FOR EDITORS, PROOFREADERS AND WRITERS

Parentheses (or round brackets) can help fiction authors evoke a sense of simultaneity in their viewpoint character’s experience – one that challenges a more conventional linear narrative. Here’s how it works.

• What are parentheses?
• Parentheses as convention breakers
• Parentheses as satirical and viewpoint-switch markers
• The question an author posed
• Why parentheses can convey simultaneity
• How readers process sentences in a linear fashion
• Showing sensory assault through simultaneity
• Showing conflict through simultaneity

Parentheses come in pairs and separate a word or phrase from the surrounding text. If the parenthetical information is removed, the surrounding text still makes sense.

This is what they look like: ( )

​Dashes and commas can perform the same function in fiction. Take a look at these examples:

All the examples above are grammatically correct, though parentheses are used far less frequently in contemporary commercial fiction.

This might be because they’re large and therefore visible marks – ones that demand a reader’s attention. That they’re interruptive could be a good reason to avoid them, though it could equally be the very reason why you want to use them.
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The key to using any punctuation mark effectively is to understand its purpose and consider how the reader will interpret it. And so just because the use of parentheses is infrequent enough in fiction to make it unconventional isn’t a reason to ban them from prose. 

I most often see parentheses used in fiction in these two ways:

• For satirical purposes – an external narrator wants to poke fun at a focus character’s behaviour, thoughts or dialogue.
• For viewpoint purposes – the narrative is written from a viewpoint character’s perspective and therefore limited to their experience, but an external narrator wishes briefly to interrupt.

If you’d like to explore my analysis of these two uses, read How to use round brackets (parentheses) in fiction writing.

Scroll through the comments on that post and you’ll see a fantastic question raised by a reader that got me thinking about parentheses again.

That reader is Ellen Gwaltney Bales, a fiction writer, and she said:

‘Louise, I'm writing a short story in which I have inserted a couple of parenthetical phrases (I don't even know what to call them) which separate one part of a sentence from another. I've seen Stephen King do this and it fascinated me. The character (narrator) is reflecting on a dream she has just awoken from. What do you think of this style, and what is it called?’

I replied admitting that I didn’t know quite what this is called in terms of literary style but that she’d got me thinking, and helped me consider a third function of parentheses that I hadn’t interrogated before: simultaneity.
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Here’s her example. It’s from a short story tentatively titled ‘The Woman at the Window’.

There are a couple of interesting things going on in Ellen’s example – not just the parenthetical phrase but also the placement of it. It takes its own line, which makes it stand out even more.

I told Ellen that I liked her excerpt very much. The round brackets and the new line mean the phrase is certainly interruptive. And while I’d interpreted the effect of her choice of punctuation in a particular way, I was keen to understand what she’d hoped to achieve.

‘I wanted to shake the reader up a bit by writing it that way,’ she told me.
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And she succeeded. Parentheses do stand out. So does the separate line. But my reading of her work led me to consider another effect she’d created, albeit unwittingly – simultaneity.

​Here’s another slightly edited excerpt from Ellen’s short story:

This is linear description. We absorb the story in the order the phrases are presented to us – first the dreaming, then the waking-up on a night just before Labor Day, then the terrified screaming, then seeing the exploding missiles, then the glare of the rockets, and finally the flaming sky.

But actually, that’s not how Ellen wrote it. Here’s the unedited version:

The rocket-glare phrase is now bracketed and takes its own line. And I think this changes that linearity subtly. It’s as if the glare of the rockets is experienced at the very same moment that the missiles are exploding. It’s another layer of experience that sits behind the explosions.

That’s how we often experience traumatic events in reality. Our brains work so fast that we process multiple pieces of information and feel multiple emotions all at once. The difficulty comes in expressing that in linear text.

In Ellen’s example, the parentheses act as a signal of this simultaneity of experience, and show rather than tell an onslaught of emotional, auditory and visual information. 

Let’s revisit Ellen’s first example and explore it through the lens of simultaneity.

The way the parenthetical phrase punctuates the prose makes me feel uncomfortable. It jars me visually. And that’s why I love it. It shows rather than tells the assault on the senses that I can imagine a person would experience if they were in an environment where missiles were exploding and falling around them.

The character awakes. She’s likely still shaken from the dream, and trying to process what she experienced. And so she narrates what she saw, which pared down is this:

But as she's thinking about this, the bursting bombs is there too, behind the more expository narration, right at the same time. And it’s the bracketed line that shows this.

An alternative might have been:

In that revised version, 'as' tells the simultaneity. It's told prose. Instead, Ellen as author, has shown us with the parentheses, and it's far more dramatic.

And so we might consider parenthetical statements such as this as devices that help authors create layers of simultaneous experience that are warranted when there’s sensory assault in play.

There’s another way in which you might use parentheses as a simultaneity device: to convey conflict.
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Here’s an example that I have written more conventionally, using italic and a tag to convey a thought. 

This approach encourages the reader to approach the prose in a linear way: First D texts Louise with an idea. Then a thought process takes place. Then Louise responds.

But look what happens when we experiment with parentheses. 

Now there’s a signal that two conflicting emotional responses are in play simultaneously. Thinking ‘no’ and typing ‘yes’ are occurring at the same time.

Using parentheses in fiction takes a little courage because they inevitably jar the reader, force them to step back and take notice. Some writers and editors fear that it’s a distraction too far, one that risks pulling their audience out of the prose and into how that prose is punctuated.

However, used purposefully, parentheses can enhance that moment and create a sense of simultaneity of experience – perhaps involving an assault on the senses or competing emotions fighting for primacy in a character’s mind.

There are no rules in fiction. Instead, what writers (and the editors who work with them) must strive for is how best to communicate a character’s emotions, perception and actions in the moment, so that the reader can get under the skin of that experience.
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And it might just be that – once in a while – a pair of round brackets helps with that goal.  

Are your thriller’s sentences front-loaded with filter words? If so, you could be slowing your reader down. This post explains what filter words are, how they affect a sentence and how to decide whether to include them or ditch them.

Read on to find out more about:
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• Why the start of a sentence is important.
• What filter words are.
• How filter words reduce momentum.
• How filter words make space for reflection.

If you’ve read any guidance about online writing, you’ll have come across the concept of front-loading a sentence. It means putting the most important stuff at the start. The idea is that website visitors are busy and scan for relevance. The quicker they find it, the more likely they are to engage.

While a novel that reads like a Google snippet from start to finish isn’t likely to win any prizes, the principle is worth paying attention to because the information at the start of a novel’s sentence is still what the reader will pay most attention to.
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The start of a sentence is therefore valuable real estate. If filter words are being assigned to that top spot too often, more interesting subjects and verbs are likely being demoted.  

In everyday speech, we sometimes use the term ‘filter’ to convey a sense of slowdown or separation, usually because of a barrier of some sort. For example:

• Sunlight filtered through the tree canopy.
• Over the next couple of hours, information about the explosion filtered out of the camp.
  
• The children filtered through the turnstile and lined up in in yard.

In literature, filter words are verbs that do a similar thing – they slow down the reader’s access to what the viewpoint character is experiencing.

Examples include 'watched', 'saw', 'noticed', 'spotted', 'looked at', 'felt', 'thought', 'wondered', 'heard', 'realised' and 'knew'.

Take a look at this short excerpt from Chapter 2 of Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby.

Ike is the viewpoint character, which means we experience the scene from his perspective.

Notice first what’s front-loading those two sentences. The subjects (Ike in the first, ‘she’ – Ike’s wife – in the second) and the verbs  ‘let go’ and ‘slumped’.

That front-loading forces our gaze outwards – first towards Ike, then towards the movement of Ike’s wife’s body.

Now let’s introduce a filter word.

Now the second sentence is front-loaded with a new verb – ‘watched’. Our access to the movement (the slumping) has been slowed down. We can’t shift directly to it without taking an extra step that involves centring our gaze for just a second on Ike’s watching. 

In that brief moment, we’re no longer looking outward at what Ike’s experiencing. Instead, we’re looking inward at Ike and how he acquires that experience – by watching.

Less experienced writers can be tempted to overuse filter words. Indeed, it’s one of the most common problems I see in my editing studio. At sentence-level revision stage – whether that work’s being done by the writer themselves or with the help of a professional editor – it’s therefore worth watching out for them and assessing whether they’re impeding the novel’s pace.

Thrillers are supposed to thrill, and action-packed scenes such as escapes, fights, heists and chases need to be written with razor-sharp precision so that readers don’t start skimming.

Problematic filter words can appear anywhere in a sentence, but front-loading sentences with them is even more likely to rip the momentum out of the prose. If you want your readers to focus on the action, make sure that any you retain are earning their keep.
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Take a look at an excerpt from a published thriller that I’ve fiddled with. It’s a heist scene and the action takes place in a matter of seconds. The viewpoint character is coked up to his eyeballs and desperate, acting on impulse.

The three instances of filtering moderate the pace and draw our attention towards the narrator’s doing knowing, thinking and watching, none of which are as interesting as what he knows, thinks and watches. All those filter words act as barriers that the reader has to jump over in order to get to the action.

We could even argue that they introduce a sort of voyeurism – as if Ronnie is reflecting on the impact of his violence, almost in slow motion. But that’s not what’s going on here. Rather, he’s wired, out of control and operating in the moment.
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And that’s why the unadulterated version of Blacktop Wasteland  (p. 113) – also by S.A. Cosby – is perfect:

The filter words have gone, and with them the unintended pathological introspection, but the momentum is restored. We're in the moment with Ronnie as he lashes out. It's no less violent but the pace of the prose now mirrors the action authentically.

Sometimes, however, the author wants us to slow down, step back and focus inward on the acquisition of experience.
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Let’s take a look at another example from Cosby’s Razorblade Tears, this one also from Chapter 2.

The filter phrase is ‘looked at’, and it’s important. Ike is looking hard at what’s in front of him. As will be revealed later, this girl is his murdered son’s daughter. Ike recalls something he’d said to his son a few months earlier: ‘But that little girl, she gonna have it hard enough already. She's half Black. Her mama was somebody you paid to carry her, and she got two gay daddies. So now what?’

Ike and his wife will now be raising the little girl. Cosby wants to focus our attention inward for a moment on Ike’s reflection, and the filter word makes space for that.

While filter words can be effective when they’re used to create a sense of introspection, littering prose with them will be disruptive and pull the reader out of the viewpoint character's headspace. In other words, the psychic or narrative distance will be widened and we’ll feel disconnected from the immediacy of the character’s experience.

For that reason, always use filter words judiciously. In the above example, Cosby offers just a single nudge, and it’s enough.

Every filter word needs to be assessed on its own merits. Some will have a place in a novel because the author wants to introduce a sense of introspection into a viewpoint character’s narrative. Just bear in mind the following:

• When filter words front-load a sentence, they’re the first thing a reader notices. 
• They destroy momentum and so are often best avoided in pacy action scenes, regardless of their position.
• And even if they do serve a purpose – focusing a reader’s attention inwards on how the viewpoint character acquires the experience they’re reporting (by looking, thinking, feeling etc.) – it's worth keeping their use to a bare minimum. One nudge will likely be enough.

