use weapons beyond the one they
were trained on. And they’ll have flaws like any other character. Lean into
those shortcomings and flaws to keep them relatable.

»» Often include an ensemble cast. Soldiers don’t go it alone, so include the

squad, team, or troop. If audiences don’t know anything about the other
soldiers, they’re just nameless meat shields or anonymous fodder for a
body count.

»» Forefront the soldier’s experience. They put you in the smoke-filled dungeon
trenches, in the cockpit of the interplanetary gunship, in the ancient city now
overrun by winged horrors. Or they follow battles from a commander’s
vantage point, seeing things from that high-level, high-stakes perspective.

»» Center on believable strategy and tactics. Battles aren’t just two sides
mindlessly slamming headlong into each other. There are calculated ebbs and
flows, pushes and counter pushes. A smart leader works hard to discover a
way to outfox an enemy and snare the upper hand.

»» Acknowledge the aftermath and trauma of battle. Whether your

soldiers are humans, dwarven sappers, or five-armed Drugmits from the Solar
Maelstrom, killing as a profession takes a toll. And what about those who are
forced into the ranks of the military? How do they cope with the violence
and death?

382 PART 7 The Part of Tens

 Refer to Chapter 23 to see how to work with a sensitivity reader to properly handle
a tough topic like war, which goes hand-in-hand with trauma, pain, and violence.
Good readers can also help ensure you’re not lapsing into clichés, military
or otherwise.

Sleuthing Out the Truth —

The Mystery Story
Almost every story is better with some mystery in it, and at the center of any mys-
tery is a great unknown. Yes, a mystery can be a crime, but that’s merely one type
of mystery — they can just as easily be an eerie occurrence, a missing android, or
an unsolvable mystical puzzle. Audiences love filling in the gaps of suspicious
circumstances and following the clues, which make the best mysteries almost like
an interactive story experience.

Mystery stories often

»» Include the whodunnit? question. In mysteries, the goal is to figure out who
did it, and why — thus, the vital whodunnit? question. Often, the culprit is
someone the audience met long before and has been hiding in plain sight
ever since.

»» Have secrets that explode when discovered. Withholding is a powerful way

to create tension and suspense, so long as it doesn’t feel like a cheat. Make
sure that your secret relates to the main conflict and is reasonable to be kept
hidden for most of the story. If the main character doesn’t know the secret, it’s
fair for audiences not to know either. But teasing/taunting your audiences
with it may generate suspense!

»» Share all need-to-know and common information. Withholding things in

this way feels like a cheat. It’s too much like being excluded from a private joke
that others are laughing at. No one likes feeling excluded or manipulated for
no good reason. Keep an even playing field.

»» Thoughtfully reveal pieces of the puzzle. The clues — the puzzle pieces —
have to be strategic. Audiences need to sense that they’re making progress
toward the aha moment without letting them get there before the story is
primed and ready for that reveal. (Bonus points if it’s a shocker that, in
retrospect, feels absolutely believable.)

CHAPTER 27 Ten Popular Story Modes 383

 One of the biggest hiccups in a mystery is handling how to release the clues at the
right pace. Chapter 22 offers tips on how to supercharge your story and ensure the
clues become a strength versus a liability. And because mystery thrives in a world/
setting built for conflict, let Chapter 5 help you design the ideal one for your mystery.

The Heart of the Matter —

The Romance Story
A romance story presents the struggles and challenges two people face as they
pursue romantic love with each other. Because this story mode is first and fore-
most about love, this type tends to have an optimistic, aspirational quality to it
that audiences appreciate. The romance mode plays especially well with nearly
every genre and mode.

Romance stories often

»» Focus on courtship. A romance story can have other plots and subplots, but
the budding romance must be central or it’s just a minor romantic subplot
versus an actual romance.

»» Know the difference between sexual attraction and love. The love-at-first-
sight thing is hard to buy. Sure, it exists, but it’s usually far more rewarding for
audiences to watch a meaningful relationship grow from a spark.

»» Let misunderstandings and surprise build tension. Audiences want that

happy ending, so anything that gets in the way is frustrating (in a good way).
So, delay, delay, delay. Use whatever tactics you can to throw that happy
outcome into question and hold off that final resolution.

»» Embrace the idea that goodness is rewarded. Good people tend to come
out on top in a romance, even if they encounter incredible opposition and
face tremendous obstacles. This affirmation of the power and value of
goodness plays into the warm, fuzzy feelings audiences often have about
romances of any type.

»» Have a happily ever after. That optimistic ending the audience knows is
coming fills them with hope and a sense of emotional justice — after all, love
is a fundamental element of the human experience. To see it fulfilled is
endlessly satisfying.

To make a romance story work, you must create characters that audiences deeply
connect with whether those characters are humans, robots, sentient mice, or ooze
creatures. Chapter  2 can help with that. And Chapter  22 has advice on how to
revise to enhance your theme to ensure it’ll resonate with your audience.

384 PART 7 The Part of Tens

Index
A power fantasy, 167
as protagonists, 163–164
academic databases, 101
reusing, 370
accuracy, striving for, 99–100
as rivals, 164
actions, bringing world to life with, 107–108
sublime, 166
activating weapons of war, 152–154
uncanny, 167
Adams, Douglas (author)
allies, aliens as, 164
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, 148
’alone in the night,’ for spaceship crew, 142
adaptation, from Earth, 94–98
alternate histories, 186–187
adding variety to scenes, 57–58
alternate presents, 187–188
adorable aliens, 167–168
alternate timelines, 191–192
advance, 349
aMazing element, in MMMaM Index of Wonder,
adventure stories, 376 204, 216
adversary, as a supporting character, 28 American Gods (Gaiman), 216
agents, for publishing, 344–346 anachronisms, primary sources and, 103
agents of chaos, 121 animalistic character trait, of monsters, 290
Aickman, Robert animals, aliens as, 161–162
“The Hospice,” 268 answering
Alien (film), 143, 161–162, 278, 295–296 first-draft questions, 321
alien biology, 159 “what if?” questions, 131–138
alien society, 159–160 antagonists
alien technology, 160 about, 25–26
aliens in horror stories, 274–275
about, 157–158, 295–296 Anticipation element, in formula for fear, 259, 260
adorable, 167–168 antigravity, 148–149
as allies, 164 The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop: How to
audiences and, 160–162, 168–169 Demonstrate the Creative Classroom
creating your own, 169 (Chavez), 342
differences between, 158–160 apocalyptic stories, 376–377
dramatics, 162–165 appearance
emotions, 166–169 of characters, 34
as enemies, 163 as a monster characteristic, 247
grotesque, 166–167 Aristotle, 260
metaphors, 158–162 armor, 154–155
as mysteries, 164–165 Arneson, Dave, 224–226
as obstacles, 165 Arrival (film), 162

