Craft

Choosing Your Point of View (And Why It Changes Everything)

August 19, 2026·7 min read

POV isn't just a technical decision — it's a philosophical one. Who tells the story determines what the story is. Most writers choose their point of view by default. Here's how to choose it deliberately.

Most writers choose their point of view the same way they choose their font: they pick whatever feels natural and don't think about it again. First person because it feels intimate. Third limited because it seems "literary." Third omniscient because they want to show multiple characters. These are reasons, but they're not the right reasons.

Point of view is the most consequential structural decision you'll make about your novel, and it's almost impossible to change once you're deep into a draft. It determines what information the reader has access to, how close they feel to the protagonist, and — most importantly — what kind of story you're actually telling.

First person is the most intimate and the most limiting. Your narrator can only know what they know, see what they see, and interpret events through their particular lens. That limitation is a feature, not a bug — but only if your story depends on a specific, unreliable, or deeply subjective perspective. If your story requires the reader to know things your narrator can't know, first person will fight you the entire way.

"Point of view is the most consequential structural decision you'll make about your novel. It determines what kind of story you're actually telling."

Third limited gives you the intimacy of first person with slightly more narrative flexibility. You're still locked to one character's perspective per scene, but the narrator has a small amount of distance — enough to observe the character rather than just inhabit them. This is the workhorse POV of contemporary literary fiction for good reason: it's versatile, it's familiar to readers, and it handles both interiority and action well.

Third omniscient is the most misused POV in amateur fiction. Writers choose it because they want to show everything — every character's thoughts, every corner of the world — and end up showing nothing clearly. True omniscient narration requires a strong, consistent narrative voice that the reader trusts. Without that voice, omniscient becomes "head-hopping": a disorienting jump from mind to mind that keeps the reader at arm's length from everyone.

The question to ask isn't "which POV do I prefer?" It's "whose story is this, and what does the reader need to know to feel it?" Answer that honestly, and the right POV will usually be obvious. Then commit to it — and resist every temptation to cheat by sneaking in information your chosen perspective can't access.

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Writing With AI Without Losing Your Voice

August 4, 2026·7 min read

AI writing tools are everywhere now, and writers are split: terrified or over-reliant. Neither extreme serves your work. Here's how to use these tools without letting them write for you.

Let's be honest about what AI writing tools actually are: very fast, very confident autocomplete. They can generate plausible sentences at scale. What they cannot do is care about your story, understand your characters, or know what your book is actually about.

That distinction matters, because the writers who get into trouble with AI are the ones who forget it. They hand over a scene, accept the output, and move on. The prose is smooth. The story is hollow. The voice — that specific, irreplaceable quality that makes a reader feel like they're inside a particular human mind — is gone.

Used well, AI is a thinking partner, not a ghostwriter. Ask it to brainstorm plot problems, not solve them. Use it to generate ten bad ideas so you can find the one good one hiding among them. Let it draft a scene you're stuck on — then rewrite every sentence in your own voice.

"Your job isn't to produce words — it's to produce your words. The tool should serve that goal, not replace it."

The test is simple: could a reader who knows your work tell that you wrote this? If the answer is no, the AI has done too much. Your job isn't to produce words — it's to produce your words. The tool should serve that goal, not replace it.

One practical rule: never paste AI output directly into your manuscript. Always retype it. The act of retyping forces you to make every word a choice, and in making those choices, you reclaim the prose as your own.

AI isn't going away. The writers who thrive in this environment won't be the ones who refuse to touch it or the ones who outsource their creativity to it. They'll be the ones who stay stubbornly, deliberately themselves — and use every available tool to do that more efficiently.

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The Scene That Isn't Working (And Why You Keep Rewriting It)

July 31, 2026·6 min read

You've rewritten the same scene four times. It's still not right. Before you try a fifth version, stop — the problem is almost certainly not what you think it is.

When a scene refuses to work no matter how many times you rewrite it, the instinct is to keep rewriting it. Change the setting. Try a different POV. Cut the dialogue, add the dialogue, move it to chapter three. The scene still doesn't work.

Here's what's almost always true in these situations: the problem isn't in the scene. The problem is in what comes before it. A scene that feels wrong is usually a scene that hasn't been earned — the reader (and the writer) doesn't believe in it yet because the groundwork wasn't laid.

Before you rewrite the scene again, ask three questions. First: does the reader know what the protagonist wants in this scene, right now, in this moment? Second: is there something in the way? Third: does the scene end differently than it began — has something changed, even slightly?

