Writing best practice

good writing

Does Detail Matter?

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Jennifer Shoop has an article dared April 17, 2026on Writer’s Digest about why detail is important in writing. Jennifer Shoop is the creator of Magpie, the literary lifestyle publication and platform that inspires women to live thoughtful, well-curated lives, inviting self-discovery. Magpie features a daily blog with an engaged readership covering a wide range of lifestyle topics, including motherhood, friendship, love, literature, and beyond. Jennifer holds an advanced degree in literature from Georgetown University and resides in Bethesda, Maryland, with her husband and two children. Her debut book SMALL WONDERS: A Field Guide to Life’s Joys is available wherever books are sold.

Jennifer Shoop

Jennifer says, “I am disciplined as a writer. I treat my writing like a 9-to-5 job, and I show up daily, determined to shake hands with the empty page no matter how hungry for sleep or depleted of inspiration I am. I do this because the only way to shrink the maddening gap between my aesthetic ambition and my current ability is to try over and over again.

Writing is, after all, a practice. No one is born a good writer; we work at this by listening, observing the techniques of others, laminating, red-lining, going back to square one, drafting badly and then well and then badly again, finding the right word, shedding the wrong one, understanding that all of it is a thinly-veiled search for self-knowledge. The blinking cursor is, then, like a call to the start line: a chance to limber up, strengthen muscle, fine-tune the hook shot.

However, even though I treat writing like a vigorous exercise, I find it difficult to the point of debilitating to focus on broad-trunk elements like structure and format and theme. These almost always emerge for me in the process of writing, and are the result of editing after I know what I’m writing about. I find it much clearer to approach the page wearing an aptitude for detail. I might not yet know the shape of the essay or the arc of the story, but I can dial in on the fulcra of word choice and imagery and manipulate those with care, and then watch as tiny ecosystems of thought and feeling expand, moss-like, around them, and almost without effort. A well-chosen phrase is like a seed watered and left to bloom on its own.

And I think this is for a few reasons, some technical and some abstract. The first is that when I am straining for a specific detail, I find that I sieve out the inessential, and leave readers with just what they need. Strangely, perhaps, the more exacting the example, the more accessible the writing becomes. Perhaps this is because we leave less room for doubt or improvisation on the part of the reader. We tell them about the blue room with the salt-stained paint and the patchwork quilt and the gardenia and grief in the air, and they follow us to that room with those credentials. They sit with us there and cry or watch the weather in the window or finger the quilted coverlet.

I also believe that readers implicitly trust a detail. Mary Oliver may never have seen a starling or a hummingbird or a flicker, but the way she writes about those birds, with eggshell-delicate anthropomorphosis, it is nearly impossible to doubt her. (Of the flicker, in her fantastic poem “Spring,” Oliver writes: “My, in his / black-freckled vest, bay body with / red trim and sudden chrome / underwings, he is / dapper.” Can there be any question as to her creative authority on this bird? I feel I am watching it with her, charmed equally by its dashing figure and Oliver’s silhouette of it.) There is a sense, then, that the more specific the prose, the more trustworthy the writing becomes. There is a proximity to truth or at least to the lived experience of something that feels like it, and this is important, because we can paddle a long way out on a good rapport with our readers.

From a more technical standpoint, good, round writing is attentive to the rhythm and mouthfeel of each sentence, which are only malleable if we are hyper-specific with diction. Do the words jangle like the cut of keys, or do they chime gently against one another, wind-blown and wandering? Do they trickle-trackle like creekwater, or do they stand still in the cold earth? The singular way I’ve learned to play in that soil is by studying each word carefully and asking for or rejecting alternates. The process is like sifting through paint swatches: that one reads a little too blue; this one is too on-the-nose.

I make a game of word acquisition for this purpose. I love to thumb through writer’s dictionaries and will reference technical literature (for farm equipment, for astrophysics) if an analogy calls for it. You would not believe the broad play spaces I have found at the rainbow’s end of these hunts for the specific, the way a highly technical term like Gamma Velorum (a quadruple star system in the constellation Vela) can draw a plain-clothed sentence into the musical and luminous. So the specific is about sound, too, about how loudly or quietly or cacophonously or melodically it can set the word echoing.

Finally, from the writer’s side, and perhaps this is laziness in fine clothing, I find it a tremendous relief to know that my task is to write earnestly from the narrow aperture of my own small straits. I am not aspiring to write about gods or the gates of horn and ivory, of which I know nothing. But I can, with care and focus, unearth the godliness in my own backyard: the Angelus of the sunup bird, the canticle of the crepe myrtles that bloom in June in my Maryland suburb.”

It’s about being a clever wordsmith!

Writers, leave AI alone!

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There is an article in yesterday’s Telegraph by Cal Revely-Calder with a title similar to the above, which, for once, puts the shoe on the other foot. Instead of complaining about AI invading the creative space, it objects to those who admit AI to the literary space.

Cal Revely-Calder is the literary editor of the Telegraph.