Index 385
artificial intelligence (AI). See artificial life Big Data, 181
artificial life Big New Thing, 135–137, 144–145, 159–160,
about, 171 186, 188
Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics, 180 biopunk, 196
asking questions of meaning, 172–176 Blade Runner (film), 174
automated roles, 178–180 blasters, 153
building your beings, 182–184 The Blob (film), 295–296
character traits for, 173 Bloch, Robert (author)
computers as people, 181 Psycho, 268
creating, 172–177 The Bloody Chamber (Carter), 215
questions of responsibility, 176–177 blueprints, mythic, 216–217
treating as characters, 178–181 bold strokes
The Artist’s Way (Cameron), 362 story spaces and, 127
Asimov, Isaac (author) storytelling and, 114
Asimov’s Science Fiction (magazine), 193 breakdown plot, 279
Three Laws of Robotics, 180 The Broken Earth trilogy (Jemisin), 30, 225
Asimov’s Science Fiction (magazine), 193 building
Attebery, Brian (author) artificial life, 172–177
Strategies of Fantasy, 201, 218 change, 121
Atwood, Margaret (author) characters, 11, 19–40
The Handmaid’s Tale, 193 conflict, 44–46
audiences drama, 42–53
aliens and, 160–162, 168–169 environments for horror stories, 306–309
knowing your, 82 fear with narrative flow, 280–285
authentic voice, primary sources and, 103 monsters, 244–249
Author Uncut podcast, 340 myths, 227
automated roles, for artificial life, 178–180 queries, 347–348
autonomy, of artificial life, 172 revision plans, 318–322
spaces/places for drama, 122–126
story structure, 54–60
B wonder, 200–205
Baum, L. Frank your own aliens, 169
The Wizard of Oz, 208, 218 your own beings, 182–184
Beating the Story: How to Map, Understand, and Burke, Edmund (philosopher), 256
Elevate Any Narrative (Laws), 25
beginnings
about, 60–62 C
narrative expositions and, 108–109 “The Call of Cthulhu” (Lovecraft), 267
Beloved Becomes Threatening narrative flow, 282 Cameron, Julie (author)
Between Earth and Sky series (Roanhorse), 225 The Artist’s Way, 362
beyond the text website, 363
story spaces and, 127 Campbell, Joseph, 49
storytelling and, 115 Čapek, Karel, 177

386 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

captivating character trait, of monsters, 292 monsters as, 243–244
Carroll, Noël (author) multiple POV, 223
The Philosophy of Horror, 276, 288, 289 narrative expositions and, 108
Carter, Angela (author) protagonists, 23–25
The Bloody Chamber, 215 psychology of, 34–35
The Castle of Otranto (Walpole), 305 reacting to, 118
catharsis, in horror stories, 260, 280 rotating point of view of, 110
cause and effect, 47–48 showing, 89–90
Cavendish, Margaret (author) supporting, 26–29
The Description of a New World, Called The Blazing- telling details, 33–36
World, 133 as a tool for horror story writers,
central figures. See protagonists 256–257
Chaing, Ted (author), 174 treating artificial life as, 178–181
change, creating, 121 using dialogue, 36–40
change/transformation arc, 24 what’s important to, 88
chaos, agents of, 121 worlds as, 117–127
character arcs Chartered Institute of Editing and Publishing
about, 51–52 (website), 337
theme and, 325 Chavez, Felicia Rose (author)
character interiority, 66 The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop: How to
Demonstrate the Creative Classroom, 342
character traits
Cheat Sheet (website), 4
giving to artificial life, 173
Childhood’s End, 162
magic items as, 238
choosing
of monsters, 246–249
fantastical points of view, 208–211
characters
point of view (POV), 29–33
answering questions with, 134–135
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and
antagonists, 25–26 the Wardrobe (Lewis), 66
appearance of, 34 Circe (Miller), 215
choosing a point of view, 29–33 citations, following, 101
conflicts and, 11 Cixin, Liu (author)
creating, 11, 19–40 The Three-Body Problem, 190
creating from conflict, 89 Clark, Roy Peter (author)
creepy/creeped-out, 273–276 Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every
disagreements between, 88 Writer, 329
focusing on their wants, 20–22 Clasen, Mathias (scholar)
giving revelatory actions to, 112 Why Horror Seduces, 256
growth of, 24–25 clichés, 372–373
hiding, 90–91 cliffhangers, 71
in horror stories, 271–276 climax
introducing the cast of, 22–29 defined, 63
magic items as, 239 in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46, 47
from Middle Earth, 219–220 in horror stories, 260, 280

Index 387
cloaking devices, 154 costs, of magic, 233–236
Close Encounters of the Third Kind (film), 162 creating
close third person, point of view (POV) and, 110 artificial life, 172–177
cognitive dissonance, 97–98, 202 change, 121
coincidence, 368 characters, 11, 19–40
comedy stories, 377–378 conflict, 44–46
comics, writing for, 74 drama, 42–53
companions, as a supporting character, 27 environments for horror stories, 306–309
comps, 350 fear with narrative flow, 280–285
computers, as people, 181 monsters, 244–249
concerns, primary sources and, 103 myths, 227
conferences, 356 queries, 347–348
confessionals, 111 revision plans, 318–322
confined spaces, 312–313 spaces/places for drama, 122–126
conflict story structure, 54–60
characters and, 11 wonder, 200–205
creating, 44–46 your own aliens, 169
enhancing, 228 your own beings, 182–184
hiding, 90–91 creatures
primary sources and, 103 about, 296
showing, 89–90 from Middle Earth, 219–220
theme and, 325 The Creature from the Black Lagoon (film), 296
worldbuilding for, 87–89 crew, of spaceships, 142
writing expositions that cause, 109–110 crime stories, 378–379
confronting antagonists, 26 critique groups, 332–335, 355
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court crowdfunding, 352
(Twain), 191 crowdsourcing, 352
consensus reality, 8 cryptids, 296
constructs, 298 Csicsery-Ronay, Istvan (author)
contest narrative, in horror stories, 302 The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction, 137, 138
contest plot, 279 cults, 301–302
contested spaces, 125, 126 cultural constants, 341
controlling curiosity, provoking, 133–134
cognitive dissonance, 97–98 cyberpunk worlds, 194–195
knowledge through POV, 272–273 cyberspace, 195
copyeditor (CE), 336 cyborgs, 195
copyright, 332, 350
Corey, James S. A. (author)
Expanse series, 145 D
corrupting character trait, of monsters, 291–292 Dakan, Rick, 4
cosmic category, as a source of horror, 267 The Dandelion Dynasty series (Liu), 225
cosmic entities, 295–296 danger