"A scene that feels wrong is usually a scene that hasn't been earned — the groundwork wasn't laid."

If you can't answer yes to all three, you've found your problem. A scene without want is static. A scene without obstacle is tension-free. A scene without change is a scene that doesn't need to exist.

Sometimes the fix is two paragraphs earlier in the previous scene — a small moment that establishes what your character needs, so that when they walk into the problem scene, the reader is already leaning forward.

Stop rewriting the scene. Go back one scene, sometimes two. Fix the foundation. Then come back. You'll be surprised how often the "broken" scene suddenly works without touching a word.

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The Messy First Draft: Why "Bad" Writing Is the Only Way to Start

July 28, 2026·6 min read

Every writer knows the feeling: you sit down, open a blank document, and immediately want to write something good. That instinct will kill your first draft. Here's how to silence it.

The first draft is not supposed to be good. I know you know this. You've heard it a hundred times. And yet, every time you sit down to write, some part of your brain insists on producing polished sentences before it will let you move on.

That instinct — the one that makes you reread your last paragraph seventeen times before writing the next one — is the single biggest obstacle between you and a finished manuscript. Not lack of talent. Not lack of time. The perfectionism reflex.

Anne Lamott called it the "shitty first draft." Hemingway said the first draft of anything is garbage. These weren't confessions of failure — they were descriptions of a necessary stage in the process. The first draft is raw material, not finished product.

"The goal of the first draft is not quality. The goal is completion. You cannot revise a blank page."

Here's what I've found works: give yourself explicit permission to write badly. Not just passive permission — active, deliberate permission. Before you start a session, say it out loud: "This draft is allowed to be terrible." Then write as fast as you can, without looking back.

The goal of the first draft is not quality. The goal is completion. You cannot revise a blank page. You can revise a bad one. Every word you write, no matter how clunky, is a word you can work with later. Every scene you skip because you're not sure how to write it is a gap that will haunt you.

Write the bad version. Write the scene where the dialogue is stilted and the description is generic and the pacing is off. Write it anyway. You'll fix it in the second draft. But first, you have to have something to fix.

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Building Characters Who Breathe: The One Question Every Writer Should Ask

July 21, 2026·7 min read

Most flat characters aren't flat because their author didn't try hard enough. They're flat because their author asked the wrong questions. There's one question that changes everything.

Character worksheets are everywhere. Eye color. Childhood trauma. Favorite food. Myers-Briggs type. Most of them are useless, not because the information is wrong, but because it's the wrong kind of information.

Readers don't connect with characters because they know what they look like. They connect with characters because they understand what they want — and why they can't have it.

The one question that unlocks a character is this: What does this person want more than anything, and what belief about themselves or the world is stopping them from getting it?

"Readers don't connect with characters because they know what they look like. They connect because they understand what they want — and why they can't have it."

That belief — the internal wound, the lie the character tells themselves — is the engine of your story. It's why your protagonist makes the choices they make, why they fail in the ways they fail, and why their eventual change (or refusal to change) feels earned.

Take a character who wants love but believes they're fundamentally unlovable. Every relationship they enter, they'll sabotage. Every kindness offered, they'll deflect or distrust. Their external goal might be to find a partner, but their internal goal — the one that drives the real story — is to believe they deserve one.

Once you know your character's wound, everything else follows. Their voice, their relationships, their choices under pressure — all of it flows from that one broken belief. The worksheet details are set dressing. The wound is the architecture.

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Three-Act Structure Is Not a Cage — It's a Map

July 14, 2026·8 min read

Writers love to rebel against story structure. "My story doesn't fit the three-act model." Maybe. But before you throw out the map, make sure you understand what it's actually telling you.

Every few years, a wave of writers declares that story structure is a corporate invention designed to homogenize fiction. Three acts, save the cat, the hero's journey — all of it, they say, is a formula that kills originality.

I understand the frustration. Badly applied, structural frameworks do produce formulaic work. But the problem isn't the framework — it's the misunderstanding of what the framework is for.

Three-act structure isn't a recipe. It's a description. It describes what readers naturally expect from a story: a beginning that establishes stakes, a middle that escalates them, and an end that resolves them. That expectation isn't cultural conditioning — it's how human beings process narrative.

"The writers who break structure most effectively are the ones who understand it most deeply. You can't subvert what you don't know."

When writers say their story "doesn't fit" the three-act model, what they usually mean is that their story doesn't follow the conventional beats in the conventional order. That's fine. But if their story has no escalation, no turning points, no resolution — that's not a structural rebellion. That's a structural problem.