He said, “Self-respect, Joan Didion once wrote, cannot be faked. It depends on “a sense of one’s intrinsic worth”. You can pretend or lie or dissemble if you want to boost your reputation, but in the end you’ll always lack “what was once called character”.

This thought occurs to me whenever – and these days it’s pretty often – I see someone in the literary world stand accused of secretly using AI. Recently, for those alleged sins, the novelist Mia Ballard has had her second book pulled from shelves; the politician Matt Goodwin has had his state-of-Britain polemic castigated; and the critic Alex Preston has had a book review near-disowned by the New York Times.

Alex Preston

All three have confessed to some degree of AI use and, to me, none of the confessions are good enough. Ballard blamed a human editor she had hired to revise her novel, though you might expect a novelist to check her own final draft. Preston blamed himself, claiming he had been struggling to meet the NYT’s demand – a modest 1,000 words – and, in desperation, had resorted to help from AI, which plagiarised a piece in the Guardian. Again, Preston seems not to have checked.

Goodwin has been more defensive. Confronted by critics who claimed that his new book, Suicide of a Nation, was full of ersatz quotations, dubious claims and incorrect facts, he retorted that the detractors were partly wrong and partly missing the point. After all, his core thesis – that migration is destroying Britain  – was untouched; some “errors and typos” were inevitable if you self-published to avoid the “woke” publishing industry; and his opponents were “Lefties and losers” anyway. Goodwin insists that he was working from notes and did not use AI to write one word, merely (as he wrote in the Spectator) “to interrogate data”.

Matt Goodwin, academic-turned-politician, has admitted using AI ‘to interrogate data’ for his new book Suicide of a Nation Credit: Paul Cooper

But even if we believe him, and charge only Preston and Ballard with subcontracting their work to AI, something in the culture is clearly amiss. To use an AI tool may be wise if your job involves crunching data sets or summoning figures – though you would be advised to check the robot’s homework – and it is probably true that, in such empirical areas, its use will become society’s norm. To use such a tool if your job is to write, whether creatively or critically, misunderstands your brief. Writing is thinking. They are inseparable processes. Circumvent them and you may as well not have bothered. Readers are human beings, and they want human thoughts and feelings to be expressed.

This applies, to be clear, to non-fiction as well as fiction. Short of being a pure list of dates or statistics, any book of any genre requires a guiding intelligence. Writing and reading are parallel ways of touching another mind, another soul. That is what you, the reader, are doing now. People can use AI for computation or research, but if they use AI to write one per cent of their work, as Ballard and Preston certainly did – and, again, Matt Goodwin strongly denies it – they have abrogated one per cent of the essence that makes them a human being. Morality confers on us basic obligations; one of those is treating humans, ourselves and others, as creatures worthy of dignity. To filter yourself through a robot that cannot “know” anything, that just blends other people’s books into an oracular mulch – the plagiarism device on your phone – is to insult everyone involved.

You may think this sounds moralistic. Well, good. Publishing, like fast food or arms manufacturing, is an industry, and it will function amorally, by supply and demand unless someone takes the trouble to care and shape what it does. Hence we need people – editors, booksellers and, yes, writers – to preserve, for no reason greater than feeling and taste, the human element.

Without that preservation – and corners of Amazon already look this way – AI-created writing will extract and remix the real thing, then remix itself, in an ouroboros of slop. We will be drawing on data, past tense, to generate the future, and that way stagnation lies. Genres will calcify; mistakes will multiply. And the tide is rising. Talk to anyone behind the scenes, from agents to publishers, and you will hear that AI-written submissions are pouring onto their desks. The literary agency Curtis Brown complained last week that harried agents were, in turn, feeding submissions into ChatGPT to give them summaries, without the writer’s consent.

But that is the cost of convenience, the ruling lifestyle of our age. Why do anything difficult, complex or slow when you can get a machine to do it on your behalf? If this question seems genuine to you, and you are a writer, please stop. Do literally anything else. Because good writing is extremely difficult. Ask any novelist or critic worth their salt. It involves introspection and false starts and revisions, and interventions from editors, at least if you want to do it well; and the final product will comprise, however half-remembered and half-buried, every single one of those things, alchemically changed into something new – something, you hope, now worth the attention of someone else.

Preston, at least, seems repentant, though it is a mystery to me why anyone would cheat on a book review. Such pieces cannot be written en sufficient masse to earn you a living, no matter how much AI you use, and I say that as one of the few people left commissioning them. Ballard, for her part, has gone prudently silent. Goodwin has kept raging online; you can form your own judgment of him.

In the meantime, these writers’ varying fates, as with those who come next – and there will be more – should stand as a warning to the literary world. If writing is just a product to you, just the sum total of stuff you add together to form other stuff, then it might as well be done by AI, for what difference does it make? Writing becomes mere information, data, flat and lifeless, smoothly and efficiently recombined. But if it is more than that, as I hope for most people remains the case, keep it out of your books. Have some self-respect.”

I agree!

Short Story vs Novel

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Jan Carlson has an article on the RTE website dated 26 March 2026 which is about short story writing, but she generalises her advice so that it applies equally to novel writing.