Take a look at these related resources for editors and writers. They'll help you develop your fiction line craft:
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• For editors: Fiction editing learning centre
• ​For authors: Line craft learning centre
• Becoming a Fiction Editor (free booklet for editors)
• Blacktop Wasteland, Cosby, S.A., Headline, 2020
• Editing Fiction at Sentence​ Level (book for editors and authors)
• Filter words in fiction: Purposeful inclusion and dramatic restriction (blog post)
• Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ (book for editors and authors)
• Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors (course)
• Razorblade Tears, Cosby, S.A., Headline, 2021
• Switching to Fiction (course for editors)

Find out what narrative distance is and why fiction editors and authors need to pay attention to it.

• What is narrative distance?
• Are narrative distance and psychic distance the same thing?
• How is narrative distance related to narrative style?
• Why writers and editors need to learn about narrative distance
• Using a visual framework to understand narrative distance
• Related resources for you to dig into

Narrative means story. It’s the part of a novel that isn’t dialogue.
 
A narrator is the person who tells the story. They can be a character in the book or an entity that stands outside it.

There can be multiple narrators in a book, too. That allows the author to present events from multiple perspectives.

‘Narrative distance’ describes the space between a novel’s narrator and the reader.

• If we, as readers, feel deeply connected to the narrator and their experience of the fictional world they inhabit, narrative distance is tiny.
• If we feel dislocated from them, more like we’re looking out on the story’s landscape objectively, the narrative distance is wide. 
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Yes, narrative distance and psychic distance are the same thing. Some writers and editors use one term, some the other. They’re interchangeable. Use whichever you feel comfortable with.

You might find one or other useful depending on what issues you’re dealing with when you’re writing or editing. I like the word ‘narrative’ because it reminds me what part of the prose I’m dealing with.

Then again, I sometimes use the word ‘psychic’ because it reminds me that although I’m dealing with fiction, and therefore something that’s not real, the narrator within that creative realm still has their own lived experience and a raft of emotions that come with that.
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Narrative style refers to the way in which the narrator offers their perspective. Common narrative styles include:
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• First-person limited
• Third-person limited
• Third-person objective
• Third-person omniscient

Each of those narrative styles come with a certain degree of distance between the narrator and the reader.

For example, first-person narrations always feel a little more intimate because the pronoun ‘I’ is used. Second-person narrations can feel equally intimate, but in a voyeuristic way.

Third-person narrations – and the pronouns that come with them – are what we’re used to using for those not being directly addressed, so in prose they naturally put space between readers and narrators using the third person.

When we move beyond a framework of narrative style and start to think specifically in terms of narrative distance, we’re able to analyse the effectiveness of prose in a more nuanced and flexible way. 
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Take a book off your shelf and read a couple of pages. Even though the entire section might be written in a single narrative style – for example, third-person limited, it’s likely that the narrative distance still changes. 

Perhaps you’ve never noticed before, and if that’s the case, the author and their editor have done a great job because the movement is seamless.

If that movement is jarring and too obvious, it could be an indication that narrative distance isn’t being controlled sufficiently. Editors and writers who can recognize narrative distance and evaluate its effectiveness are better equipped to solve the problem, and justify their solutions.
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Are you confused by narrative distance? Don’t worry – you’re not alone! It’s a complex topic. Even experienced line editors and authors can struggle to get their heads around it. 

My solution was to structure my own learning as a visual framework. I presented that framework at the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading’s annual conference in September 2021 and then for the Society of Authors in October 2021.

The framework I shared at those two events garnered fabulous reviews and convinced me to record a webinar that everyone could access.

Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors is available now to anyone who wants to lift the curtain on narrative distance and use it to craft prose that offers a better reader experience.
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Use the button below to find out what’s included in the course. 

• Blog post: 7 reasons why I’m not the right editor for you
• Blog post: How to avoid repeating ‘I’ in first-person writing
• Blog post: How to show the emotions of non-viewpoint characters
• Blog post: What’s the difference between a viewpoint character and a protagonist?
• Book: Editing Fiction at Sentence Level
• Book: Making Sense of Point of View
• Course: How to Write the Perfect Fiction Editorial Report
• Course: Switching to Fiction

Here are three clutter checks you can carry out on your novel. Reviewing, and editing where appropriate, will help keep your crime fiction, thriller or mystery writing tight and engaging. 

In this post, I look at the following ways of decluttering prose in commercial fiction: 

• Clutter check #1: Reviewing filter words
• Clutter check #2: Reviewing speech tags
• Clutter check #3: Reviewing action beats

Filter words are verbs that focus the reader’s gaze inwards on the senses a character is using to experience action with.

Too many filter words that explain this sensory behaviour in action can make prose feel told rather shown, and increase narrative distance.

Examples include ‘noticed’, ‘seemed’, ‘spotted’, ‘saw’, ‘realized’, ‘felt’, ‘thought’, ‘wondered’, ‘believed’, ‘knew’ and ‘decided’.
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Removing them focuses the reader’s gaze outwards on what is being experienced.

Sometimes an author wants an inward focus, but it’s often the case that the reader will assume that an odour is being smelled, a view is being seen, a thought is being thought, and knowledge is being known.

Review your narrative and consider whether the removal of a filter word would make the prose shorter and more immersive.

​Here are some examples:

Great speech tags help the reader keep track of who’s speaking without drawing attention away from the dialogue.
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Review your dialogue tags and consider the following:
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• Is the tag necessary?
• Is the tag taking centre stage?
• Is the tag illogical?

​If there are only two characters in a scene, it might be obvious who’s speaking, which gives the author space to introduce reminder nudges only now and then.

‘Said’ is often best because it’s used so frequently in novels that it’s almost invisible. ‘Asked’ is also inoffensive when used to tag questions in dialogue. Others like ‘whispered’, ‘yelled’, ‘hissed’, ‘spat’ and ‘barked’ can be useful when used sparingly to convey volume and mood.
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Showy speech tags scream their presence from the page, and shift the reader’s attention away from the dialogue and onto the tag. They often tell what the dialogue’s already shown, and indicate a lack of trust in the reader to get the speech. Examples include ‘exclaimed’, ‘opined’, ‘commanded’

​Facial expressions used as tags need special care. Examples include ‘laughed’, ‘smiled’, ‘grimaced’ and ‘sneered’. These are best recast as action beats or replaced with simpler speech tags.

​Removing redundant tags will reduce your word count. Recasting showy and illogical tags won’t, but your prose will still be more immersive.

​Action beats are short descriptions that come before, between or just after dialogue. They ground speech in the characters’ environment and can be effective alternatives to speech tags.

They key to effective use is ensuring they amplify dialogue rather than interrupt it.

Think about movies. On the screen, all the actors movements and gestures are visible. Replicating this detail in a novel can be invasive and pull the reader away from what’s being unveiled through the speech.

While action beats are superb backdoors into the emotional space of non-viewpoint characters, the dialogue should be where the main action is taking place. If it’s not, what might be required is a reworking of the dialogue, not the introduction of more action beats.

Instead of mimicking the screen experience, use action beats to show what the dialogue doesn’t convey. That needn’t mean including them with every turn. Great dialogue doesn’t need to be anchored every time a character opens their mouth. A purposeful nudge now and then will be enough.

Watch out in particular for prose that’s overloaded with mundane action beats – legs stretching, fingers raking through hair, raised eyebrows, arms folding, fingers steepling.
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Review your action beats:
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• Do they tell the reader something the dialogue doesn’t or are they mundane details that a reader could imagine?
• Are they infrequent nudges or are they littering the dialogue at every turn of speech?
• Could the mood conveyed by the action beat be conveyed better by improving the dialogue?

Getting rid of the dull and redundant ones will reduce your word count. And what’s left on the page will be more engaging.

There’s nothing wrong with the filter words, speech tags and actions beats. They’re useful tools when they help a reader make sense of the story.

However, if they’re mundane or interruptive clutter that can be assumed, leave them out so we can focus on the words that really matter.

• 3 reasons to use free indirect speech in your crime fiction
• Author writing resources
• Becoming a Fiction Editor (free booklet for editors)
• Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing
• Editing Fiction at Sentence Level (book for editors and authors)
• Filter words in fiction
• Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ (book for editors and authors)
• Switching to Fiction (course for editors)
• Tips on lean writing
• What are action beats and how can you use them in fiction writing?

One-line paragraphs are powerful tools that pull readers into your story and compel them to turn the page. This post explores why they work and offers some examples of smashing shorties that pack a punch!

In this post, I look at five reasons why it’s worth experimenting with very short paragraphs in commercial fiction writing and editing, including:

• to show rather than tell internal experience
• to decelerate reading speed
• to emphasize key information
• to create clutter-free immediacy
• to ​deliver suspenseful chapter finales

The narrative passages in a novel are often several lines long. This gives the author space for necessary exposition about the environment, the characters and the action. This is where we make sense of a scene and how it relates to the bigger story.
 
The staccato rhythm of one-line paragraphs is interruptive, both rhythmically and visually. Each short line is its own single beat, one that’s structurally visible on the page. Every time the reader moves onto the next, they take mental breath.
 
Because the lines are short, the breaths come quickly, and it’s there that the author can show rather than tell a character's internal experience in a way that's rich in mood and voice.
 
In this excerpt from Recursion by Black Crouch, p. 317 (Pan, 2019), look at how the structure of those two initial short lines in bold mirrors the meaning of the words. 

One minute the memories aren’t there; the next they are. The beat of their arrival is reflected in the way the prose is formatted. We’re therefore shown how the viewpoint character experiences the lightning-speed download of knowledge, and as a result we feel it all the more intensely.

Those of us who read a lot are used to seeing chunks of ink on a page or pixels on a screen and learn how to zip through them and absorb the content without dissecting each word.
 
Such speedy reading can lead to skimming because we relax into the flow of the narrative. One-line paragraphs, however, stand out because they contrast so starkly with the longer passages, surrounded as they are by so much white space.
 
Text that stands out begs for our attention and forces us to slow down and focus on each word. And that means it’s not only the rhythm of the prose that’s changed; so has the rhythm of how we’re interacting with it as readers.
 
Take a look at this example on p. 470 of The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter (HarperCollins, 2017).

The non-bold text is what we’re most used to seeing. It makes for a comfortable, leisurely, skimmable read. But when we get to the bold single-line paragraphs, the contrast is visible on the page. Our reading pace decelerates and our attention zooms in on every word.

Very short paragraphs enable authors to place emphasis on key words and phrases that they want us to pay attention to. Perhaps it’s a clue or a moment of suspense. Maybe it’s to shock us. Maybe it’s to draw our focus towards an aspect of a character’s personality.