388 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 a consideration for space travel stories, 150 domineering narrative, 307
of monsters, 242 Dracula (Stoker), 273
dangerous narrative, 308 dragons, 219, 249–251
Danielewski, Mark Z. (author) drama
House of Leaves, 313 aliens and, 162–165
dark stories, 379–380 building spaces/places for, 122–126
deep history, 221–222, 226–228 creating, 42–53
demonic threats, 296–297 dramatic irony, 31
deploying systems of defense, 154–155 dramatic magic, 231–233
The Description of a New World, Called The Blazing- dramatic question, 162
World (Cavendish), 133 dramatic stakes, monsters and, 243
desires, hidden, 22 dream scenes/worlds, 58, 205
details DriveThruRPG.com (website), 226
primary sources and, 103 drones, 153
telling, 33–36 Dune (Herbert), 111
determining purpose of artificial life, 182 Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), 216, 224–226, 234–235
developmental editor (DE), 13, 336 dwarves, from Middle Earth, 219
dialogue Dying Earth (Vance), 224
about, 36 dystopia, 192–193
dialogue tags, 38–39
types of, 36–38
writing script dialogue, 39–40 E
diaries, 111 Earth(s)
Dick, Philip K. (author) exploring other, 185–192
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 174 inspiration and adaptation from, 94–98
The Man in High Castle, 95, 187 economically committeed narrative, 307
Dikkers, Scott (author) Economy, Peter (author)
How to Write Funny, 377–378 Writing Fiction For Dummies, 4
direct dialogue, 36–37 ecosystems, maintaining, 118–119
discombobulated, as an emotion in horror editing. See revising and editing
stories, 263 Editorial Freelancers Association (website), 337
discovery narrative, in horror stories, 302 Einstein, Albert (scientist), 144–145
discovery plot, 277, 310 The Elements of Style, 329
disgust, as an emotion in horror stories, 262–263 elevator pitch, 348–349
disgusting character trait, of monsters, 289 elves
disgusting mess narrative, 285 from Middle Earth, 219
disoriented, as an emotion in horror stories, 263 reusing, 370
The Disposessed (Le Guin), 190 emotions
Divergent trilogy (Roth), 321 aliens and, 166–169
diversity, aliens and, 161 of artificial life, 183
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Dick), 174 in horror stories, 261–265, 269

Index 389
empathy, 261, 275 in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46
endings narrative, 108–111
about, 64 storytelling and engagement levels, 113–115
narrative expositions and, 109 trusting and provoking readers, 112–113
theme and, 325 expositionist, 276
enemies, aliens as, 163 external goals, 21
engagement
levels of, 127
storytelling at every level of, 113–115
F
falling action, in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46, 47
environmental category, as a source of
horror, 268 “The Fall of the House of Usher” (Poe), 266
environments Familiar Becomes Unfamiliar narrative flow, 281
for horror stories, 305–314 family drama, for spaceship crew, 142
as a monster characteristic, 249 fantastic elements
epic plots, 223 about, 207
epic stories, 380–381 of monsters, 246
epigraphs, 365–366 using, 206–208
epilogues, 58 fantastical point of view, 215
epistolary, in horror stories, 273 fantastical superheroes, 207
equilibrium fantasy
maintaining, 118–119 about, 9–10
wanting, 121–122 high, 205–206
Eraserhead (film), 280 low, 205–206
escape rooms, writing for, 76–77 Fantasy and Mimesis (Hume), 199, 214
esoteric travel, 148 ’fantasy realm’ world
E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (film), 167–168 about, 84
Everfair (Shawl), 95 hiding characters and conflict, 90
evil scientists, 297 sample pitch for, 86
evil spirits, 297–298 showing characters and conflict, 90
Exercise icon, 3 Fantasy/Reality spectrum, 201–202
The Exorcist (film), 279 far future, 189–190
exotic travel, 148 fascination, as an emotion in horror stories,
263–264
Expanse series (Corey), 145
faster-than-light (FTL) travel, 147–148, 149, 191
expense, a consideration for space travel
stories, 150 fear
experience levels, 224 as an emotion in horror stories, 261–262
experiencing your world, 82–83 Burke on, 256
experiments, 297 creating with narrative flow, 280–285
exposition formula for, 258–260
about, 105 feature films, 70
actions, 107–108 feelings, as a tool for horror story writers, 257
first impressions, 106 The Female Man (Russ), 131

390 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

fiction, using research to balance science and, first-draft questions, answering, 321
98–103 first-person plural, 30
fictive novum, 135 The First Fossil Hunters: Dinosaurs, Mammoths, and
field research, 102 Myth in Greek and Roman Times (Mayor), 245
field trips, 362–363 Fiverr (website), 337
film, writing for, 69–71 flash fiction. See short stories
films flash forward scenes, 58
Alien, 143, 161–162, 278, 295–296 flashback scenes, 58
Arrival, 162 The Fly (film), 297
Blade Runner, 174 focus character, 55
The Blob, 295–296 “fog of war,” 123
Close Encounters of the Third Kind, 162 foil, as a supporting character, 28
The Creature from the Black Lagoon, 296 fold space travel, 148
Eraserhead, 280 following citations, 101
E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, 167–168 footloose adventures, for spaceship
The Exorcist, 279 crew, 142
The Fly, 297 forbidden houses, 310
Forbidden Planet, 175 Forbidden Planet (film), 175
Halloween, 279 forced confines, for spaceship crew, 142
Hannibal, 299 foreboding environments, for horror stories,
307–308
Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, 301
Forester, C. S. (author), 140
The Mandalorian, 167–168
found family, for spaceship crew, 142
Misery, 299
framing stories, 43
The Mummy, 296
Frankenstein (Shelley), 176, 187, 326
The Night of the Living Dead, 268
freelance editors, 335–336
Psycho, 299
Freelancer (website), 337
Rosemary’s Baby, 279
Freytag, Gustav (writer), 46
Seven, 279
Freytag’s Pyramid, 46–48, 51, 60–62
The Silence of the Lambs, 325
future
The Thing, 298
far, 189–190
The Wicker Man, 268
looming, 188–189
final edit, 328–329
future tech, 153–154
finding themes, 325–326
fine nuances
story spaces and, 127 G
storytelling and, 114 Gabaldon, Diana (author)
first impressions, making, 106 Outlander, 66
first person Gaiman, Neil (author)
about, 30 American Gods, 216
in horror stories, 272 “Where Do You Get Your Ideas?” essay,
point of view (POV) and, 110 363–364

Index 391
gateway travel, 147 Harmon, Dan, 49
Gein, Ed, 268 Harris, Thomas, 325
genres haunted houses, 77, 309–314
about, 8 The Haunting of Hill House (Jackson), 277
a consideration for space travel stories, 150 Hay, Lucy V. (author)
familiarity with your, 98 Writing Diverse Characters for Fiction, TV or
fantasy, 9–10 Film, 342
horror, 10–11 head books, 15
pitfalls with, 372 headlines, reading, 360
realities of, 98 heart books, 15
Sci-fi, 8–9 heightened character trait, of monsters, 291
geography, Middle Earth and, 221–222 Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (film), 301
ghosts Herbet, Frank (author)
about, 297–298 Dune, 111
in haunted houses, 313–314 heroes. See protagonists
Gibson, William (author) heroic elements, 206–207
on cyberspace, 195 hero’s tale, primary sources and, 102–103
Neuomancer, 194 The Hero’s Journey story structure, 49
goals hidden depths
external, 21 story spaces and, 127
setting, 14–15 storytelling and, 114–115
God of War (video game series), 215 hidden desires, 22
golden readers, 335 high fantasy, 205–206
golems, 298 Hill, Susan (author)
Google Scholar, 101 The Woman in Black, 313
Gothic category historical stories, 381–382
in horror stories, 305 history
as a source of horror, 266 alternate, 186–187
Grammar Girl, 328–329 of haunted houses, 311–312
grotesque aliens, 166–167 hit points, 224
growth, of characters, 24–25 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Adams), 148
GUMSHOE system, 89, 225 hobbits, from Middle Earth, 219
Gygax, Gary, 224–226 The Hobbit (Tolkein), 218, 221, 222–223
homicidal category, as a source of horror,
267–268
H homicidal humans, 299–303
Halloween (film), 279 Horror Becomes Undeniable narrative flow, 283
Halverson, Deborah (author) horror genre
Writing Young Adult Fiction For Dummies, 4 about, 10–11, 255
The Handmaid’s Tale (Atwood), 193 catharsis in, 260
Hannibal (film), 299 characters in, 271–276
hard sci-fi, 137 climax in, 260