Jan Carlson

Jan Carson is a Belfast-based writer who has published four novels, three short story collections and two micro-fiction collections. Her novel The Fire Starters won the EU Prize for Literature for Ireland, 2019. The Raptures was shortlisted for the An Post Irish Novel of the Year and Kerry Group Novel of the Year. Her writing has aired on BBC Radio 3 and 4 and RTE and has been translated into twenty languages worldwide. Jan was the Seamus Heaney Centre Fellow at Queen’s University Belfast in 2025 and is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Her latest novel, Few and Far Between is published in April 2026.

Jan said, “As a writer of both novels and short stories, I’m frequently asked, “how do you know whether an idea wants to be a short story or a novel?” It’s never a question I need to ask myself. With each new project I’ll instinctively know what particular form the story wants to take.

A novel’s its own peculiar beast; wide-ranging, occasionally meandering, a sum of many parts, like a long walk through a densely populated city where there’s much to observe and much to distract. A short story’s more like sitting on a bench, or pulling up a seat outside a café to take a snapshot of all that’s available in this moment, through a very limited lens. As I write this, I’m well aware that some of my favourite short stories wilfully and gloriously defy this definition. They’re wide-ranging, meandering, distracting delights. The first rule of writing is you should never trust the writer who tries to tell you there are rules. (Amen!)

The best short stories often feel like they’re subverting the rules or pushing the boundaries of what the writer can get away with. I often find my crazier, more outlandish concepts are explored in the short story form simply because it’s easier to maintain the suspension of disbelief for a handful of pages, rather than the enormous word count a novel requires. Because of this, I’m always enamoured with a short story which is willing to take risks both thematically and stylistically. I enjoy a story with notions. I don’t mind being knocked for six.

I’m also a fan of carefully drawn characters. I have no time for tropes or cliches, but a character who is intriguing, unique and, above all things, believably rendered on the page, is often the one aspect of a short story which lingers with me after I’ve finished reading. Believability’s a deal maker or breaker for me as a reader. I don’t mind if your plot’s outlandish and your characters are a little unhinged, but if I can see -and it’s usually painfully obvious- that you don’t believe in the essential realness of the story you’re bringing to life, then it doesn’t matter how eloquent your writing is, or how many hooks you’ve woven into your narrative, I’m afraid you’ve probably left me cold. (fair point!)

Which brings me, finally, to voice. The key to unlocking a brilliant short story is capturing an authentic, and ideally intriguing, voice. In a radio context, I particularly love it when a story’s voice feels as if it’s conspiring with me, telling me something candid and confessional, only intended for my ears. I spend a lot of time reading my own stories in progress out loud to myself, just to ensure the voice is spot on.

Now, I’d love to say, if you follow these rules, you’ll create the perfect short story – but writing’s a contrary pursuit. So, instead I’ll say, ignore the rules. Write from the guts. Take all the risks. Scare yourself, if you can. Once you’ve finished, you’ve only just started. Edit like you’re excavating for treasure buried beneath the muck. Take comfort in the knowledge that there’s at least one story you alone are equipped to tell.” (Brava!)

Writing: How a Passion Can Drive Inspiration

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There is an interview in Writer’s Digest of author Rae Meadows about how her love of gymnastics shaped one of her novels.

Rae Meadows is the author of four previous novels, including I Will Send Rain. She is the recipient of multiple awards, including the Goldenberg Prize for Fiction, the Hackney Literary Award for the novel, and the Utah Book Award. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, as well as Under Purple Skies: The Minneapolis Anthology, Contexts, and online.

She grew up admiring the Soviet gymnasts of the 1970s, and in her 40s decided to go back to the thing she loved as a child. She now trains regularly in adult gymnastics. She lives with her family in Brooklyn. 

Rae Meadows

Elevator pitch for the book: In 1970, in an Arctic town on the far edge of the Soviet Union, a young mother disappears leaving a mystery that haunts her husband and daughter, Anya, a gymnast in the grueling state system. From the wild tundra of Norilsk to the golden age of Soviet gymnastics to gritty late-90s Brooklyn, Winterland is the story of a woman—and an era—shaped by glory and loss.

What prompted you to write this book?

If I could point to one thing that set the novel in motion for me, it was reading about Elena Mukhina, the Soviet gymnast who won all-around gold at the 1978 World Championships. She broke her neck two years later, just before the Olympics, performing a skill on the floor she was not prepared for, which left her a quadriplegic.

Her injury was then covered up by the Soviets. There is a character in the book based on Mukhina, and she plays a pivotal role in Anya’s life.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

It took about four years from idea to publication, with COVID mucking up the process. When I first began the novel, there was going to be a peripheral character who was a former gymnast. But I loved researching so much—my life orbits around gymnastics as a mom, a fan, and a passionate adult gymnast—gymnastics soon took over.

I could spend hours watching videos of Soviet gymnasts and call it research. I wrote much of the book in the parent area of the gym where my daughter trains.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

It’s hard for me to believe this is my fifth novel. I feel so fortunate. Each publishing experience has been different, but this one has been by far the best.