Because the one-liner stands out, it’s an opportunity for centre-staging. Here’s a great example from Harlan Coben’s Win, p. 38 (Century, 2021). 

Coben wants us to know something about his protagonist Windsor Horne Lockwood III, something we might find distasteful and hard to fathom. Nevertheless, it’s central to the characterization; Win’s actions throughout the novel don’t make sense unless we know this. Coben ensures we don’t miss it.

Very short paragraphs pull the reader through each moment of the action, second by second, step by step.
 
This can reduce narrative distance – the space between the reader and the viewpoint character.
 
Here’s beautiful example from p. 296 of The Cold Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty (Serpent’s Tail, 2012)

​The narration is first person, so it’s already immersive. But the one-line paragraphs in bold drive us deeper into Sean Duffy’s experience. There’s no fluff, no filtering, no cluttering description.
 
Each moment of the action is presented oh so precisely, slamming us into the now of the novel – the weapon being raised, Duffy’s physical response, then what he hears: first a bang, then nothing.

In five lines and fourteen words, McKinty shows us something powerful – that he trusts us to get it. We don’t know for sure what Duffy is feeling. It could be sadness, terror, anger, resignation, or a combination of some or all those things.
 
The author’s had the courage to leave it to us, to allow us to imagine what this moment means internally for Duffy, rather than forcing us one way or another. In doing so, we get to be Duffy for a while rather than a fly on the wall. The narrative distance is so small, it’s barely perceptible.

A smart one-liner at the end of a chapter can create suspense. Perhaps it’s a question, a shocking statement or a realization. Regardless, it leaves the reader aching for answers.
 
When that yearning is encapsulated in one line, it stands out and demands that we turn the page.
 
Here are the final two paragraphs from p. 132 of David Rosenfelt’s Open and Shut (Grand Central Publishing, 2002)

There is only one question on the reader’s mind as the chapter closes: So how did his father make all that money?

And because the answer lies beyond – maybe in the next chapter, maybe right at the end of the book – we turn the page.

Overdependence on any literary device risks reducing its dramatic effect, and short paragraphs are no exception.
 
One-liners pack the biggest punch when they’re used now and then as a tool with which to vary the pulse of your prose and deepen your reader’s immersion in the world you’ve created.
 
Save them for best so that they stand out.

You’re writing in third-person and your viewpoint character has become unconscious. However, you want the reader to understand how their discovery and recovery come about, and without head-hopping. Here are 5 ideas for how to tackle it.

Start at the top if you’re new to viewpoint, or jump straight to the solutions if you’ve already nailed it but are wondering what to do about your oblivious point-of-view character.

> Protagonists versus viewpoint characters
> Why an unconscious character can’t be a POV character
> Head-hopping, narration style and number of POV characters
> The setup – a fictive piece of fiction!
> Solution 1: Create a new section or chapter with a new POV character
> Solution 2: Create a new section or chapter and switch narration style
> Solution 3: Unveil through dialogue
> Solution 4: Unveil through data
> ​Solution 5: Use emotional reflection

The protagonist is the person whose experiences drive the story. The novel revolves around them. Readers are usually more connected to them and their outcome within the story than any other character.

• It’s their choices and motivations that affect the direction of the story.
• It’s they who are thwarted by obstacles.
• It’s they who we root for as they attempt to find resolution.

The POV character is the person whose internal experiences drive a scene or chapter.

• Through them we access the detail of a scene.
• It’s through their lens that we perceive what’s going on in the moment – what they see, hear, believe, feel and report.

While your protagonist might often be the POV character, one role doesn’t always equal the other. A POV character can also be an antagonist, a major character, or a bystander who makes but one appearance.
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Your protagonist, however, is always your protagonist, whether they’re in a scene, doing something else somewhere else, or lying in a coma on the beach.

Perhaps your POV character has had an accident, become ill, been knocked out, or drugged. Perhaps they’ve drunk or drugged themselves into unconsciousness.
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As long as they’re unconscious, they don’t know what’s happening. Which means the reader doesn’t either. Their oblivion is ours. And at that point they’re no longer a viewpoint character. They can’t be; they’re busy being unconscious.

However, just because they’re out for the count doesn’t mean the story is. Action is still taking place in the form of physical movement, dialogue, and the passing of time.
If authors need to tell the reader what happens to the unconscious character during their period of absence, it needs to be done in a way that makes sense.

If a character regains awareness, becomes the POV character and reports what happened to them during time out, they need a way to access that information. Otherwise, someone else will report that information, and a new POV character comes into play. 

​What is head-hopping?
When readers are forced to jump from one character’s thoughts and experiences to another’s in a single scene, head-hopping is in play. 

Head-hopping is convenient because it lets readers know what everyone in a scene is thinking and feeling all at once. That convenience is usually a problem in commercial fiction because it rips out the suspense.
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Rather than readers getting in the heads of everyone, they engage with and invest in no one because they are never in one place long enough to do so.

What is third-person limited POV?
Third-person limits readers to a single character’s experience – what they see, hear, feel and think. Readers get to sit in their skin; it’s as if we’re them.

In that sense, it’s not unlike first-person narration, another in-skin POV. The difference is the pronouns – he/she/they/it for third person; I/we for first person. 

The difference lies in the narrative distance – how close the reader feels to the character. With third person, the distance is wider because those pronouns are a constant reminder that the character is someone else. With first person, the ‘I’ personalizes the experience more deeply because we’re reading the same language we’d use if we were talking about ourselves.

Third person is a narration style that most writers find easy to master at the beginning of their journey, and is popular with writers and readers of commercial fiction.

How many viewpoint characters can a novel have?
A novel can have multiple viewpoint characters sharing their experiences through various narration styles such as first person (I) and third-person limited (she, he, they). 

However, it’s conventional in commercial fiction for each POV character to tell their story in distinct chapters or sections. Lumping multiple viewpoints into a single scene is often an indication of head-hopping.

Let’s set up a scene. Our current viewpoint character is Alicia, a private investigator. She’s also the protagonist.

Alicia’s received a tip-off from an old contact that her targets are using a derelict office building on the edge of an industrial estate for nefarious purposes.

Early in the evening, she decides to snoop around. She scopes the place out and enters once she’s confident the coast is clear. Part way through her search, she feels a blow to the back of her head. Next thing she knows, the floor’s coming towards her face. That’s where the chapter ends.

Because I’m the writer, I know the following:

• Alicia was bonked on the head with a frozen joint of beef by someone called Patty (who is one of the targets).
• Patty then legged it, taking with her the evidence of her group’s nefarious activities; she cooked up a roast, and ensured her weapon was eaten.
• Alicia survived. She was unconscious for 13 hours.
• Three kids snuck into the office building to share a spliff and found her.
• They called an ambulance.
• Police officers took statements from the kids, who, naturally, omitted the spliff from the story and said they were just hanging out listening to music and shooting the breeze.

​How much of this information I can convey without dropping viewpoint will depend on how many POV characters I have in the novel, which narration styles I feel confident using, and when I decide to reveal this information so that I maximize reader engagement. 

Creating a new section or chapter with a new viewpoint character is perhaps the easiest option if the novel has been structured such that it regularly switches between several characters’ experiences, each narrated in a first or third-person-limited style. 

A word of caution
Those questions will need to be answered eventually. If they’re not – if out of the blue, we’ve been granted intimacy with Patty for the purpose of explaining what happened to Alicia only never to revisit her – the reader will be left feeling that there’s unfinished business, and that they’ve been party to a literary tool of convenience.

That’s a contrivance and a manipulation, and will damage your story. 

To avoid the convenience problem, you could adapt Solution 1 by pulling back and opting for an alternative narration style.

A third-person-objective narration could work. Here, the prose is flatter, more told. The reader focuses on what can be seen and heard, rather than being immersed in emotional context.

This style widens the narrative distance but allows you to tell the facts. And that might well suit the mood of your book now and then.

If your novel has only one viewpoint character, this solution will allow you to unveil what happened, and when, through a conversation.

Your POV character needs to have recovered sufficiently and be able to access the people who have that information and engage in dialogue with them or eavesdrop on a conversation they’re having.

They could be the police or security services, medical staff, an antagonist, the saviour – anyone who knows and can fill in the blanks.

It means the unveiling comes after the period of unconsciousness, which makes it an emotionally rich experience for the reader because we’re discovering what happened to the POV character at the same time as they are. We get to live their life with them in the moment.

Similar to Solution 3, the unveiling of what happened and when during the character’s unconsciousness is revealed later, but this time through files, documents, records, a diary, reports, messages or some other physical repository.

Again, they’ll need to be sufficiently recovered and have a mechanism for accessing this data.

As with the previous solution, the reader is drawn deeper into the POV character’s experience because we’re with them every step of the way on that journey of discovery.​

A fifth option is to use emotional reflection. This contemplation approach might be more suitable if your character has time to reflect.

Perhaps they’re still in hospital or bed-bound or imprisoned and are thinking about what they’ve learned.

You might find it’s a good solution if you want to slow the pace and give the story some breathing room – space for a little recent backstory.

Just because your POV character is out of it doesn’t mean the story of what happened during that time can’t be unveiled while holding point of view.

Experiment with narration style and different time frames for the unveiling, and separate characters’ experiences by giving their scenes distinct sections or chapters.

And don't forget that your protagonist is always your protagonist, even if they're not the viewpoint character because they're unconscious. 

• Author resources library
• Editor resources library
• Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: A Guide for Beginner and Developing Writers
• How to show the emotions of non-viewpoint characters
• Making Sense of Point of View: Transform Your Fiction 1
• ​Making Sense of 'Show, Don't Tell': Transform Your Fiction 3 
• What are expletives in the grammar of fiction?
• What is head-hopping, and is it spoiling your fiction writing?
• What’s the difference between a viewpoint character and a protagonist?​

Give your novel a sentence-level workout. Here are 6 common problems, and the solutions that will improve the flow of your fiction and make the prose pop.

​Review your novel for 6 common problems. None involve major rewriting, just relatively gentle recasts that will improve your prose significantly, and make your reader's experience more immersive.

1. Assess invasive adverbs
2. Remove redundant filter words
3. Take the spotlight off speech tags
4. Pick up dropped viewpoint
5. Trim anatomy-based action
6. Turn intention into action

​Not all adverbs and adverbial phrases are bad. Suddenly, slightly, slowly, nervously, calmly, quietly can be effective if used now and then.
​
However, overuse is often a symptom of an author telling us what’s already been shown, which means the adverbs are repetitive and cluttering. In the two examples that follow, they can be ditched because 'fidgeted' shows the nervousness, and the apology in the dialogue shows the regret.

​Even when adverbs are telling us something new, consider elegant recasts that use stronger verbs but still keep readers in the moment.

When readers are told of doing being done by a viewpoint character, filtering is in play. Realized, knew that, wondered, thought, saw, and decided are just a few examples.

The reader is already experiencing the story through a viewpoint character. For that reason, we often don’t need to be told that they realize, see, think or feel anything. We’re already in their heads.