392 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 creating fear with narrative flow, 280–285 in medias res, 61
creating plots and scenes in, 271–286 inaccessible environments, for horror stories,
emotions in, 261–265, 269 306–307
environments for, 305–314 inciting incident, in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46
fear, 256, 258–260 indirect dialogue, 37
haunted houses, 309–314 industry organizations, 332
laughs, 265 Ingermanson, Randall (author)
narratives in, 302–303 Writing Fiction For Dummies, 4
plots in, 276–280 Inheritance trilogy (Jemisin), 225
revelations in, 283–285 inner circle, 35–36
sources of horror, 266–269 inspiration
tools for writers of, 256–257 from Earth, 94–98
Horror Writers Association (HWA), 332 monsters as, 242–243
“The Hospice” (Aickman), 268 intellectual property (IP), 350
House of Leaves (Danielewski), 313 interactive stories, 74–77
How to Write Funny (Dikkers), 377–378 internal needs, 21
Howard, Robert E., 218, 224 Internet resources
human assistants, for artificial life, 179 Cameron, Julie (author), 363
human replacements, for artificial life, 179 Chartered Institute of Editing and
Publishing, 337
humanish character trait, of monsters, 289–290
Cheat Sheet, 4
human-minus, artificial life and, 179–180
DriveThruRPG.com, 226
human-plus, artificial life and, 179
Editorial Freelancers Association, 337
humans, homicidal, 299–303
Fiverr, 337
Hume, Kathryn (author)
Freelancer, 337
on fantasy and mimesis, 201–202
Google Scholar, 101
Fantasy and Mimesis, 199, 214
Grammar Girl, 328–329
hungry houses, 310
Manuscript Wishlist, 346
hyperspace travel, 147
maps for tabletop games, 123
Patreon, 353
I Publisher’s Marketplace, 346
Iceberg Rule, 89–91, 99, 112, 119, 221 Upwork, 337
iconic characters, 24–25 U.S. Copyright Office, 332
icons, 3 Writer’s Digest, 346
identifying pace, 52–53 Writer’s Guild of America West, 346
imagery, as a tool for horror story writers, 257 interrupted scenes, 57
imagination, provoking, 133–134 interstellar travel, 146–147
immersive experiences, writing for, 76–77 intimidating environments, for horror stories,
immersive stories, 209–210, 215 307–308
immersive theater, writing for, 77 introducing
implications become clear narrative, 284 audiences to aliens, 168–169
impressions, first, 106 cast of characters, 22–29

Index 393
introduction. See exposition lasers, 153
intrusive stories, 210–211, 215 laughs, in horror stories, 265
ion drives, 145 launching spaceships, 140–141
Islands in the Net (Sterling), 194 Laws, Robin D. (author)
isolated environments, for horror stories, Beating the Story: How to Map, Understand, and
306–307 Elevate Any Narrative, 25
It (King), 66 GUMSHOE system, 89
Le Guin, Ursula (author)

J The Disposessed, 190

The Left Hand of Darkness, 66
Jackson, Shirley (author)
The Word for World Is Forest, 164
The Haunting of Hill House, 277
leads. See protagonists
“The Lottery,” 268
The Left Hand of Darkness (Le Guin), 66
James, Edward (author)
legend, adapting, 214–218
A Short History of Fantasy, 214
legendary narrative, 307
James, M. R., 267
Leiber, Fritz, 224
jargon, 349–350
letters, 111
Jemisin, N.K. (author)
Lewis, C.S. (author)
The Broken Earth trilogy, 30, 225
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and
Inheritance trilogy, 225 the Wardrobe, 66
Jones, Jim (cult leader), 301 life support systems, 149–150
Jones, Stephen Graham (author) line editor (LE), 336
Night of the Mannequins, 273 LitRPG, 224
journaling, 361–362 The Little Stranger (Waters), 266
jump space travel, 148 Liu, Ken (author)
The Dandelion Dynasty series, 225

K Loewy, Raymond (designer), 97, 186

Kelly, Patrick (author) logline, 325

Rewired: the Post-Cyberpunk Anthology, 194 long-term goals, 14

Kessel, John (author) looming future, 188–189

Rewired: the Post-Cyberpunk Anthology, 194 The Lord of the Rings (Tolkein), 209, 218, 222–223

kids, questions from, 133 loss, types of, 45

King, Stephen (author) Lost in Space (TV show), 175

It, 66 “The Lottery” (Jackson), 268

Klein, Ezra (podcaster), 174 Lovecraft, H. P. (author)

Knowledge Becomes Dangerous narrative “The Call of Cthulhu,” 267

flow, 282 Supernatural Horror in Literature, 258
Kuang, Rebecca F. (author) low fantasy, 205–206
Poppy War trilogy, 225 lycanthropes, 298

L M
labyrinthine houses, 312 MacGuffin, 237–238
language, 371–372 magic

394 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 about, 229 Meaning element, in MMMaM Index of Wonder,
dramatic, 231–233 204, 216
items designed for, 236–240 media
role of in storytelling, 229–230 about, 65
rules and costs of, 233–236 interactive stories, 74–77
taking readers on magical journeys, 230–231 writing prose, 65–69
magic items writing scripts, 69–74
as character traits, 238 medium-term goals, 14
as characters, 239 A Memory Called Empire (Martine), 96
MacGuffin, 237–238 Mendlesohn, Farah (author)
from Middle Earth, 220 Rhetorics of Fantasy, 208
as obstacles, 238–239 A Short History of Fantasy, 214
as worldbuilding elements, 240 mentality, as a monster characteristic, 248
Magical element, in MMMaM Index of Wonder, mentor, as a supporting character, 28
204, 216 Metamorphoses (Ovid), 96
main characters. See protagonists Metamorphoses of Science Fiction (Suvin), 135
maintaining ecosystems/equilibriums, 118–119 metaphors
Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics, Manga aliens and, 158–162
and Graphic Novels (Morrow), 74 monsters and, 292–295
managing Middle Earth
cognitive dissonance, 97–98 about, 218
knowledge through POV, 272–273 characters and creatures from, 219–220
The Mandalorian (film), 167–168 deep history, 221–222
The Man in High Castle (Dick), 95, 187 geography and, 221–222
The Man Who Fell to Earth (Tevis), 162 quest narrative, 222–223
Manuscript Wishlist, 346 worldbuilding and, 221
maps, 122–123 middles
Marks, Patrice Williams (author), 339–342 about, 62
Martine, Arkady (author) narrative expositions and, 109
A Memory Called Empire, 96 military stories, 382–383
Marvel comics, 216 Miller, Madeline (author)
mass drivers, 153 Circe, 215
maturation arc, 24 The Ministry of the Future (Robinson), 187
Mayor, Adrienne (historian) Misery (film), 299
The First Fossil Hunters: Dinosaurs, Mammoths, missiles, 152
and Myth in Greek and Roman Times, 245
mixed dialogue, 38
McCloud, Scott (author)
mixing and matching story ideas, 364
Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art, 74
MMMaM Index of Wonder, 203–204, 216
McGuire, Seanan, 353
monomyth, 49
meaning, asking questions of, 172–176
monster trophies, 275