I had the absolute lottery win of having Amy Einhorn as an editor, and I felt like she “got” this book from the beginning. I am an understated writer to a fault, and she pushed me to be less subtle, which I think improved the book immensely. I was able to trust the editing process more than I ever had before.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

For one, I never thought I would use my high school Russian! I am a big believer in serendipity in the process. Winterland was initially going to be set entirely in Brooklyn, but I read an article about Norilsk, where the novel is set, and it just took root in my imagination.

I don’t outline or do much planning when I write. I generally know the beginning and the end, which makes for many surprises along the way.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I hope Winterland feels transportive, a book readers can immerse themselves in. It’s set in the not-too-distant past, but the Soviet Union is a vanished place, despite some eerie similarities of late. Much of the novel takes place in a city carved out of the Arctic by gulag labor, one that is still closed to anyone not granted permission to enter, so to me it has an otherworldly quality.

And, of course, I want readers to feel for the characters, especially Anya, to follow her from age eight into adulthood. I have always been drawn to the idea of extraordinary stories behind ordinary lives. She could be someone you see on the subway and she has this remarkable past.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

My very first writing teacher used to call excess setting up of a scene “furniture moving.” Streamline, take out the furniture moving, trust your reader to get from A to B without describing every last detail in between.

“The Book Began to Take on a Life of Its Own”

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There is an article, written by Bridget Collins, on the Writer’s Digest website dated 20 August 2024 with a title very similar too the above. It caught my attention because I have written one novel where I experienced the same feeling that the book was writing itself. That novel is Seeking Father Khaliq, which is the best novel I’ve written. I wanted to find out what Ms Collins experience was.

Bridget Collins is the international bestselling author of The Binding and The Betrayals. She is also the author of seven acclaimed books for young adults and has had two plays produced, one at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Bridget trained as an actor at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art after reading English at King’s College, Cambridge. She lives in Kent, U.K

Bridget Collins

Ms Collins says, “I’ve been fascinated by the concept of silence for a long time, especially the way that it can be both a blessed escape from noise and a prison—I wanted to write a story that evoked that ambivalence and explored what it would mean to be able to control not only what you hear but what everyone else hears. The book is about silence as a luxury, as a magic spell, and as a weapon, but most of all it’s about power and seduction, and about how we become complicit in huge and terrible things—and about how we can try to put that right.

“I can’t remember exactly when I had the idea, but it would have been some time in 2019. Then I actually started writing in January 2020—so it took a long time to get from first draft to publication. And it went through three major redrafts, and changed an enormous amount—everything, from the central relationship to the narrative voice and the structure, changed! The only thing that stayed the same was the ending. It was probably the most difficult book I’ve written to date, with characters coming and going and taking an enormous struggle to pin down. But as I wrote and rewrote, the book began to take on a life of its own, and there was something quite magical about that.

“One of the most interesting and rewarding features of writing the book was working with an authenticity reader from the d/Deaf community. She was absolutely brilliant, and although I’d tried to do as much research as possible in advance of her input, it was really special to have the benefit of her experience and expertise. She had some fascinating insights into the characters and historical background of the book, and also made me think a lot about what I was saying in the context of d/Deaf culture and the current political conversations around that. Not to mention the obligatory moment of any editing process where someone points out something that should have been obvious and you cringe inside…!

“I think because this book was such a hard slog and I had to start from nothing over and over again, there weren’t many surprises—what seemed to happen was a very slow process of revelation and refinement. The book told me, over the course of those drafts, what it wanted to be; but it was like chipping away at a block of stone, watching it take shape inch by inch. That said, the biggest (and in some ways most exciting) change was the female narrator, who only began to speak for herself in the second draft, and then became more and more important.

“I would love it to transport my readers to a vivid, immersive world where they can watch a compelling story unfold—and if it stays with them after they come back to real life, that would be lovely too.”

I can confirm that there is something magical when the book begins to take control in your mind. I didn’t have Bridget’s experience with The Silence Factory of having major rewrites, because I had an idea of the two major characters, the setting and the issue between them. The book wanted the additional characters, and settings and plot. I had to do a lot of research to produce a credible story, but that was part if the fun.

Differences: Author Voice vs. Character Voice vs. Tone

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There is an article, about just this subject, on the Writers & Artists website by Claire ADMIN (sic) It is dated 4 December 2024, and, as it is well written, I’m presenting it.

Unfortunately, it isn’t clear who Claire ADMIN is. A search on the website reveals four authors named Claire, and the link to ‘Claire ADMIN’ doesn’t work.

“Writing terms can be difficult and confusing. We break down the difference between author voice, character voice and tone.

Voice is the author’s personal style. It’s all about how you – the author – describe things; your choice of words, punctuation styles, whether you use short sharp sentences, long running sentences, or a mixture of both.

Voice isn’t something that can be taught, but it is something that can be developed. An author’s voice is instinctual and unique, just like a finger print, however it can take years for an author to develop their own clear voice.