​It’s telling what’s already been shown.

​Filtering pulls us out of the deep, limited viewpoint. Worse, it’s repetitive and obvious. Jane has already looked at the screen so we know her eyes are doing the work; telling us that she saw as a result of her glancing is redundant. 

In the example where Matthew’s the narrative viewpoint character, we needn’t be told he feels the thumping in his temples, since if he weren’t feeling it he couldn’t report it. Nor do we need to know he’s thinking about that third glass because we’re already in his head.

'Said' is almost invisible when it comes to dialogue tags. A smattering of 'asked', 'replied', 'whispered', and 'yelled' can also work well.

Sometimes tags aren’t even necessary because it’s obvious who’s speaking. Other times, we can replace a tag with an action beat than conveys movement and emotion.

Readers should be focused on the dialogue. If a showy tag is necessary to convey a character’s voice or mood, the speech might need a rethink.

In the examples below, the speech tags do the following:

1. tell what the punctuation’s already shown
2. tell what the dialogue’s already shown
3. tell us what the dialogue could have shown but doesn’t
4. express non-speech-related behaviour

Narrative viewpoint is a big topic so I’ve focused on two common sentence-level slips:

• The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know.
• The reader is given access to non-viewpoint characters' internal experiences.

The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know 
Reporting what can’t be known often comes with filter phrases such as 'could tell (that)' and 'knew (that)'.

​In this example, John is the viewpoint character. We experience the story though his senses.  

Actually he can’t tell any such thing. It might seem that way, but for all John knows, she could be hiding it because she has another agenda. Telling us that’s not the case removes any underlying suspense – stops us asking the question.

This might seem like a small slip but it’s the kind of thing that turns over all the power of a limited/deep viewpoint to an all-knowing narrator and rips apart the tight psychic distance between reader and the viewpoint character.

Here are two recasts that avoid the viewpoint drop:

Non-viewpoint characters’ internal experiences
Here we’re talking about head-hopping. It’s when readers are able to access emotions, mood and thoughts of a non-viewpoint character. In the example that follows, Reja is the viewpoint character.

The solution is to recast the text so that these emotions, mood and thoughts can be inferred or accessed externally – for example, through movement or speech – by the viewpoint character only. Here’s a possible recast.

Prose is more immersive when readers aren’t told what they can assume is being done by body parts that are associated with particular actions – holding with hands, gazing with eyes, standing to their feet, kneeling on their knees, nodding heads, and shrugging shoulders.

In the example below, we might remove the obvious body parts and focus more specifically on the part of John's legs doing the kicking and the impact of his action. As for the gun-toter, the hands have been ditched.

Sometimes the reader needs to know what a character wants to achieve from a particular action. This is about the why of an action.

However, when an author means to show the how of an action but tells of intention to act, there’s a problem. The red flag to watch out for is 'to'.

We can check whether the focus is on point by asking a question: What action do we want to show the reader (via Jane)?

​​If we want to show the reader that Jane can lift her wrist – because that’s what the first example below is showing us – we can leave as is.

​However, that's rather dull; it's more likely that we want to show that Jane is checking the time, and so a leaner alternative is more effective.

None of these 6 tweaks are rules! Think of them instead as suggestions to consider, ideas that can help you smooth and tighten up your prose.

And don't worry about them at first-draft stage. Use that space to get the words on the page. Put your sentence-level editing craft in play with a later draft, and once your story's structure, plot and characterization have been fully developed.

Want to develop your line-editing skills? Check out these resources:

• Author resource library (includes links to free webinars)
• Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: A Guide for Beginner and Developing Writers
• Making Sense of Point of View: Transform Your Fiction 1
• Making Sense of Punctuation: Transform Your Fiction 2
• ‘Playing with sentence length in crime fiction. Is it time to trim the fat?’
• ‘Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions’
• ‘What is anaphora and how can you use it in fiction writing?’
• ​'2 ways to write about physical pain'
• 'What is head-hopping, and is it spoiling your fiction writing?'
  

Non-viewpoint characters have emotions too. But how do we show them without head-hopping? The answer lies in mastering observable behaviour.

What is head-hopping?
When a reader can access the internal experiences (emotions, thoughts, memories) of more than one character in a chapter or section, head-hopping is usually in play.
The exception is if you’re tackling the tricky beast that is omniscient narration. It’s difficult to pull off and rarely used in contemporary commercial fiction.

Here’s an example of what head-hopping looks like on the page. Jack is the viewpoint character and the narration style is third-person limited.

​Notice the following:

• Best ever is Jack’s thought. That puts us in his head, which is fine because this is an excerpt from a chapter in which he’s the viewpoint character. But that means we cannot access what’s going on in Pete’s head – how he is remembering his dad and the accident, and the decision to not dwell on those things.
• Look at the physicality too. Jack turns away from the water, which means he was facing it and couldn’t have observed Pete weaving through the grass and slumping into the dune. All he can do is see Pete on the dune after he’s turned.

How to enter a non-viewpoint character’s space without dropping viewpoint
There will be times when you want your reader to enter the emotional and physical space of a non-viewpoint character.

Mastering observable behaviour – showing us what the viewpoint character can see, and their interpretation of that behaviour – is one solution that will enable you to hold viewpoint.

Here’s a recast of the Jack/Pete scene:

Notice the following:

• We don’t leave Jack’s head. I’ve given him the memory of their dad and the accident, and the decision to not dwell.
• I’ve changed the order of movement. Jack turns first so he can observe Pete’s journey through the grass and into the hollow of the dune.
• Pete’s mood isn’t told (since we can’t access his inner experience). However, it can be shown through the set of his mouth, the position of his neck and the hue of his skin as Jack perceives it. Furthermore, we can infer that he’s been struggling to deal with the accident through Jack’s relief that he’s at least outside for a change.

Mastering observation
Mastering observation enables writers to retain viewpoint but not be restricted by it. Think about how non-viewpoint characters will move in a way that reflects their internal experience, or what they will look like. Here are a few examples:

Summing up
If you’re writing in a third-person limited narration style, consider what the viewpoint character already knows, what they can observe in relation to a non-viewpoint character, and what they could infer from those observations. That will determine what they can report.

What they report can still allow readers to access the internal experience of the non-viewpoint character through a back door. And while that report will be biased, it will be immersive.

When the order of characters’ movements is told with the words ‘before’ and ‘after’, there’s a risk that readers will focus on timeline rather than story. That distraction can reduce engagement and dumb down the writing.

​Here’s what to look out for and how to fix the problem.

In this article, we’ll look at tacit and explicit chronologies of action, and assess which style of writing is more immersive and why.

Why writers include ‘before’ and ‘after’
The inclusion of ‘before’ and ‘after’ to tell the order of play is not an indication of poor grammar – not at all. There’s nothing grammatically wrong with these constructions.

More usually, it’s an indication of insecurity. The author hasn’t learned to trust the power of their words on the page, or the ability of their readers to perceive the meaning behind those words.

It’s also why writers sometimes use several adjectives with similar meanings rather than one strong one, or an adverbial phrase to fortify a weak verb.

Some authors also fear that their writing will come across as too ‘plain’ or ‘simple’. Chronological nudges are an attempt to ornament the prose.

Tacit chronology of action
The things that we do occur in a sequence; they have a chronology. This is as much the case in real life as it is on the screen, in an audiobook and in the pages of a novel. That chronology is tacit – we don’t need to explain it because it’s understood.

Take a look at this excerpt from The Devil’s Dice by Roz Watkins (p. 79, HQ, 2019):

Watkins doesn’t tell us explicitly that the shuddering occurred before the laptop was put down, or that the laptop was moved before the character shifted the cat onto their knee. And yet we know. The sequence of events is implied by the order in which she places each clause. It’s tacit.

• First thing that happens: shudders
• Next thing that happens: moves laptop
• Next thing that happens: manoeuvres cat
• Next thing that happens: leans
• Next thing that happens: inhales cat odour

 
And that’s the thing with strong line craft – it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the chronology of action by showing us, clause by clause, what’s transpiring, instead of tapping us on the shoulder and telling us.

Explicit chronology of action
Let’s recast the Watkins excerpt with some explicit taps on the shoulder:

I see this use of timeline nudges frequently in the fiction writing of less experienced authors, and it’s problematic when overused. Here’s why.

1. Some readers might feel patronized
Not every reader will notice the use of chronology nudges. But some will, and since no author wants to alienate a chunk of their readership, why push the story over a cliff when we can work out the sequence of events from the order of the words?

Telling readers that X was done before doing Y, or after doing Z, is akin to saying: ‘Hey, just in case you’re not clever enough, let me spell it out for you.’

​It’s a dumbing-down that readers in the know won’t appreciate.

2. The inclusion is unnecessary
If you’re still not convinced, ask yourself whether the inclusion of ‘before’ or ‘after’ as timeline nudges is necessary. It often isn’t.

If a character’s shuddering occurs at the beginning of a sentence, the reader will assume that shuddering is what’s happening right now. If a new action follows that shuddering, the reader will assume that – just like in real life – the moment has passed and something else is happening in the new now of the novel.

3. The reader is focused on the wrong thing
When writers create immersive fiction, the reader feels as if they are in the moment – this is happening, now that, now the other.

‘Before’ and ‘after’ are distractions that focus the reader on when rather than what’s happening. The former is telling; the latter is showing.

4. There are more words than are necessary
Not enough words leaves readers hungry for clarity. Too many gives them indigestion. The artistry comes in the form of balance.

​As long as the sequence of events can be understood by the reader, consider whether timeline nudges such as ‘before’ and ‘after’ are cluttering your prose.

The power of tacit chronology – more examples
Take a look at these pairs of narrative text, each of which has a shown tacit chronology and an alternative told explicit sequence. Which versions are more suspenseful? Which are most immediate? Which flow better when you read them out loud?
​
I’ve used examples from published fiction for the tacit versions, and taken a little artistic licence – altering them in ways their authors never intended – for the explicit chronologies.

In the original version, the ‘and’ between the initial breath and the walk into the kitchen is a fine example of the power of a conjunction. It’s almost invisible, which gives us the space to take that breath with the viewpoint character. And having taken it, we’re ready to go into the kitchen with them.

In the edited version, ‘before’ pulls us away from that moment. The tension has fallen out of the sentence.

In the original version, it’s as if we’re in the room, watching the man as he smiles and leans back. There is space for that action to have its moment. Then he blows the smoke – that’s the new moment; we’ve left the other behind.

In the edited version, ‘after’ shoves us past the leaning back and smiling before we’ve had a chance to savour it. It’s already gone, even though we’re still reading about it.

​In the original version, Crichton shows us the action. Perhaps, like me, you can hear the chunter of the helicopter blades in the air. Who’s in this helicopter? Men in uniform. They jump out. What will happen next? We’re shown: they fling open the door. There’s a sense of order, of clandestine and militaristic precision.

In the edited version, ‘before’ saps the suspense from the final sentence. We’re focused on the timeline rather than the action.