Index 395
monsters
about, 241–244, 287–288
N
narrative exposition, 108–111
character traits of, 288–292
narrative flow, creating fear with, 280–285
as characters, 243–244
narrative summary, 52
classic, 295–299
narratives
creating, 244–249
in horror stories, 302–303
dragons, 249–251
for intimidating/foreboding locales, 307–308
as heroes, 299
for isolated/inaccessible locales, 306–307
homicidal humans, 299–303
for uncanny/unsettling locales, 308–309
metaphors and, 292–295
narrators, 111
as obstacles, 244
natural-born killers, 300
perspectives of, 245
navigating story spaces, 123–126
monstrous category, as a source of horror, 267
needs, internal, 21
moral code, of protagonists, 23–24
Neuomancer (Gibson), 194
More, Thomas (author)
new norm. See new pattern
Utopia, 133
new pattern, in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46, 47
Morris, Jamie (writing coach), 49
newsletters, 355–356
Morris, Tee (author)
Nguyen, Lena, 353
Podcasting For Dummies, 73
Nichols, Mike (Oscar winner), 40
Morrow, William (author)
Night of the Mannequins (Jones), 273
Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics,
The Night of the Living Dead (film), 268
Manga and Graphic Novels, 74
1984 (Orwell), 192
Most Advanced Yet Acceptable (MAYA) principle,
97, 134, 186, 202, 301 nonhuman nature, of monsters, 242
motivating antagonists, 25–26 novellas, 67–68
multiple-goal scenes, 57 novels, 66–67, 68
The Mummy (film), 296 nukes, 153
Mundane element, in MMMaM Index of Wonder,
204, 216
mundanity, 203 O
murders, solving, 300–301 objects of envy, for haunted houses, 311

Murray, Sean Andrew (fantasy artist), 245 obstacles

mysteries about, 124, 126

about, 383–384 aliens as, 165

aliens as, 164–165 magic items as, 238–239

as a tool for horror story writers, 257 monsters as, 243, 244

mystery houses, 310 omniscient narrator, 111

myths opinionated narrator, 111

adapting, 214–218 orcs, from Middle Earth, 219

creating, 227 origin, as a monster characteristic, 247

Orwell, George (author)
1984, 192

396 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

othering, 340 Playing at the World: A History of Simulating Wars,
out of time narrative, 307 People and Fantastic Adventures, from Chess to
Role-Playing Games (Petersen), 224
Outlander (Gabaldon), 66
plays, writing for, 73
outlines, remaking, 319–320
plot
Outsiders Become Trespassers narrative flow,
281–282 about, 41–42
overreach plot protagonists, 310 adding variety to scenes, 57–58
overrreach plot, 277–278 beginnings, 60–62
Ovid building story structure, 54–60
Metamorphoses, 96 character arcs, 51–52
climaxes, 63
creating conflict, 44–46
P creating drama, 42–53
pace, 52–53 endings, 64
Past Becomes Present narrative flow, 281 framing your story, 43
past tense, 33 Freytag’s Pyramid, 46–48, 60–61
Patreon, 353 in horror stories, 271–286
patrons, 353 key elements of, 60–64
pattern. See exposition middles, 62
Percy Jackson (Riordan), 214, 216 pace, 52–53
Person/Place/Event (PPE) story machine, 360–361 scene sequels, 56–57
perspectives sequences, 59–60
of monsters, 245 setting scenes, 44
on wonder, 212 story beats, 56
Petersen, Jon (author) story templates, 49
Playing at the World: A History of Simulating Wars, tension, 48–51
People and Fantastic Adventures, from Chess to
Role-Playing Games, 224 using scenes, 54–56

The Philosophy of Horror (Carroll), 276, 288, 289 values, 44

physically cut off narrative, 306 The Plot Circle story structure, 49

physiology, as a monster characteristic, 248 pocket books, 15

piggybacking, 94–96, 99, 118 Podcasting For Dummies (Morris and Tomasi), 73

pitching podcasts, writing for, 72–73

about, 13, 84–86, 343, 347 Poe, Edgar Allen, 266

creating queries, 347–348 point defense weapons, 154

elevator pitch, 348–349 point of no return, passing the, 121–122

identifying challenges in, 349 point of view (POV)

sample pitches, 86–87 choosing, 29–33

pitfalls to avoid, 367–373 choosing fantastical, 208–211

pity, as an emotion in horror stories, 262 controlling knowledge through, 272–273

places, building for drama, 122–126 multiple POV characters, 223

plagiarism, 365–366 narrative expositions and, 110–111

shifting, 110

Index 397
Poppy War trilogy (Kuang), 225 The Artist’s Way (Cameron), 362
portal stories, 208–209, 210, 215 Asimov’s Science Fiction (magazine), 193
power fantasy aliens, 167 Beating the Story: How to Map, Understand,
Precious Things, 235–236 and Elevate Any Narrative (Laws), 25
present tense, 33 The Bloody Chamber (Carter), 215
presents, alternate, 187–188 The Broken Earth trilogy (Jemisin), 30, 225
primary sources, 102–103 The Castle of Otranto (Walpole), 305
principals. See protagonists Childhood’s End, 162
professional groups organizations, 355 The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and
the Wardrobe (Lewis), 66
professional loss, 45
Circe (Miller), 215
professionals, as resources, 12–13
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
profit and loss (P&L) statement, 350 (Twain), 191
projectiles, 152 The Dandelion Dynasty series (Liu), 225
prologues, 58 The Description of a New World, Called The Blazing-
promotion World (Cavendish), 133
about, 13, 343, 353–354 The Disposessed (Le Guin), 190
writer’s platform, 354–356 Divergent trilogy (Roth), 321
proofreaders, 13, 336–337 Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Dick), 174
prose, writing, 65–69 Dracula (Stoker), 273
protagonists Dune (Herbert), 111
about, 23–25 Dying Earth (Vance), 224
aliens as, 163–164 Between Earth and Sky series (Roanhorse), 225
in horror stories, 273–274, 275 The Elements of Style, 329
monsters as, 299 Everfair (Shawl), 95
overreach plot, 310 Expanse series (Corey), 145
trespass plot, 310 Fantasy and Mimesis (Hume), 199, 214
provoking The Female Man (Russ), 131
curiosity, 133–134 The First Fossil Hunters: Dinosaurs, Mammoths, and
imagination, 133–134 Myth in Greek and Roman Times (Mayor), 245
readers, 112–113 Frankenstein (Shelley), 176, 187, 326
Provost, Gary (teacher), 43 The Handmaid’s Tale (Atwood), 193
Psycho (Bloch), 268 The Haunting of Hill House (Jackson), 277
Psycho (film), 299 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Adams), 148
psychological loss, 45 The Hobbit (Tolkein), 218, 221, 222–223
psychologically ensnaring narrative, 307 House of Leaves (Danielewski), 313
psychology How to Write Funny (Dikkers), 377–378
of characters, 34–35 Inheritance trilogy (Jemisin), 225
tension and, 51 Islands in the Net (Sterling), 194
publications It (King), 66
American Gods (Gaiman), 216 The Left Hand of Darkness (Le Guin), 66
The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop: How to The Little Stranger (Waters), 266
Demonstrate the Creative Classroom The Lord of the Rings (Tolkein), 209, 218, 222–223
(Chavez), 342