So what makes a strong author voice? If you hide the cover of a book, read the opening page, and know who the author is then they’ve done a great job of creating a strong voice. Here are a few examples from some of my favourite authors and how I recognise their writing.   

  • Kiran Millwood Hargrave has a distinct poetic, melodic prose.
  • Katherine Rundell writes playfully and has some of the most visual metaphors out there. I bet good money that I could pick a Katherine Rundell metaphor out of a line-up!
  • Sally Rooney writes clean, simple language. Snappy sentences and short, sharp scenes of action are then followed by lengthier moments of character interiority

Think about the authors whose books you will automatically pre-order. What keeps pulling you to them? What is it about their writing that stands out? 

Character voice

Yet, an author’s voice isn’t to be confused with character voice. This is all about how your characters come across on the page and how they express themselves, both externally and internally. Character voice can be dictated by many things including their backstory, background, quirks and foibles, motivations and inspirations, personality traits, which can include strengths and flaws, as well as their dialect and word choice. 

A character’s voice will end with that book (unless it is a series) whereas the author’s voice will usually remain consistent throughout all of their books. Each character in your book should have a distinct voice and this is all to do with creating a band of characters who have different interests, quirks, strengths and weaknesses etc. 

The strength of a character’s voice is intertwined with the strength of the initial character creation. Think about some of your most memorable characters in fiction and make a note of what it is about them that stands out. 

For example, Violet Baudelaire in A Series of Unfortunate Events is always rational and brave, even in dire circumstances. When she ties her hair with a ribbon, she is able to access her technical, logical mind and come up with an invention that will save her and her siblings from harm.

Tone

Tone is a writer’s attitude toward the subject and the mood implied by an author’s word choice. Tone can change throughout a story, based on the different situations, conflicts or settings that are introduced. A clear tone can help readers to understand the emotion of a particular scene or part in a story. There are many different types of tone, from happy to sad, sarcastic to serious, creepy to light-hearted, curious to conflicted etc. Sometimes, If you don’t convey the right tone for the right situation, readers will feel confused and unsure as to how they are meant to be feeling towards specific characters or moments in your plot. 

Finding your author voice, character voice and the right tone are important to get right because without them, your story might lack depth and your readers could struggle to fully connect with your story.

Just Jump

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Harry Bingham, the Founder and CEO of Jericho Writers, makes a good point about the inertia we sometimes feel as writers.

He says, “Just Jump!”

Harry says, “

Ray Bradbury, the author of Farenheit 451 and much else, was a fan of the future. A fan of boldness and technological adventure.  In an interview with the New York Times, he said, “If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go into business because we’d be cynical: ‘It’s gonna go wrong.’ Or ‘She’s going to hurt me.’ Or ‘I had a couple of bad love affairs so therefore …’ Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.”  That cliff-jumper is you. It’s me. It’s all of us.  It’s certainly true for any first-time novelist. My first book was a giant 180,000 words long. (And yes, it went to print at that length. And no, it’s not a length that publishers are especially looking for. But if a book is good enough, the length is kinda immaterial.)  I was naïve. I literally had no idea that writing a book and getting it published might be hard. I just assumed I could do it, and would do it. My track record (Oxford University, fancy American bank) was one of achievement. I knew I liked reading. I’d always assumed I’d end up being an author. So: write a book – how hard could it be? I knew how to write a sentence, so just do that over and over, and I’d have a book.  Everyone receiving this email is less naïve. The tone of voice needed for a fast commercial adventure-caper was not the same tone as that had produced success in Oxford philosophy essays. Once I’d written 180,000 words, I looked back at the start and realised it was … ahem, in need of vigorous editing. The kind of editing that involved selecting 60,000 words and hitting Delete. So I deleted the rubbish and rewrote it. Wrote it better.   But:  That wasn’t a failure. It was the second most important step on the road to success. The most important was writing the first word, the first sentence, the first paragraph, the first chapter. The most important step is always the same: it’s jumping off the cliff in the first place.  Deleting 60,000 words was the next crucial step: acknowledging that what I’d done wasn’t good enough; that more work could fix it; that I needed to design and use some better wings.  But you don’t get to the better-wing-design stage until you’ve got to the plummeting-downwards-out-of-control stage. You need them both.  And honestly: the challenges probably get a little bit less as you write more books, get them published, get paid, learn the industry, build a readership. But each book is its own cliff – its own well of uncertainty.  As you know, I’m a huge believer in nailing an elevator pitch before you start writing. I don’t care about pretty formulations – I don’t mind whether you have the kind of phrase that would look good on a book jacket or movie poster. But a list of ingredients that would spark interest in a potential book-buyer? That’s essential.  But oh sweet lord, there is a huge gap between knowing that you have, in theory, a commercially viable novel and actually making it so. I have sometimes written books that flowed, start to finish, with no huge mid-point challenges, but those have been the exception. Mostly, there’s been a hole – a gap – a problem.  I’m not a huge fan of pre-planning novels in vast detail. (But do what you like: it’s whatever works for you.) The only way to find that hole is to leap off the cliff. It’s the flying through the air that tells you what wings you need.  So jump.  Be uncertain.  Jump anyway.  Take the biggest boldest leap you can, knowing that you don’t have the answers.  Just jump.  Jump knowing that your wings aren’t ready. They get born by jumping. Wings that surprise you and delight you and complete you.  So jump.  Good luck. And happy Christmas.     