Summing up
The table below summarizes the impact of tacit and explicit chronology on prose.

Take a look at your narrative. If ‘before’ and ‘after’ are telling rather than showing, recast gently and reread out loud. Is the order of play still clear? Is the prose more immersive? If so, there’ll be fewer words but what’s there will be all the richer.
​
And if you’re worried that your prose will be too plain, think again. Immersive writing allows the reader to decorate the story with their own imagination.

Are you storytelling-telling? Too much told narrative can force the reader to experience a story through extraneous layers that add clutter rather than clarity. Here’s how to identify one type of told prose and write with more immediacy.

There’s a story ... stuff that happens to people and things. We experience it on the page via a narrative voice – this could be a first-, second- or third-person viewpoint.

The closer the reader feels to what’s being narrated, the more immersive the experience.

It can help to think in terms of how many layers readers must travel through to experience the story through a viewpoint character’s lens.

Let’s imagine Joe, a young teen. His journey is unveiled via a third-person past-tense narrator.

The viewpoint style is limited, or close – we can access what Joe can hear, see, smell, touch, feel (his emotions) and think. That accessible information can be either be shown or told.
​
With each approach, the reader pushes through various layers of the story as they are experienced by Joe.

If we place each unfolding layer of our story in a grid, we can see how much harder the reader has to work to get from start to finish with the told narrative – 23 layers as opposed to 10 with the shown alternative.

In the Told column of the grid, notice how much doing being done there is: heard, felt, wondered, saw, thought. Each of those words adds a new layer that puts the reader on pause.

Instead of seeing a bed (and doing it with Joe because he’s the viewpoint character), we see Joe seeing a bed. We’re not focused first and foremost on the bed, but on Joe doing seeing.

That extra layer increases narrative distance, unless that’s the effect you want to achieve, because it’s like a tap on the shoulder, telling us what to do. It screams: Reader, you’re not in this world; you’re just holding a book.

When writers choose a limited viewpoint, the reader’s already in the perfect position to know ...
​

• that when there’s an odour, it’s being smelled
• that when there’s an object in front of a sighted character’s eyes, it’s being seen
• that when they’re processing internal questions and ideas, there’s thinking being done
• and that when emotion is in play, our character is feeling it.

Shown narratives respect this – it’s storytelling. Told narratives overplay it – it’s storytelling-telling!
​
If you think you might be storytelling-telling, try gridding a section of narrative to identify each layer. Then recast to tighten up the prose. Chances are, it’ll be more immediate and immersive.

If your characters’ intention to act is trumping their action, a small recast could be in order. This article shows you how ‘to’ can affect immediacy and plausibility in certain circumstances.

The intention to act
Take a look at these sentences:
​

1. Jan reached up to switch on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
2. Andrew picked up the phone to call Carla. She answered on the third ring.
3. I get out of the car to walk towards the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

What’s noticeable in these examples is that the character does X in order to achieve Y. Let’s be clear – there’s nothing wrong with any of the sentences in terms of either grammar or syntax. A proofreader wouldn’t touch them. A line editor, however, would take a closer look.
​
In all three cases the narrator is describing the intention to act, rather than the act itself. And that can be problematic for a couple of reasons.
​

• The action is where our attention is supposed to be. That’s how we move through the story at the same pace as the viewpoint character. When intention creeps in instead, the narrative distance – how close the reader feels to the story and the viewpoint character’s place within it at a given moment – widens. The narrative is less immediate.
• We need the action if the prose is to retain its plausibility. It’s essentially a question of logic and whether the infinitive form of the verb allows us to move from A to B.

Removing ‘to’
Now look at what happens when we remove the ‘to’, introduce a conjunction and tweak the conjugation.
​

1. Jan reached up and switched on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
2. Andrew picked up the phone and called Carla. She answered on the third ring.
3. I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

In (1), now we’re moving through the story with Jan. She acts and we go with her. We feel closer to her, as if we are her. In the unedited example, she discovers the empty attic and yet the light never got switched on – all we had was her intention to do it. The ‘and’ fixes that problem.

In (2), Andrew picked up a phone and made a call. We’re doing those things with him. And Carla can now answer on the third ring because Andrew made a call, rather than just picking up the phone with the intention of getting in touch with her.

In (3), readers are focused on my journey to the caravan, not the reason why I get out of the car (to walk over to the caravan). And now that I do walking rather than just car-exiting, I can get to that caravan and peek through the window.

Shown prose versus told prose – which to choose
This problematic use of infinitives can be framed in terms of showing and telling. There’s room for both in any story, but, as always, context is everything.

Here are three points to bear in mind when deciding whether to ditch your ‘to’ and recast.

• An infinitive tells us why. A conjunction + verb shows us how.
• An infinitive holds us still – it’s motivation-based. A conjunction + verb shows us movement – it’s action-based.
• An infinitive tells us about what’s impending. A conjunction + verb shows us what’s happening in the now.

Conjunctions aren’t the only option. There are other ways of fixing told motivation-based prose where action is what the author really wants to convey. Let’s revisit one of our earlier examples. Each recast has a slightly different mood, but the ‘to’ has been ditched.
​

• I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
• I get out of the car, walk over to the caravan, peek through the plastic window. The curtains are open. No one’s home.
• I get out of the car. Walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

Red flags – words and phrases to watch out for
What we mustn’t do is hunt out every example of an infinitive verb form and hit the DELETE button. That would be catastrophic. Instead, during the revision process, check what the following words and phrases are doing to your prose.
​

• in an attempt to [verb]
• in order to [verb]
• so as to [verb]
• to [verb]

Are they showing motivation or impending action? Is that what you want? And will the logic hold up?

‘To’ and viewpoint drops
Infinitives can also interfere with point of view. In this case, it’s not immediacy at stake but what it’s possible for the viewpoint character to know.

Take a look at these examples:

1. I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth, preparing to bite.
2. Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat to steady himself.

​In (1), I’m the viewpoint character. All is well until I meet the dog. It bares its teeth. We’re still good. But then the infinitive slips in, and with it I’m now privy to the dog’s intention – to bite. It’s a step too far. Perhaps the dog’s been trained to snarl. Maybe it’s more a warning than an impending attack.

The scene could demand I get bitten or escape intact. Either way, what matters is that we’re not in the dog’s head so we can’t know its intention. A recast that shows what happens, rather than telling what might, is in order.

• The painful version: The dog bares its teeth, leaps forward and clamps its jaw around my arm, puncturing the skin.
• The injury-free version: I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth and I freeze. It backs off, so I give it a wide berth and trot down the road.

In (2), Denise is the viewpoint character. We have access to her thoughts via the free indirect discourse: The guy was a pain ... That Matty grabbed the side of the boat is fine. In fact, it’s a solid example of shown prose because although we don’t have access to his intentions or motivations (because we’re not in his head) we can make a good guess at what they are from his observable action – grabbing the side of the boat.

The infinitive tells us why he grabbed the side of the boat. And that’s a problem because we can’t know; we’re not in his head. All we can do is see through Denise’s eyes. Yes, it’s likely that he’s steadying himself, but why not let the reader do the work? His actions are enough to show them.

A recast might go like this:

• Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back and he grabbed the side of the boat.

Or this more staccato version:
​

• Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat.

​When intention is the intention!
There are times when the infinitive form of a verb is a good choice because intention, purpose or desire is exactly what the author wants to convey, not the action itself.

Here’s an excerpt from Nuala Ellwood’s Day of the Accident (Penguin, 2019, p. 94). The viewpoint character intends to talk but the action never happens. We’re supposed to focus on the intention, so the infinitives – to speak, to defend myself – work.

​Here are some additional (made-up) examples of where motivation is the order of the day. The character does X for the purpose of achieving Y, and the infinitive is effective.
​

• I take deep breaths to calm myself.
• He’d worked his backside off with this parole officer to stay out of trouble.
• Arthur went to pull Excalibur from the stone but Merlin’s scream stopped him in his tracks.
• I’ve made a decision. I’ll fill up her petrol tank with diesel to trash the engine. That’ll teach her.

​Summing up
If you want your characters to act, show those actions in your prose rather than telling readers about intention. Replace the infinitives with a conjunction and modify how the verb’s conjugated. Or, for a more staccato feel, try commas, or closing the sentence with a full point and starting a new one.

If it’s motivation you want, a ‘to’ plus a verb has the right to stand.

Not every reader can stomach violence in fiction, and not every writer wants to go the whole hog with it. Here are two ways to approach it: compressed reporting after the fact; and showing it all as it happens.

Compressed reporting after the fact
Reporting the outcome of violence after the fact can be a superb alternative to detailed descriptions that might upset or sicken authors and their readers. This technique is used on the screen too. 
​
In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome.

The ex-wife lies in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. We glimpse patches of skin, her flesh swollen and angry. Her face is physically untouched though trauma is etched into it. And even the slightest movement results in a whimper and a wince; despite the medication, she’s in pain. All we know so far is that something awful has happened to her but we don’t know what.

The scene cuts to two police officers listening to an audio file of the torture. Now we hear the drill and the screams. The officers play a little of the audio then switch it off and express their horror. A phone conversation with the victim’s husband ensues and we discover a little more about what’s been done to the woman. They finish the call and discuss the crime between themselves. Then the audio’s back and we hear a few more snatches. Off again, and there’s more analysis.
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It’s a powerful rendition of extreme violence that protects viewers from the gory detail but leaves us in no doubt about the suffering that’s been endured.
This method can work just as beautifully in a novel. It’s not that the violence is diminished but that we access less of it.

Harlan Coben’s Run Away (Century, 2019, pp. 68–9) provides an excellent example. Aaron, a corrupt and possessive junkie, has been murdered. Coben elects not to show us the violence as it plays out. Instead, we learn what happened via a later conversation between Simon and Ingrid.

Two things stand out about this scene:

• The question that Simon asks Ingrid (‘Do you really need the details?’) is the same one Coben’s asking his readers. He decides to give us just enough to shake us up, but not so much that we’re hurling into a bucket. The ellipsis is a well-placed pause that forces us to do some of the work. Overall, it’s lean but rich. The author doesn’t over-egg it for the sake of grossing us out.
• The violence is not diluted, yet Ingrid’s clinical detachment – she’s gone into doctor mode – gives us a breather and contrasts with Simon’s higher emotional state. The dialogue acts as a framework within which the horror is divulged; but it also gives us insights into the characters’ personalities. In other words, it’s not all about the murder.

​Cosies are a subgenre that bend particularly well to compressed after-the-fact reporting. Yes, people get hurt and die in grisly ways but most of the horror is left to the imagination.

Here’s an example from Emily Brightwell’s The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries (C&R Crime, 2013, pp. 1–3):

Brightwell focuses on the impact of the poison on the body; unlike in the Line of Duty screen example, there’s nothing that tells us about the suffering endured. That’s the cosy way.