398 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics, The War of the Worlds (Wells), 100, 160–161,
Manga and Graphic Novels (Morrow), 74 166, 187
The Man in High Castle (Dick), 95, 187 Why Horror Seduces (Clasen), 256
The Man Who Fell to Earth (Tevis), 162 The Wizard of Oz (Baum), 208, 218
Manuscript Wishlist, 346 The Woman in Black (Hill), 313
A Memory Called Empire (Martine), 96 The Word for World Is Forest (Le Guin), 164
Metamorphoses (Ovid), 96 Writer’s Digest, 346
Metamorphoses of Science Fiction (Suvin), 135 Writer’s Guild of America West, 346
The Ministry of the Future (Robinson), 187 Writing Diverse Characters for Fiction, TV or Film
Neuomancer (Gibson), 194 (Hay), 342
Night of the Mannequins (Jones), 273 Writing Fiction For Dummies (Economy and
Ingermanson), 4
1984 (Orwell), 192
Writing the Other: A Practical Approach (Shawl and
Outlander (Gabaldon), 66 Ward), 342
Percy Jackson (Riordan), 214, 216 Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every
The Philosophy of Horror (Carroll), 276, 288, 289 Writer (Clark), 329
Playing at the World: A History of Simulating Wars, Writing Young Adult Fiction For Dummies
People and Fantastic Adventures, from Chess to (Halverson), 4
Role-Playing Games (Petersen), 224 Publisher’s Marketplace, 346
Podcasting For Dummies (Morris and Tomasi), 73 publishing
Poppy War trilogy (Kuang), 225 about, 13, 343–344
Psycho (Bloch), 268 agents, 344–346
Publisher’s Marketplace, 346 self-publishing, 350–353
Rewired: the Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (Kessel purpose, of artificial life, 172, 182
and Kelly), 194
pursuit plot, 278–279
Rhetorics of Fantasy (Mendlesohn), 208
puzzles, solving, 112
The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction
(Csicsery-Ronay), 137, 138
A Short History of Fantasy (Mendlesohn and
Edward), 214
Q
queries, creating, 347–348
Snow Crash (Stephenson), 195
query letter, 347
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
(Shelley), 278, 297 quest narrative, 222–223
Strategies of Fantasy (Attebery), 201, 218
Supernatural Horror in Literature (Lovecraft), 258 R
The Three-Body Problem (Cixin), 190 ramifications, as consideration for space travel
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea stories, 150
(Verne), 140 ramscoops, 145
2001: A Space Odyssey (film and book), 143, reacting to characters, 118
166, 176
reactive spaces, 124–125, 126
Uglies (Westerfield), 66
readers
Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art
(McCloud), 74 provoking, 112–113
Utopia (More), 133 taking on magical journeys, 230–231
trusting, 112–113

Index 399
reader’s cap, 318–319 remaking the outline, 319–320
reading theme, 324–327
headlines, 360 using second opinions, 322
importance of, 369 using your reader’s cap, 318–319
like a writer, 101 revulsion, as an emotion in horror stories,
reading clubs, 355 262–263
realistic elements, 206 Rewired: the Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (Kessel and
Kelly), 194
reality
Rhetorics of Fantasy (Mendlesohn), 208
of monsters, 246
Riordan, Rick
stories based on, 226
Percy Jackson, 214, 216
red herring, 77
rising action, in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46
redemption arc, 24
rivals
refuges, 125, 126
aliens as, 164
relief, as an emotion in horror stories, 264
as a supporting character, 28
religious beliefs, sensitivity to, 217–218
Roanhorse, Rebecca (author)
remaking outlines, 319–320
Between Earth and Sky series, 225
Remember icon, 3
Robinson, Kim Stanley
research
The Ministry of the Future, 187
about, 93
Robinson, Tasha, 193
accuracy and, 99–100
robots. See artificial life
balancing science and fiction with, 98–103
role-playing games. See also Dungeons &
casting a wide net with, 100–102 Dragons (D&D)
controlling cognitive dissonance, 97–98 about, 76
inspiration and adaptation from Earth, 94–98 rules of magic in, 234–235
piggybacking, 94–96 romance stories, 384
primary sources, 102–103 Rosemary’s Baby (film), 279
secondary sources, 102–103 Roth, Veronica (author)
resolution, in Freytag’s Pyramid, 46, 47 Divergent trilogy, 321
responsibility, questions of, 176–177 royalties, 350
restricted narrative, 307–308 rules, of magic, 233–236
Revelation element, in formula for fear, 259, 260 R.U.R. (play), 177
revelations Russ, Joanna (writer)
in horror stories, 283–285 The Female Man, 131
as a tool for horror story writers, 257
revising and editing
about, 12, 317–318 S
answering first-draft questions, 321 Sachs, Joe (professor), 260
creating a revision plan, 318–322 Safe Becomes Vulnerable narrative flow, 282
final edit, 328–329 Satanic Panic, 302
high tech, 320 Save the Cat story structure, 49
low tech, 320–321 scene sequels, 56–57
process of, 322–324 scenes

400 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 about, 42, 54–56 receiving good story feedback, 332–337
adding variety to, 57–58 resources for, 342
changing characters, 55 sensitivity readers, 339–340
changing stakes, 55 subject matter experts, 338
changing the world, 55–56 supporting stories with expert help, 337–342
creating for horror stories, 271–286 universities, 339
dream, 58 secondary sources, 102–103
epilogues, 58 selecting
flash forward, 58 fantastical points of view, 208–211
flashback, 58 point of view (POV), 29–33
for haunted houses, 312–313 self-awareness, of artificial life, 172
interrupted, 57 self-publishing, 350–353
multiple-goal, 57 sending systemic signals, 113
prologues, 58 sensitivity readers, 13, 339–340
within scenes, 57 sensors, 154
setting, 44 sequences
schadenfreude, 265, 275 about, 59–60
science, using research to balance fiction and, of story spaces, 126–127
98–103 setting
Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America goals, 14–15
(SFWA), 332, 355
scenes, 44
Sci-fi genre, 8–9
Seven (film), 279
screenwriting, 69–74
The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction (Csicsery-
script dialogue, writing, 39–40 Ronay), 137, 138
scripts shapeshifters, 298
about, 69 shared stories, 96
comics, 74 Shawl, Nisi (author)
film, 69–71 Everfair, 95
plays, 73 Writing the Other: A Practical Approach, 342
podcasts, 72–73 Shelley, Mary (author)
TV, 71 Frankenstein, 176, 187, 326
web series, 72 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
writing, 69–74 278, 297
secon person, 30 shelters for dread, for haunted houses, 311
second opinions shields, 155
about, 322, 331, 341–342 shifting narrative, 309
critique groups, 332–335 shifting point of view, 110, 210
cultural consultants, 341 shifting structures, 313
freelance editors, 335–336 short films, 69–70
golden readers, 335 short stories, 68–69
othering, 340 A Short History of Fantasy (Mendlesohn and
proofreaders, 336–337 Edward), 214