World-Building with Sound

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Jaimi Ryan has an article dated 11 October 2025 in Writer’s Digest on the subject of using descriptions of sound creating the world of a novel. She says, “Audio drama isn’t just about dialogue. It’s the hiss of a radiator, the crunch of boots on dry leaves and the pause before a truth is revealed. Just as novelists use language to build immersive worlds, audio creators use sound to transport listeners into spaces that exist only in the imagination.”

Jaimi Ryan is a seasoned Podcast Producer and Sound Designer with a background in music production. After pivoting from music to podcasting in 2017, she has had a wide range of podcasting experiences including podcast creation, remote recording, audio restoration, post production, content editing and hosting.

Jaimi Ryan

Jaimi offers ten examples of how sound effectively in fiction deepen world-building and heighten storytelling. Sound provides another sensory dimension to our creation of the world in the reader’s imagination.

1. Establish Setting Through Ambient Sound

Think of ambient sound as the aural equivalent of a setting paragraph. In prose, you might write: The bustling tavern smelled of smoke and spilled ale. In a podcast, you can build the same tavern with clinking glasses, murmured conversations, a lute playing softly in the corner, and the occasional burst of laughter.

A great example of this is The Magnus Archives, which often drops listeners into a location without explanation, simply using a faint hum of fluorescent lights or the drone of a tape recorder to situate listeners in an archival office.

2. Use Sound as Characterization

Characters don’t have to be introduced only with dialogue. Their sound signatures (the objects, rhythms, or textures that follow them) can give immediate recognition.

For instance, maybe a character’s arrival is always marked by the swish of warm-up pants or heavy footsteps with an irregular gate. A fantasy warrior might be defined by the clanking of armor, and maybe a futuristic smuggler always powers down a ship with a metallic sigh. These repeated cues become auditory shorthand.

3. Control Pacing With Silence

Writers know the power of white space. A sentence fragment on its own line can punch harder than a full paragraph. In audio, silence has the same effect.

A long pause before a confession can feel like holding your breath. A sudden drop into stillness after a loud scene can jar listeners into alertness. Even half a second of silence can sharpen a joke’s timing.

Think of silence not as empty, but as intentional space. The absence of sound is still a sound choice, and you want to be sure there are no unintentional silences.

4. Layer Sound for Emotional Resonance

Prose layers tone through metaphor, diction, and rhythm. Dialogue sits in the foreground, but what happens underneath can amplify emotion.

Example: A tender scene might include a faint piano or the distant chirp of crickets, lending warmth. A horror moment could include barely audible whispers under a monologue, or a low drone slowly increasing in volume, unsettling the listener without ever being directly acknowledged.

The trick is subtlety. Too many layers muddy the track. But the right two or three can make a scene unforgettable.

5. Build Tension With Repetition

Writers often use recurring images or motifs, and sound can do the same.

Consider the steady drip of water in a dungeon scene. If it returns across episodes, it builds anticipation: Why does it matter? Or a few distant, unexplained “monster roars” early on. Each recurrence adds dread until the beast finally appears.

6. Use Perspective and Proximity

Audio production can mimic point of view. A voice whispering directly in one ear (using stereo panning) creates intimacy, an almost conspiratorial feel. A muffled argument heard through a wall distances the listener, making them an eavesdropper rather than a participant.

This is the audio equivalent of close third-person versus omniscient narration. Ask yourself: how “close” should the audience feel to this moment? Then adjust the sound perspective accordingly.

7. Contrast Soundscapes

Sometimes the most effective worldbuilding comes from playing the sound against the situation. A gruesome scene underscored by cheerful music, or a high-stakes conversation happening over chirping birds or children playing can disorient the listener in interesting ways and create dramatic tension.

8. Map Geography Through Sound Cues

Listeners can “see” a space through audio cues. Footsteps shifting from tile to gravel tell us a character is moving outdoors. A voice echoing differently in each room maps an environment in our heads. For even more immersion, consider stereo panning sound effects to the left or right, or even moving from one ear to the other to put the listener in the middle of a scene. Those footsteps can move from tile to gravel, and they can also move from the left ear to the right as though the character is walking by the listener.

9. Treat Sound Effects as Symbols

Sounds can function like symbols in prose. A tolling bell might signal both time passing and the inevitability of death. If you repeat sounds strategically, they accrue significance. They become thematic shorthand, much like recurring images and motifs in a novel.

10. Marry Soundscape and Dialogue

Finally, remember that sound is your setting, your imagery, even your punctuation. Pacing is heavily affected by the way the dialogue interacts with the sound environment.

A rapid-fire exchange over pounding rain creates urgency. Slow, deliberate dialogue against a hushed forest soundscape encourages reflection. Moments of soundscape without dialogue can create immersion, tension, reflection, or whatever mood you’re trying to build while also giving the listener a moment to digest what is happening in the story.