Use structure as a diagnostic tool, not a blueprint. When your story feels like it's dragging, ask: where is the midpoint? Where does the protagonist's situation fundamentally change? If you can't answer those questions, you've found your problem.

The writers who break structure most effectively are the ones who understand it most deeply. You can't subvert what you don't know. Learn the map before you decide to go off-road.

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Dialogue That Doesn't Sound Like Dialogue

July 7, 2026·5 min read

The best dialogue in fiction doesn't sound like real conversation — it sounds like a heightened, purposeful version of it. Here's the difference, and how to write it.

Record a real conversation and transcribe it. Then read it back. It will be almost unreadable — full of false starts, repetitions, half-finished thoughts, and "um"s. Real conversation is inefficient. Fictional dialogue has to be efficient.

But here's the trap: efficient dialogue that's too clean sounds fake. Characters who speak in complete, grammatically correct sentences don't sound like people — they sound like essays.

The goal is to write dialogue that feels real without being real. It should carry the rhythms and textures of actual speech — the interruptions, the deflections, the things left unsaid — while still moving the story forward with every line.

"Every line of dialogue should do at least two things: reveal character and advance the scene. If a line only does one, consider cutting it."

Every line of dialogue should do at least two things: reveal character and advance the scene. If a line only does one, consider cutting it. If it does neither, cut it immediately.

Pay attention to what your characters don't say. Subtext — the meaning beneath the words — is where the best dialogue lives. Two characters arguing about the dishes are rarely arguing about the dishes. What are they actually arguing about? Let that tension live in the gaps.

Read your dialogue out loud. Every time. If you stumble over a line, your reader will too. If it sounds like a speech, it needs to be broken up. Your ear is a better editor than your eye for this particular problem.

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Revision Is Not Editing — And Confusing the Two Will Ruin Your Manuscript

June 30, 2026·6 min read

Most writers edit when they should be revising. The difference isn't semantic — it's the difference between fixing the surface of a broken story and actually fixing the story.

Editing is fixing sentences. Revision is fixing stories. They require completely different mindsets, and doing them simultaneously is one of the most common ways writers get stuck.

When you finish a first draft, the temptation is to open it from the beginning and start cleaning up the prose. Don't. Not yet. Before you touch a single sentence, you need to understand whether the story itself is working.

Revision questions are structural: Does the protagonist have a clear want and a clear obstacle? Does the story escalate? Does the ending feel earned? Are there scenes that exist only because you enjoyed writing them, not because the story needs them?

"A beautifully written scene that doesn't serve the story is still a scene that needs to be cut."

Editing questions are surface-level: Is this sentence clear? Is this word the right word? Is this paragraph too long? These are important questions — but they're the last questions, not the first.

The danger of editing before revising is that you fall in love with your sentences. A beautifully written scene that doesn't serve the story is still a scene that needs to be cut. But once you've polished it, cutting it feels like a loss. So you keep it. And the story suffers.

Revise first. Get the structure right, the character arcs clear, the pacing sound. Then, and only then, go back to the beginning and make the sentences beautiful. In that order, not the other way around.

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Building a Writing Routine That Actually Sticks

June 23, 2026·7 min read

Motivation is unreliable. Inspiration is rarer than you think. The writers who finish books aren't the most talented — they're the ones who showed up when they didn't feel like it.

Every writer I know has a version of the same fantasy: a morning with nothing to do but write, a pot of coffee, a clear head, and the words flowing easily. That morning exists maybe twice a year. The rest of the time, writing is something you have to fight for.

The writers who finish books — not the ones who talk about writing, but the ones who actually produce manuscripts — have one thing in common: they write on a schedule, not on inspiration.

A writing routine doesn't have to be elaborate. It doesn't have to be long. It has to be consistent. Thirty minutes every morning before work, five days a week, is more productive than a four-hour session on Saturday that you skip half the time.

"The habit of showing up is more valuable than any single session's output."

The key is to make the routine as frictionless as possible. Know where you're going to write before you sit down. Know what you're going to work on. Have your document open. Remove the decisions that give your resistance something to grab onto.

Track your output, not your quality. Count words, not good words. On the days when everything you write is terrible, write anyway. The habit of showing up is more valuable than any single session's output.

And when you miss a day — because you will — don't let it become two days. The routine isn't broken by one missed session. It's broken by the story you tell yourself about that missed session. Miss a day, then come back. That's the whole practice.

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Choosing Your Point of View (And Why It Changes Everything)

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