And as with the Coben example, the implied violence is balanced by dialogue that unveils character personality. It’s not just the readers who shy away from the horror; Inspector Witherspoon does too. We also learn how he’s perceived by others in the scene – as a bumbling buffoon who can’t see the obvious. This sets the scene nicely for Mrs Jeffries’ more capable intervention later on in the novel.

Showing it all as it happens
Some acts of violence – such as fight scenes – work best when we’re shown everything as it plays out. Rendering a fight after the fact (as in the examples above) would destroy the dramatic tension.

Still, a fight scene needs to hold the reader’s attention. That means paying attention to pacing and providing just enough stage direction to enable the reader to understand the choreography.

This extract from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (Orion, 2014, pp. 244–5) appealed to me because it avoids high-octane, kickass tropes. Rather, the author captures the transgressor’s mysterious sensuality in the violent narrative. Her psychotically calm speech and composed movements have an ethereal quality. In sharp contrast, the protagonist’s actions are punctuated with sentence fragments that elevate the pace and introduce tension.

Moore, like Coben, doesn’t overwork it. The scene never drags even though the pace changes depending on who we’re watching.

Here’s a high-octane example from Robert Ludlum’s The Matlock Paper (Orion, 1973/2005, pp. 268–9). Ludlum never bores us, just tells us straight. The pace is quick and every word counts.

Ludlum keeps the stage direction lean and the pace consistent. But I also love how he introduces the earth and rain into the narrative, but only briefly. The weather doesn’t distract us. The mentions are just enough to ground the violence in a physical environment that can be felt and heard; the men aren’t fighting in white space.
 
Lean is good but not too lean! Omitting the detail would render the scene inauthentic.

Imagine reading this:

​Really? So how did he manage that? Was is that easy? Jack Reacher’s good but he’s human. Readers still need to know how he won the day, how he was challenged, what obstacles he had to overcome. That way we can rally behind him.

​Here’s the real extract from Lee Child’s Bad Luck and Trouble (Bantam, 2007, p. 492). Child gives us the detail, shows us the choreography of the fight, but it’s focused. None of the steps are repeated so we don’t get bored.

​Child uses sentence fragments to accelerate the pace, and polysyndeton to introduce a sense of rampancy. And he deepens our interest by shifting the narrative distance – we move from observers in the wings to right inside Reacher’s head.

Summing up
For showing-it-all violence:

• Provide stage direction and choreography but avoid repetition.
• Play with narrative distance (using thoughts and free indirect speech).
• Experiment with commas and conjunctions (asyndetic and polysyndetic constructions) for rhythmic effect and to introduce tension.
• Alter sentence length and evaluate the impact on pace.
• Don’t forget the environment – will glimpses of it enrich a reader’s experience of the violence?

For reporting-after-the-fact violence:

• Focus on outcomes. Even if we haven’t followed the violence as it occurred, what are the after-effects? Think bodily injury, emotional trauma, and damage to the environment (though consider genre).
• Use dialogue to explore the violence through other characters’ perceptions of and responses to it. Might you introduce contrasting emotions to unveil character traits?
• Keep it short. While a show-it-all fight scene might fall over one or two pages, trust your reader to do more of the work in this case. Give them nudges that enable them to join the dots.

A final word. If your scenes of violence include weapons or specialist fighting techniques, do your research. Some of your readers will know their guns and martial arts. Placing suppressors on pistols that don’t take them or getting your martial arts moves wrong will pull readers out of your story and provide the pedants with excuses to knock stars off your Amazon reviews.

Further reading

• Dialogue tags: How to show who’s speaking
• How to convey accents
• How to punctuate dialogue
• How to use free indirect speech
• How to write novels for readers, not viewers
• How to write thoughts
• Physical description with style
• Playing with sentence length
• Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions
• Using adverbs in fiction writing

If you’re looking for ways to inject some drama into your novel’s sentences, omitting filter words could be just the ticket. Do so judiciously though. Including them can add texture to mood and voice.

What are filter words?
Filter words are verbs that increase the narrative distance, reminding us that what we’re reading is being told by someone rather than experienced, or shown, through the eyes of the character.

Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, decided.

I see more extensive filtering in books written by less experienced novelists who’ve not yet learned to trust their characters’ voices, who are uncomfortable about playing with devices such as free indirect style, or who are still learning the craft of injecting drama into narrative.

I’ve taken some examples from published fiction and introduced filtering so you can see the difference, and how by avoiding filter words the writers have brought immediacy to their narratives:

When filter words distract
Filter words – particularly when they’re used as a narrative staple – tap the reader on the shoulder and say, ‘You’re not in this book. Someone else is experiencing this.’ They’re a reminder that doing is being done.

Of course, we as readers know this to be true. Still, there’s nothing like immersing yourself in a character’s journey.

Here’s an extreme example I made up:

The text is horribly laboured – overly cluttered with doing being done. When confronted with a novel filled with filtering, readers will be tempted to skim, which means they might miss something crucial. A worst-case scenario is that they’ll give up because it’s not an enjoyable experience.

​Now let’s tighten it up by removing the filter words:

We’ve lost none of the detail but now the prose is more emotionally immersive. We can better feel John’s predicament because we’re not repeatedly told that he’s doing the doing. It’s narration that feels less narrated.

When filter words add texture
I’m not suggesting you ban all filter words. When used intentionally they have a layering effect that can enrich a novel.

• You might want to pepper your narrative style with some telling filters to mix things up.
• Perhaps the narrative distance in much of the surrounding text is close and you want to ease the tension and pull the reader back.
• You might use filter words to introduce a different mood, for example, more enquiring or deliberative.
• You might even need them so that your prose makes sense – sometimes a character does realize or watch or think something, and we need to know that.
• Filter words can deepen character voice, especially in a first-person narrative.

The Mackintosh example above is in first person. I think my filtered version works; it’s just different. Or perhaps it would be stronger with only one of the filters. Either way, one might argue that it imparts a deeper sense of the character’s scouring the envelope for clues.

I still prefer Mackintosh’s approach because I like my crime fiction on the nose, but the experiment demonstrates that filter words aren’t wrong or right, but rather devices you can use to play with the reader’s experience of your story and the characters moving around within it.

Here’s an example from Philip Prowse’s Hellyer’s Trip, p. 194:

Prowse uses a filter word here: knew. He then follows through with free indirect style to close the narrative distance and take us right inside the character’s head while still maintaining a third-person viewpoint.

So let’s look at what happens when we remove ‘He knew’.

I think the unfiltered version works very well but it does change the feel of the writing. Gone is the sense of deliberation. All four sentences are immediate. To my ear, the rhythm accelerates. And although there’s a feel of telling with the inclusion of ‘He knew’ in the published version, there’s also an increased sense of despondency, as if the character has had time to think this over and arrive at this knowledge.

I mentioned character voice above. Here are two examples from Play Dead by David Rosenfelt:

Rosenfelt’s writing is tight. He never drops a beat. When he uses a filter word it’s with intention. Those who’ve read the Andy Carpenter series will know that this fictional attorney’s voice drips with a delicious acerbity, and the character thinks, acts and speaks with purpose.

​When we’re told he realizes something it’s because the author wants us to have a sense of dawning awareness, not because he couldn’t be bothered to cast the sentence in a way that avoided it.

Most of the time, Rosenfelt avoids filter words: ‘I’m so pissed …’ not ‘I feel so pissed …’; ‘He spends most of the time …’ not ‘I listen to him …’. However, he chooses to tag ‘I don’t think’ onto the beginning of the final sentence rather than going with something like ‘My silent treatment isn’t bringing him to his knees.’ And, actually, the protagonist’s thinking is what deepens the voice and the immediacy.

Summing up
To keep your prose tight, look out for filter words that tell of doing being done. Then consider whether a gentle recast without them will improve your prose. How does the revised text make you feel? Is the meaning still clear? Is the mood you’re seeking evident?

If the prose feels more dramatic and immersive, you’ve done your novel and your readers a favour. If you lose something in the revision, like voice, mood or intention, reintroduce your filters at the appropriate points.

Adverbs and adverbial phrases sometimes get a bit of a pummelling, and yet they needn’t intrude and shouldn’t be removed indiscriminately. An adverb is no more likely to spoil a sentence than a poorly chosen adjective or noun.
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Use them purposefully in your writing when they bring clarity, but remove them when they create clunk.

Are there rules? You won’t find any in this article, just common-sense guidance to help beginner writers make informed decisions.

The fiction writer – and the fiction editor – who takes a formulaic approach to the treatment of adverbs is heading for trouble.

A note on form
Not all adverbs end in –ly (e.g. backwards, inside) and not all words ending in –ly are adverbs (e.g. deadly is an adjective and anomaly is a noun).

That’s one good reason not to eradicate all –ly words from your writing.

To work out whether a word or phrase is behaving adverbially, focus on what it’s modifying not on how it’s spelled.

Verb and adverbs – a quick refresher
A verb is a doing word; it describes a physical or mental action or state of being.

An adverb is a word that describes a verb (just as an adjective describes a noun).

​An adverbial phrase behaves in the same way but uses two or more words to describe the verb (or verb phrase).

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from dialogue
Here are four examples where the adverb (in bold) attached to the speech tag is redundant because the information in the dialogue does the same job:

These aren’t rules but guidelines. Test it. Remove the adverb and read the sentence aloud. Is the intention still clear from the dialogue you’ve written? If so, great – you can lose the adverb. If it’s not, can you recast the dialogue? Consider the following:

In (1), dialogue and supporting speech tag seem a little flat. In (2), the adverb helps us to understand John’s mood. In (3), we lose the adverb but the mood intention is supplied by the additional dialogue. In (4), the adverb repeats the mood intention.

None of above four examples is grammatically incorrect, but (1) is possibly underwritten and (4) is definitely overwritten.

Context is everything though. If you’re writing a high-octane crime-thriller scene in which the pace is fast and furious, (1) might just be perfect, (2) and (3) would slow the reader down, and (4) would still be a non-starter.

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the speech tag
Here are three examples where the adverb (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides the same information:

Beginner writers sometimes trip up with double tells in speech tags because they’re trying not to overuse ‘said’. A replacement verb is introduced but the clarifying adverb (which served to give intention to ‘said’) is left intact even though it’s no longer needed.

‘Said’ is a rather delicious speech tag because it’s almost invisible. (For an examination of tagging, read: ‘Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing’.)

Readers are so used to seeing ‘said’ that they slide over it without a glance. And that means they stay immersed in the conversation on the page, which if you’re writing dialogue is exactly where you want them.

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the verb
Here are three examples where the adverb or adverbial phrase (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides similar information in the narrative:

Slips like these can occur because the writer is still learning to trust their reader. They fear there are too few words or that the description isn’t rich enough. And sometimes writers just run away with themselves, so deeply are they immersed in the world they’ve created and what their characters are experiencing.