As you experiment, listen to how other audio dramas and films use sound. Notice when a silence unnerves you, when a sound effect feels over-the-top, when background noise deepens immersion. Don’t forget to have some fun with it, audio is an exciting medium for creative storytelling.

Getting Accents and Dialects Right

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Harry Bingham’s email of last week deals with the tricky subject of how to write in accents or dialogue convincing but not condescending.

Harry is the founder and CEO of Jericho Writers.

Harry said, “So here is an example of transcribing a character’s voice in a patronising way:

“Eet eez ’orrible to ’ear ze proud Frensh race beleettled in zis stooped manner.”

But what the character involved has actually said here is:

“It is horrible to hear the proud French race belittled in this stupid manner.”

The first sentence, by transcribing its pronunciations in a very literal way, makes the speaker come across as ludicrous – cartoony, a circus clown with a striped jumper, a string of onions and a comical moustache. But what’s actually comical? The sentence itself displays perfect command of English, and what’s being apparently laughed at here is an accent, over which the speaker has very little control.

And, golly gosh, that’s a slippery slope.

Most people writing a non-English character in this way will (if English) speak roughly RP, or Received Pronunciation – in effect, roughly what a BBC newsreader used to sound like. In the US, it’s much the same thing, except that the reference dialect is Standard American English.

(And, please note, in RP English, we say “She placed the glahss on the grahss next to her great big – handbag.” But we wouldn’t even conceive of inserting the letter H into the two italicised words to mark the weird pronunciation. Nor do we adjust the spelling to take care of the flat “a” sound in American and North-British versions of those words. So when it comes to our weird pronunciations, we don’t even think of trying to reflect them in spelling.)

And of course, as soon as you start to accord any kind of typographic privilege to a particular accent – whether RP or SAE – you get into all sorts of bother.

It’s one thing to have a comical Frenchman – France is a nuclear power and can look after itself – but do you really want to apply the same diminishing treatment to, say, a black resident of Harlem? Or a Scouser? Or a northern woman of Pakistani heritage? Or a Mexican immigrant?

The answer, if you haven’t already figured it out is, No, certainly not. Don’t go there. Step away from the quirky spellings.

That’s partly because of a perfectly legitimate anxiety about racism.

But it’s also just a recognition of modern linguistics. The RP / SAE dialects are simply two dialects amongst many, many others. They don’t come with a halo over them that says, “the king/President speaks this way, so this version is right and everything else is wrong.” The fact is that we all speak the dialect of our culture and each dialect has no more or less validity than the next.

That’s not just true of pronunciation. It’s true of grammar too. Any significant dialect has its own grammar, which may differ from SAE / RP grammar (which, by the way, each differ from each other.) So African-American Vernacular English has its own strict rules of grammar, that are just different from SAE – and not just different, but with subtleties that SAE struggles to cope with. SAE has four basic past tenses: I did buy it, I have bought it, I bought it, I had bought it. AAVE has five, but differently structured: I been bought it, I bought it, I done bought it, I did buy it, I do buy it.

What does all this tell us?

It tells us (duh!) that other people may speak differently from us.

It tells us (duh!) that it’s not respectful or, in fact, linguistically accurate, to privilege one set of accents or grammars over another.

And that means that the solution for a novelist is quite easy:

  1. Don’t try to capture nuances of accent in the way you transcribe speech. We don’t write “grahss” if we try to capture how the king of England speaks. We don’t write “eet eez ’orrible” if we try to capture how President Macron expresses himself.
  2. Do use the actual words that your character uses. President Macron is probably more likely than the rest of us to use the word voila even when speaking English. And if he says it, that’s what you write. Likewise, if a Black American character says finna (a contraction of fixing to or going to) then that’s the word you write down. It IS a word; it just isn’t an SAE / RP word. Don’t patronise your characters by editing their speech.
  3. Do use the grammar that your character adopts. So if your character is African-American, she might say ‘I done bought it’, in which case you write, ‘I done bought it.’
  4. For that matter, most of us are perfectly adept at code-shifting, so that same character might speak using AAVE when at home with her mother, but might use SAE when (say) running for President of the United States. And if your character code-shifts, you code-shift right along with her.
  5. The same goes for English spoken as a second language. Let’s say your novel features a top French footballer, who possibly now plays for Real Madrid. Perhaps that footballer says, “I do not chase after the records.” No native English speaker would naturally put the word “the” into that sentence, and nearly all English footballers would say “don’t” rather than “do not.” So you don’t need to do anything as condescending as write “Eet ees ’orrible” in order to hear the Frenchness in the speaker. You just have a careful ear for those non-native uses and let the reader intuit the rest. They definitely will.

I think the only time this is liable to get complicated is in relation to languages that are highly related to English, but aren’t actually English.

A lot of you will have encountered the broad Yorkshire speech of Wuthering Heights. This for example:

‘What are ye for?’ he shouted. ‘T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.’