Index 401
short-term goals, 14 deploying systems of defense, 154–155
The Silence of the Lambs (film), 325 storytelling and, 151–152
’small town’ world spaces, building for drama, 122–126
about, 84 spaceships
hiding characters and conflict, 91 about, 140
sample pitch for, 86 completing the mission, 143–144
showing characters and conflict, 90 Discover One, 143
SMART goals, 15 fueling, 145
Snow Crash (Stephenson), 195 launching, 140–141
Snyder, Blake (screenwriter), 49 Nostromo, 143
social media platforms, 332 speculative fiction, 8
social networks, 354–355 speculative technologies, 148–150
socially committeed narrative, 307 speed, a consideration for space travel
societal category, as a source of horror, 268 stories, 150
societal status quo, upholding, 119–120 speed of light, 144–147
Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators spellcasting, 236–237
(SCBWI), 355 spiritual category, as a source of horror,
soft sci-fi, 137 266–267
solar sails, 145 spiritual loss, 45
solar system, 146 Stable Becomes Unstable narrative
flow, 282
solarpunk, 196
stalled stories, 359–366
solving puzzles, 112
Star Trek (TV series), 142, 151–152, 161
sorrow, as an emotion in horror stories, 262
Star Trek: The Next Generation, 173–174
sources of horror, 266–269
Star Wars films, 161, 174–175
space
steampunk, 196
about, 139
Stephenson, Neal (author)
completing missions, 143–144
Snow Crash, 195
crew of spaceships, 142
Sterling, Bruce (author)
faster-than-light (FTL) travel, 147–148
Islands in the Net, 194
physics and drama of space travel, 144–150
Stoker, Bram (author)
space station, 141
Dracula, 273
space wars, 151–155
stories
spaceships, 140–144
based on reality, 226
speculative technologies, 148–150
framing, 43
speed of light, 144–147
interactive, 74–77
’space station’ world
shared, 96
about, 84, 141
short, 68–69
hiding characters and conflict, 91
stalled, 359–366
sample pitch for, 86
story beats, 56
showing characters and conflict, 90
story bible, 71
space wars
story cheats, 85
about, 151
story modes, 375–384
activating weapons of, 152–154

402 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

story spaces tension
navigating, 123–126 about, 48
sequences of, 126–127 psychology and, 51
story structures, 49, 54–60 sources of, 50–51
story world pitch, 106 types if, 49
storytelling terminology, 349–350
at every level of engagement, 113–115 terrifying thing narrative, 285
role of magic in, 229–230 Tevis, Walter (author)
war as, 151–152 The Man Who Fell to Earth, 162
The Story Circle story structure, 49 themes
Stranger Become Even Stranger narrative about, 324–325
flow, 282 finding, 325–326
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Shelley), revising, 326–327
278, 297
using characters to represent, 27
Strategies of Fantasy (Attebery), 201, 218
The Thing (film), 298
subject matter experts, 338
third person limited
subject-area experts, 13
about, 31
subjects of study, for haunted houses, 311
in horror stories, 272
sublime aliens, 166
third person objective, 32
subplot, 62
third person omniscient
subsidiary rights, 350
about, 31–32
subspace travel, 147
in horror stories, 272
success, tips for, 12–15
threatening character trait, of monsters, 288–289
sudden shock narrative, 284
Three Laws of Robotics, 180
summary dialogue, 37
three Ps, 13, 343–356
superheroes, fantastical, 207
three-act structure, 59–60
Supernatural Horror in Literature (Lovecraft), 258
The Three-Body Problem (Cixin), 190
supernatural threats, 296–297
time alternative, 191–192
supporting characters, 26–29
time dilation, 146, 223
Suvin, Darko (author)
time manipulation, 191
Metamorphoses of Science Fiction, 135
time tourism, 191
Sweeney, Joyce (screenwriter), 49
time trap, 192
systemic signals, sending, 113
time travel, 191–192
systems of defense, deploying, 154–155
Tip icon, 3
Tolkein, J.R.R. (author)
T about, 220
tabletop games, writing for, 75–76 The Hobbit, 218, 221, 222–223
tags, dialogue, 38–39 The Lord of the Rings, 218, 222–223
teachers, aliens as, 162 Tomasi, Chuck (author)
Technical Stuff icon, 3 Podcasting For Dummies, 73
telling details, 33–36 too perfect narrative, 308
tense, 33 tools, for horror story writers, 256–257

Index 403
torpedoes, 152 Upwork (website), 337
tractor beams, 155 us, aliens as, 161
tragic arc, 24 U.S. Copyright Office, 332
travel guides, 101 utopia, 192–193
treasure, from Middle Earth, 219 Utopia (More), 133
trends, following, 371
trespass plot, 278
trespass plot protagonists, 310
V
values, 44
triumph, as an emotion in horror stories, 264
vampires, 299
trusting readers, 112–113
Van Cleave, Ryan, 4
Turing, Alan (computer technology pioneer), 172
Vance, Jack (author)
TV, writing for, 71
Dying Earth, 224
Twain, Mark (author)
variety, adding to scenes, 57–58
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, 191
Verne, Jules (author), 137, 140, 196
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
(Verne), 140 victims, in horror stories, 275
The Twilight Zone (TV series), 188 video games
2001: A Space Odyssey (film and book), 143, magical items in, 237
166, 176 rules of magic in, 234–235
writing for, 75

U villain’s tale, primary sources and, 102–103

violation of expectations narrative, 284
Uglies (Westerfield), 66
virtual worlds, 195
uncanny aliens, 167
uncanny environments, for horror stories,
308–309 W
uncanny occurrence narrative, 283 The Walking Dead (TV show), 279
undead, 299 Walpole, Horace (author)
Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art The Castle of Otranto, 305
(McCloud), 74
Ward, Cynthia (author)
unexplained category, as a source of horror, 268
Writing the Other: A Practical Approach, 342
uniqueness, of your world, 83
Warning icon, 3
universities, 339
warnings, aliens as, 162
university researchers, 13
warp drive travel, 147
Unknown Becomes Known narrative flow, 281
The War of the Worlds (Wells), 100, 160–161,
Unknown element, in formula for fear, 258, 260 166, 187
unnatural character trait, of monsters, 291 Waters, Sarah
unreliable narrators, in horror stories, 273 The Little Stranger, 266
unsettling environments, for horror stories, weapons of war, activating, 152–154
308–309
web series, writing for, 72
unspoken, primary sources and, 103
websites
unusual narrative, 308
Cameron, Julie (author), 363
upholding societal status quo, 119–120
Chartered Institute of Editing and Publishing, 337