This is why drafting and redrafting are so important, and why a fresh set of professional eyes can give the writer courage. I hire people to check most of my own writing because I know that even when I’m writing educational non-fiction I’m so desperate to get my point across that I can sometimes end up in a right old tangle!

Self-editing is hard – professional editors know this. Don’t beat yourself up if you’re prone to double tells – you’re only human. Instead, cross-check your adverbs against your verbs to make sure you’re not repeating yourself.

Clunk: Dragging us away from immediacy
Some adverbs like suddenly, immediately and instantly can do the opposite of what's intended. Overuse can make the action less sudden, less instant. I cover this in detail in Why ‘suddenly’ can spoil your crime fiction: Advice for new writers.

In brief, these adverbs can act like taps on the shoulder that prevent the reader from moving through a story at the same pace as the character. The suddenness of the action is told to us first instead of being experienced by us.

Compare these examples. They demonstrate how removing the adverbs can leave the immediacy of events intact.

​Purposeful adverbs
Adverbs, used well, can show motivation, indicate mood, and enrich our imagining of a scene.

I love books that tell it straight because every word pushes me forward. David Rosenfelt is a writer who never disappoints. His Andy Carpenter series features a tenacious lawyer with a dry wit.

The author’s prose is sharp as a knife. Does he use adverbs? Absolutely, though sparingly and they’re always purpose-filled.

Summing up
Use adverbs when they help your reader understand more than they would have without them. A well-placed adverb or adverbial phrase will help you keep your prose leaner because it will nudge a reader towards imagining the action, the mood of the characters and what their intentions are.

If they’re repetitive clutter that add nothing we couldn’t have guessed, get rid of them. If the narrative or dialogue feels flat, head for a thesaurus and find alternative verbs that will bring your prose to life.

Readers want to know what characters look like. Writers want to show them. Here are some tools that will help do it with subtlety rather than a sledgehammer.

We like to know what characters look like because it allows us to picture them in our mind’s eye. That helps us invest.

The author wants us to invest in them, immerse ourselves in their journey, because then we’re more likely to keep on reading.

Still, no reader wants all that information hurled at them as if they’re reading a shopping list, and certainly not in a way that’s cliched or mundane. That’s nothing more than an information dump.

Here are some ideas for how you might unveil your characters’ physical descriptions in ways that are relevant and interesting. I’ve used examples that I’ve enjoyed from published works of crime and speculative fiction.

First things: Pick and choose what to tell
I said above that readers like to know what characters look like. Actually, we don’t necessarily need this detail to immerse ourselves in a character’s experience.

I’ve just finished reading I Am Missing by Tim Weaver. I love the David Raker series, and have read most of the books in it. I can’t recall whether and where Weaver has given me a physical description of his missing-persons investigator, but he certainly didn’t in I Am Missing. And you know what? I didn’t care a jot.

Weaver uses first-person past-tense narratives, which means we uncover the mystery with Raker. We see what he saw, wonder what he wondered, run when he ran. His fear, pain, shock and relief are ours. That’s where the immersion comes, rather than in knowing that he’s X feet tall or has hair the colour of whatever.

Which is to say, you might not need to tell us about the physical appearance of a character to draw us deep into the story.

And even if you do want to give your readers a sense of what a character looks like, we don’t need to know everything. Tell us what’s interesting, what gives us an insight into the way they think or feel, or things they notice that will be relevant later in the story.

Green eyes might be more interesting if they’re surrounded by bags that show tiredness, or creped lids that give a clue to the character’s age. Long elegant fingers might be more deserving of a mention if the owner picked away at their cuticles and made them bleed, perhaps because of anxiety.

Choose the right space
If you decide you want to put a character’s physical traits in front of the reader in one fell swoop, you could follow Roger Hobbs’s approach. Ghostman is a gritty, punchy thriller. Hobbs’s writing is fast and taut.

Five pages into the novel (p. 8) we’re given a description of Jerome Ribbons. Hobbs fires a lot of information at us – skin, height, weight, strength. This is no shopping list, though.

Ribbons is about to carry out a casino heist, and Hobbs uses a description of the character’s physical traits to show us that he’s physically and mentally capable of the crime.

It’s a case of the right words in the right space.

​Show us through another character’s eyes
There’s no better time to show what someone looks like than when a viewpoint character sets eyes on them. We’re already in the viewpoint character’s head, thinking and seeing with them. Their observations are reliable, and it feels natural for the reader to be confronted with descriptions of what’s visible, and why it’s noticeable.

Here’s another excerpt from Ghostman (pp. 31–2).

Jack is the protagonist, and the viewpoint character in this chapter. We see what he saw, and know what he knew. More telling, we learn something about how this character’s appearance belies his nature.

Make your character self-reflect
A viewpoint character’s self-reflection is another useful tool for character description, especially when it includes contrast … that was then, this is now. We don’t feel like we’re reading a shopping list. Instead, the details tell us a story of change – whether that is positive or negative.
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In The Wife Between Us (p. 11), Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen weave Vanessa’s current hair colour, height and weight into a narrative about the challenges she endured when her marriage to a wealthy hedge-fund manager broke down.

Think about what you do when you look in a mirror.
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• I don’t think: there’s a woman with brown hair with an orange streak in it. I think: I need my roots doing because there’s a grey stripe at the hairline that’s really stark against the brown hair and orange streak.
• I don’t think: there’s a woman with blue eyes. I think: I need to get a good night’s sleep tonight because my eyes look bloodshot, more so against the blue irises.

If your character is seeing themselves reflected in a window or mirror, have them notice things about themselves naturally.

Create an out-of-place setting
Might you set a character’s description in a scene where they look out of place?
Philip K. Dick doesn’t use any clever descriptors for Bill Black in Time Out of Joint (p. 19). Instead, the interest comes from how his manner of dress, hairstyle and gait appear old-fashioned to the viewpoint character, Ragle.

It’s less a case of what he looks like than why he looks strange. No matter – the reader knows what they’re looking at.

Show us the viewpoint character’s emotional reactions
Describing how another character’s appearance makes the viewpoint character feel is another trick.

In Bad Luck and Trouble (p. 32), Lee Child uses rather mundane adjectives to describe Neagley, but the emotional impact on the plucky and usually granite-like Reacher, and Child’s typically no-nonsense sentence structure make this description anything but dull. 

​In the above example, Reacher feels awkward. You might use other emotional reactions as a way to open the door to natural-sounding physical description: envy, disgust, desire, for example.

Unveil through dialogue
Character descriptions needn’t come solely through the narrative. Dialogue is perfect for unveiling too because it pushes the details front and centre.
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In I Am Missing (p. 13), Tim Weaver constructs a discussion between Raker, the protagonist investigator, and his client, Richard Kite. Weaver uses the conversation to show the scarring on Kite’s face.

Of note here is that the author chooses to give us little else about what Kite looks like – hair or eye colour, for example. It’s clever because this character is suffering from dissociative amnesia – unable to recall large chunks of information about himself. He is lost.

The author keeps such tight control over the physical description that we are drawn deeper into Kite’s loss of self, and Raker’s struggle to find any clue to who he is. As I read, he remained almost faceless in my mind’s eye. All I could picture was the harm he’d suffered.

Writers can and should be picky about what they choose to include, and omit, in order to draw a picture and evoke a mood.

Summing up
Do your best to avoid descriptions of characters that read like shopping lists or police reports. Instead, wrap the details around emotions, contrasts, and journeys of change.

​See you next time (said the blue-eyed fiction editor with a bob, who wore size-nine shoes and was five foot eight).

Cited works and further reading

• Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen, The Wife Between Us. Pan, 2018
• Lee Child, Bad Luck and Trouble. Bantam Books, 2011
• Louise Harnby, Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, Panx Press, 2020
• Philip K. Dick, Time Out of Joint. Vintage, 2002
• Roger Hobbs, Ghostman. Corgi, 2014
• Tim Weaver, I Am Missing. Penguin, 2017

Today, I discuss the negative impact that just one word can have on narrative tension: Suddenly.
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I’m not suggesting writers eradicate it, but rather use it judiciously and with intention.

I edit a lot of crime fiction written by beginner and emerging authors. I’m an avid reader of the genre too. Reading a genre isn’t enough to make anyone an expert in it, but it does afford the editor plenty of opportunities to see it written well, and to experience it as a punter ... to ask: Why do I like that? What is it about that scene that works so well? What’s hooking me here?

There’s one word that great crime writers put on the page with care – suddenly. However, many new or developing writers struggle to leave it out.

Two reasons for overuse stand out:
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1. ​The writer is trying to counter wordiness
2. The writer doesn’t realize their existing words have done the job

​I’ve grabbed a handful of crime fiction from my own bookshelves, and taken examples from these books to show how suddenly-free writing can be more immediate and immersive.

​1. Countering wordiness
Some developing writers record every nod, every furrowed brow. All that mundane stuff happens in real life. And in the movies we get to see it played out onscreen. That doesn’t mean it all needs to go into a novel.

Readers don’t behave like viewers. When I’m watching a film I expect to be spoon-fed to a degree – dialogue, facial expression, action, and a healthy dollop of incidental music to tell me who’s feeling what and why.

The reason it works with film is because a chunk of that stuff happens simultaneously, and even I, impatient soul that I am, don’t get bored.

When I’m reading a book, my brain works differently. I don’t want all that stage direction. Too much of it distracts me and that’s when I’m most likely to lose interest.

When a new writer hasn’t learned the art of crafting the story so that there are just enough nudges to keep the narrative rich, but not so many that it becomes tedious, suddenly rears its head. Suddenly becomes an apology for overwriting – an exciting reward for sticking around.

Only it doesn’t work. It’s just one more word on the page that the reader doesn’t need.

Solution: Keep your crime writing lean
Not every writer wants to strip their writing back to the bare bones but ask yourself whether you’ve introduced a sentence with Suddenly purely to reengage the reader.

If so, tighten up the preceding narrative so that you don’t lose them in the first place. Less is sometimes more.

Example
Here’s a scene from Tell No Lies by Gregg Hurwitz, featuring the protagonist, Daniel Brasher (p. 393):

A less experienced writer might have been tempted to overwork the preceding description and the line conveying Daniel’s anxiety ... and that could have led to a Suddenly barging its way onto the starting blocks of the final sentence to drag the reader out of the protagonist’s head and back into the external action.

​It could have gone like this:

Instead, Hurwitz has given us just enough to know that our protagonist is fretful. We hear the metallic boom in the same moment Daniel does. We imagine how it might make him jump. There are 58 words instead of 114.

​And the writing in the shorter, published example is tighter, the tension higher. The boom comes suddenly, but Hurwitz doesn’t tell us so. He doesn’t need to.

2. Redundancy – the verb’s already done the work
Even those novice writers who’ve conquered their noisy narrative can still be tempted to nudge unnecessarily with suddenly.

I see this most often in the following scene types:
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• Fights: Suddenly, the masked man launched himself forward and crashed into Jake.
• Realizations: Suddenly, it dawned on her. It’d been staring her in the face all along.
• Emotional shifts: Suddenly, Ash’s face lit up with excitement.
• Grisly action: Suddenly, the woman’s torso exploded.
• Unexpected sounds: The phone trilled suddenly from his inside pocket.
• Shock events: Suddenly, Emma slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

Certainly, writers who use suddenly are doing so with good intention – to give the reader a now-nudge. However, in most cases it’s unnecessary to convey immediacy and adds nothing to the narrative.

In the above examples, the immediacy is rendered perfectly with the verbs launched, dawned, lit up, exploded, trilled and slammed.

By adding suddenly into the mix, the reader is pulled out of the story, as if the author has tapped them on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Hey, you, something big’s coming. Just so you know. Right then, as you were. Carry on reading.’ That’s an interruption – the opposite of what the writer intended.

Now the reader’s no longer moving at the same pace as the character. They’re one step ahead rather than immersed in the moment.

Solution: Test the sentence out loud
Say it first with suddenly, then without. Ninety per cent of the time, the slimline version will work better. When that’s the case, hit the delete button.
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• Fights: The masked man launched himself forward and crashed into Jake.
• Realizations: Then it dawned on her. It’d been staring her in the face all along.
• Emotional shifts: Ash’s face lit up with excitement.
• Grisly action: The woman’s torso exploded.
• Unexpected sounds: The phone trilled from his inside pocket.
• Shock events: Emma slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

Published suddenly-free examples
Here are some published examples for comparison. None of the authors felt the need to nudge the reader into immediacy.

The Barclay example is particularly interesting. The narrative point of view in this chapter is that of the antagonist. From his perspective, the violence is almost mundane, which renders the scene all the more horrific for the reader.

A now-nudge in this paragraph wouldn’t have been just superfluous; it would have countered the perversity of our tension being heightened through being forced to immerse ourselves in Cory’s psychosis.

When suddenly works a treat
Suddenly-free isn’t a rule. Don’t ban it from your novel! There are times when it works beautifully:
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• There were ten of them, all big, corralling the guy into the corner. Pip watched, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

​In this made-up example, the inclusion of suddenly subtly changes our perspective of Pip’s situation. There's a subtle immediacy to his discomfort has emerged only now, that in the seconds before he’d watched bu not felt threatened.

And so it’s not that suddenly does or doesn’t work. Rather, it depends on the writer’s intention.

Your turn ... how do you maintain tension with minimal interruption? Are there particular adverbs you use with caution?

If you'd like to access more tips and resources for self-publishers, visit my resource centre. Try these in particular:
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• 5 tips for writing about physical pain in fiction
• 11 things that helped me succeed as a self-published author
• How to be a better writer: Using a growth mindset to hone your craft
• ​What's the difference between a rule and a preference?

Writing about pain is hard, but there’s no shame in that struggle; it’s difficult to articulate even when we’re experiencing it.

​​‘Pain is […] the kind of subjective and poorly delineated experience that is difficult to express satisfactorily in language […] Indeed, pain shares some of the characteristics of target domains that have received considerable attention in the cognitive linguistic literature. Like LOVE, for example, it is private, subjective [...] cannot be directly observed,’ says linguist Elena Semino.

When researching this article, I was surprised by how little has been written about the art of depicting physical pain in fiction. And, yet, the act of hurting is prevalent in most genres; it deserves as much attention as emotional distress.

I've come across a few examples in my sentence-level editing work this year where great writers came a little unstuck, tending towards repetition and overwriting the pain. That was my prompt to delve deeper.

I thought it would be interesting to look at depictions of physical pain from within the bubble of novel craft ... and beyond, in medicine and poetry.
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Here are 5 tips to help you write about physical suffering.

​1. Don’t always say it hurts – less is more
‘Pain is something we all go through to a lesser or greater extent. It’s something we all know intimately. Yet it’s so hard to describe and write about. It’s hard to push beyond “it hurts” and not wallow in it and also hold your reader,’ writes Justine Larbalestier.

She’s spot on. It’s why some beginner writers’ pain scenes end up either repetitive, overwritten or clichéd. 

Trust your reader. If a character’s elbow is smashed with a hammer, do we really need to be told that it hurt, that he ‘writhed in agony’, that he was ‘wracked with pain’? Sometimes less is more.

Readers are very good at filling in the gaps. Just as we imagine (without being directed to) a character rolling her eyes when she’s frustrated, raking her hands through her hair when she’s downcast, or biting her lip when she’s anxious, so we know that she feels pain when she’s kicked or punched, when she stubs her toe, when she’s stabbed, whipped or bitten.

Mick Herron is a master of keeping it lean. It’s not that he avoids mentioning pain, but he weaves experience into its telling that makes the reader think, Yes, I get that. Here’s an extract from Slow Horses:

   Arms pulled River upright and his body screamed, but felt good at the same time – aching its way out of a cramp.
   A bottle was pressed to his lips, and water poured into his mouth. River coughed and bent forward; spat; threw up almost. Then blindly reached for the bottle, grabbed it, and greedily gulped down the rest of its contents.
   ‘Shit, man,’ Griff Yates said. ‘You really are a fucking mess.’

2. Consider the type of pain
Commonly understood descriptors can be useful when thinking about pain writing. Semino references the 1971 McGill Pain Questionnaire and summarizes author Ronald Melzack’s categorization as follows:

The first way in which you might use this table is to apply the descriptors to your writing of a character’s pain. These can help you with the shape and movement of it.

Here's a fine example cited by Susannah Mintz. It's a scene from Sharon Cameron's Beautiful Work, where the narrator, Anna, says of her pain:

[It is a] beating between my breasts, and a reverberation of beating upward to my collarbone – a low steady hum, close to my body, not touching it. But agitating it. Below the beating, a thick, spikelike pressure was driving down to my belly …. The roof of my mouth was dry. I couldn’t swallow. A harsher beating arose near the surface of the skin in my left breast below the nipple. (84)

The descriptors are evident, but Cameron uses them artfully to bring the pain to life; it has intention. It does things to Anna ... it's 'near' her, 'close to' her, rather than within her. In this detached state, the pain becomes a supporting character in the scene.

3. Focus on pain's consequences
Think about how you might show physical and emotional reactions rather than telling the pain. You could use the descriptors from the table above as nudges as to what those reactions might be.

For example, if your character’s pain is crushing, you might express this by showing him struggling for breath; if it’s gnawing, you might have him bent and holding his belly.
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Back to the hammer and the elbow … what if instead of being told that the character is in agony, we learn that he doubles over, falls to his knees, vomits, or blanches? Perhaps he experiences a white-out, or loses control of his bowels. What about the sounds he makes … or those he doesn’t because he’s rendered voiceless? How does the pain move and what does it look like? 

Some of these reactions might be brutal, but the injury and consequent pain are themselves brutal and needn’t be shied away from.

Similarly, emotional reactions can help with the writing of physical pain. How does your character feel when that hammer hits his elbow? Depressed, frightened, vulnerable, hopeless, despairing, humiliated, angry?

In The Poppy Factory, William Fairchild focuses sharply on the sounds and movements his character makes, and shows the hurting through them.

Then suddenly you're down and all movement stops like a jammed cine film. You're still screaming but now it's different. It's because of the pain and when you try to get up, your legs won't move. You don't know where you are. All you know is that you're alone and probably going to die. When you stop screaming and look up, the sky is dark and you can't hear the guns any more, only the sound of someone moaning softly. It takes a few moments before you realise it's yourself.

In the PDF below, I've included some additional ideas for possible reactions to pain, (based on the nudges from the descriptor table above). There's space for you to add your own.

4. Acknowledge the limitations of agony
When I’m told that a character is in (physical) agony, my expectations of what she is capable of are changed. I’ve only been in agony a couple of times in my life, and I was good for nothing, rendered almost immobile. Reason left me. So did language. 

And so just because our protagonist is an MI5 agent with advanced armed-combat skills and interrogation-resistance techniques, there’s probably only so much she can take if she’s in agony.

Some genres of writing lend themselves better than others to acute pain tolerance – fantasy and sci-fi, obviously, when world-building rules allow for it; and action/adventure with Jason Bourne-like characters who refuse to go down no matter what they’re subjected to.

Somewhere there’s always a line, though – a point where Invulnerable Uberguy becomes unbelievable, laughable. If we’re told he’s in agony but he’s still throwing cool punches, turning roundhouse kicks, evaluating his escape route and planning this evening’s dinner date all at the same time, parody’s not far away.

There’s nothing wrong with escapist writing that allows for agony tolerance and superhero-like brilliance as long as that’s your intention and your reader’s expectation. If you’re aiming for authenticity and grit, though, be mindful of pain thresholds, especially what’s possible when your character’s in agony.
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Agony, drawn realistically, can make us doubt the protagonist’s ability to make it. Why is that interesting?

Says K.M. Weiland: ‘A good story should have the power to engage [readers] in a character’s suffering even when they know it’s all going to turn out right in the end. Every time an obstacle shows up between your protagonist and his goal, ask yourself: Is this just something that happens to him? Does he just brush it off and move on? Or does it hit him where it hurts? Does it make him (and readers) doubt his ability to make to the end of his journey?’

5. Look at how the poets do it
Milton. Who better? In this excerpt, we’re left in no doubt as to Satan’s physical suffering, and yet there’s no mention of his feeling it. Instead, we see it in our mind’s eye through the effort of his movements (‘uneasy steps’) and the detail in the environment (‘burning marle’, ‘torrid clime’, ‘inflamed sea’) that ‘he so endured’.
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His Spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand,
He walked with to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marle, not like those steps
On Heaven’s azure, and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire;
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach
Of that inflamed sea, he stood and called
His Legions, angel forms [...]

Which is best?
Whether you choose to leave your character's hurt to the reader's imagination, tell it through using commonly understood descriptors, or show it through reaction and environment will depend on your style, genre and intention.

If you're in the middle of a fast-paced action scene, Cameron's approach in Beautiful Work might be a distraction for your reader. If you're writing a more introspective scene, Herron's lean approach in Slow Horses could leave the reader wanting.

There's no best way of writing about physical suffering. The most important thing is that it shouldn't be boring. Unless your reader has congenital analgesia, they will have experienced pain and know it is anything but tedious.

Further reading

• Elena Semino, ‘Descriptions of Pain, Metaphor, and Embodied Simulation’, Metaphor and Symbol, Vol. 25(4), 2010
• John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I
• Justine Larbalestier, ‘Writing Physical Pain’
• K.M. Weiland, ‘Why Protagonists Must Suffer to Be Interesting’, Helping Writers Become Authors
• Mick Herron, Slow Horses, John Murray, 2015
• Susannah B. Mintz, ​Hurt and Pain: Literature and the Suffering Body, Bloomsbury, 2013
• William Fairchild, The Poppy Factory, Futura, 1987

Here's your Pain: Type, Shape and Reaction Nudges PDF. Click on the image to download your free copy.

Fancy a watch a video instead? Here is it.