404 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

 Cheat Sheet, 4 creating, 200–205
DriveThruRPG.com, 226 danger of dream worlds, 205
Editorial Freelancers Association, 337 high fantasy compared with low fantasy,
Fiverr, 337 205–206
Freelancer, 337 immersive stories, 209–210
Google Scholar, 101 intrusive stories, 211
Grammar Girl, 328–329 magic compared with mundane, 203
Manuscript Wishlist, 346 meaning of, 200–201
maps for tabletop games, 123 MMMaM Index of Wonder, 203–204
Patreon, 353 perspectives of, 212
Publisher’s Marketplace, 346 portal stories, 208–209
Upwork, 337 shifting point of view, 210
U.S. Copyright Office, 332 using fantastic elements, 206–208
Writer’s Digest, 346 using fantastical superheroes, 207
Writer’s Guild of America West, 346 The Word for World Is Forest (Le Guin), 164
weird narrative, 308 worldbuilding
weird plot, 280 about, 81, 213
Wells, H.G. (author) adapting myth and legend, 214–218
The War of the Worlds, 100, 160–161, 166, 187 building spaces/places for drama, 122–126
werewolves, 370 as characters, 117–127
Westerfield, Scott (author) for conflict, 87–89
Uglies, 66 deep history, 226–228
What If Literature Dungeons and Dragons, 224–226
about, 131, 363–364 how your world works, 83–84
answering, 131–138 Iceberg Rule, 89–91
asking big questions, 131–135 magic items as elements of, 240
inventing the big new thing, 135–137 making it interesting, 82–83
key questions, 138 Middle Earth, 218–223
“what if?” thought experiments, 95 Middle Earth and, 221
“Where Do You Get Your Ideas?” essay (Gaiman), pitch, 84–87
363–364 pitfalls in, 368–369
Why Horror Seduces (Clasen), 256 sequence of story spaces, 126–127
The Wicker Man (film), 268 story cheats, 85
Williams, Sheila (editor), 193 wants of, 118–122
wizards, from Middle Earth, 219 wormhole travel, 147
The Wizard of Oz (Baum), 208, 218 worry, as an emotion in horror stories,
The Woman in Black (Hill), 313 261–262
wonder writer, reading like a, 101
about, 199–200 writer’s block, 359–366
as an emotion in horror stories, 263–264 Writer’s Digest, 346
believability and, 201–202 Writer’s Guild of America West, 346
choosing fantastical point of view, 208–212 writer’s platform, 354–356

Index 405
writing Writing the Other: A Practical Approach (Shawl and
prose, 65–69 Ward), 342
script dialogue, 39–40 Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer
(Clark), 329
scripts, 69–74
Writing Young Adult Fiction For Dummies
Writing Diverse Characters for Fiction, TV or Film (Halverson), 4
(Hay), 342
Writing Fiction For Dummies (Economy and
Ingermanson), 4 Y
writing groups/organizations, 355 Yolen, Jane, 15

406 Writing Sci-Fi, Fantasy, & Horror For Dummies

About the Authors
Rick Dakan’s first publication was Dark Kingdom of Jade in 1995, a tabletop
role-playing game book about ghosts. He went on to write more than two dozen
horror, fantasy, and science fiction role-playing books from 1995 to 2000, includ-
ing The First Line: Starfleet Intelligence Handbook for the Star Trek game, Atlas of
Earth Alliance Wars for the Babylon 5 Wars game, Fantastic Four Roster Book and Rise
of the Titans for Wizards of the Coast, and the award-winning All Flesh Must be
Eaten and Enter the Zombie for Eden Studios.

In 2000 he co-founded Cryptic Studios and was lead designer and writer for the
hit superhero online computer game City of Heroes, as well as writer for the monthly
City of Heroes comic book. Rick is the author of the Geek Mafia Trilogy of techno-
thrillers set in the world of hackers and geek culture (Geek Mafia, Geek Mafia: Mile
Zero, and Geek Mafia: Black Hat Blues). In 2011, after earning his MFA from the Rai-
nier Writers Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University, his horror novel The Cthulhu
Cult: A Novel of Obsession was published.

After several years as lead writer for Blue Mammoth Games (now a division of
Ubisoft), Rick began teaching Creative Writing at the Ringling College of Art and
Design in 2015.

In addition to his regular writing for newspapers and magazines and occasional
short stories, Rick continues to publish in the tabletop game industry and is the
organizer for the Anyone’s Game Conference at Ringling College.

Visit him at www.rickdakan.com.

Beyond running the Creating Writing major at Ringling College of Art and Design,
Ryan G. Van Cleave is an author, writing coach, and keynote speaker on creativity,
writing, and publishing. For well more than 20 years, he’s taught about these very
subjects at Clemson University, Eckerd College, Florida State University, George
Washington University, the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay, and the Univer-
sity of Wisconsin-Madison.

Ryan has more than 20 books with his own name on the spine, such as Memoir
Writing For Dummies, The Weekend Book Proposal: How to Write a Winning Proposal in
48 Hours and Sell Your Book, and Visual Storytelling: An Illustrated Reader. As a ghost-
writer, book doctor, and coach, he’s been involved in dozens of other books and
projects. His most recent writing plus teaching venture is serving as The Picture
Book Whisperer, where he specializes in helping celebrity and executive clients
create kidlit projects of all types.
 Ryan’s first professional publication was a short story about a dragon that
appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine. He’s been making a lot of
dragon, robot, and zombie stories ever since.

Visit him at www.ryangvancleave.com or www.thepicturebookwhisperer.com.

Dedication
To all the students we’ve ever had in classes, workshops, and coaching sessions —
you brought out the best in us. We created this book for writers just like you.

Authors’ Acknowledgments
Great books come from great teams, and although more people influenced this
book than we can ever discretely note, special thanks are due to the following
wonderful people:

Elizabeth Harding, literary agent extraordinaire, for her guidance, encourage-

ment, and indefatigable spirit.

At John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Lindsay Lefevere, executive editor; Vicki Adang, learn-
ing design specialist; Chad Sievers, editor; and Ann VanderMeer, technical editor.
Talk about an All-Star lineup!

Patrice Williams Marks for her wonderful guidance regarding outside readers and
editors.

Our terrific families, who gave us the time and space to have so many Zoom ses-
sions that were (mostly) about this manuscript.

Our colleagues at Ringling College of Art and Design who model the best of class-
room instruction, writing practices, and creativity.

Publisher’s Acknowledgments

Executive Editor: Lindsay Sandman Lefevere Production Editor: Tamilmani Varadharaj

Project Editor: Chad R. Sievers Cover Image: © Greg Brave/Shutterstock
Technical Editor: Ann VanderMeer
Proofreader: Debbye Butler
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