Would that be better with “the master’s down in the fold”? And well – I don’t know. You can call it both ways. The modern tendency would be to eliminate some of the non-standard spelling, but in Bronte’s day, the fact was that broad Yorkshire dialect (“Tyke”) was pretty much a language to itself, related to English in much the same way as Robert Burns’ Scots is. In which case – honour the language. Give it leg room. That’s what I chose to do with my Orcadian sailor, Caff, and deliberately wrote a version of Orcadian that was damn close to impenetrable to an ordinary reader.

And if you want to do that then, (a) have fun! It’s really entertaining. And (b) get it right. I don’t speak Orcadian, I’m not Scottish, and I’ve never been to the Orkneys. So I did the best that I could with books and online resources … then wrote to the editor of an Orkney newspaper and asked for her help. She was very happy to give that to me, and I was very happy to receive it, and my readers have the joy of having a little bit more Orcadian in their lives: something we all need.”

Kurt Vonnegut Rules for Authors

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In his Friday email, Harry Bingham gives his views on Kurt Vonnegut’s rules.

Harry is founder and CEO of Jericho Writers.

Harry Bingham

“1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

That rule, I think, is bomb-proof. And, in fact, I’d make it a little stricter. I think that even high-end literary fiction has to entertain. It can’t be enough that I have a sense of having done my duty by the Gods of Literature. I need to have had fun – or have been moved – or basically just liked my experience with the book. I think entertainment is core. I’ve never knowingly broken that rule, not even writing non-fiction.

  1. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

I’ve never broken that rule either, but I think it’s probably possible to break it effectively. American Psycho is a yukky book, but it’s a work of proper genius … and its genius isn’t because its protagonist likes home-baking, cat rescue and volunteering at church-run soup kitchens. That said, it’s not even 1% of books that can break that rule effectively. So as a general guide, I’m with you, Kurt.

  1. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

Every character? I don’t know. If your protagonist has a momentary interaction with a receptionist, say, then does the receptionist need obvious motivation? On the one hand, no: truly minor characters can simply fall off the table of things you have to think about. On the other hand, here’s a snippet where Fiona does in fact interact extremely briefly with a receptionist – at a modern, ultra-secure, psychiatric institution for very violent, very dangerous offenders. (Fiona is the key character in Harry’s thrillers.)

The driver takes us in. Hands us over to a neat, blue-suited receptionist – Alys, to go by her fabric badge. She is almost blushingly young, a late teenager at a guess. She wears a tri-coloured scarf, like a seriously out-of-place air stewardess.

‘Inspector Rogers? Miss Griffiths? Etta is expecting you.’

The ‘Etta’ in question is, I assume Dr. Etta Gulleford, the hospital director, and the woman we’re here to see.

No badges, I think because the metal clips could make a weapon. Instead, plastic cards, like the key-cards they use in hotels.

‘Upstairs. Right on to the end. Julie-Ann will find you there.’

She does a crinkle-eyed smile at us, the sort you’d get at an upmarket spa.

There’s no obvious sense of desire there, of wanting something … but on the other hand, I think there probably IS something. She’s blushingly young. She wears a scarf like an out-of-place stewardess. And she offers Fiona a spa-quality, crinkle-eyed smile.

What does all that amount to? I think it amounts to the Alys very much wanting Fiona not to make a fuss. Not to do something that breaks the spell. And the spell is, effectively, that this place can be considered like a nice, posh, modern spa rather than a quasi-prison full of extremely dangerous men. It’s like Alys is saying – pleading – don’t call this out for what it really is.

So, OK, I’m going to go with Vonnegut on this one. Even extremely minor characters should have some kind of want, even if it’s undeclared, even if it’s trivial.

  1. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

That’s probably mostly true, but it can’t be quite literally true. I think that, in the passage I just quoted, every sentence does do one of those two things. But what about this:

We watch for a while. The gulls. The waves. The rolling print of the wind on the water. Stippling squalls that turn the sea’s smooth watercolour into something jumpy and agitated, like the surface has been rubbed with gorse.

That’s not really advancing any action and it doesn’t really tell us much about Fiona, except I suppose glancingly, in the sense that the way she expresses what she sees would be different from yours or mine. But really, the point about those lines is that they describe something – they reveal the character of a place, not a person. That’s fine with me. I expect Kurt wouldn’t have a fight with me over lines like that. I like description. It’s fine.

  1. Start as close to the end as possible.

Vonnegut thought a lot about short stories and I think this rule applies both to short stories and to scenes. Enter late. It’s really easy to write 200 words of intro before you get to the meat of a scene. It’s often better to start with the meat, then use just 20-30 words a few paragraphs in to explain to the reader how they got to where they now are.

But does this rule make sense for novels? Don’t think so – or at least, I don’t think that it’s especially useful. Most of my Fiona novels start with a corpse discovery. Yes, that’s as close to the end “as possible”, but really: it’s right at the start. So: useful rule for scenes. Silly rule for books.

  1. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

Oh yes. Definitely. No quibbles here.

Here at Jericho Writers, we occasionally get books that tell a story such as: middle aged woman divorces cheating husband, feels a lack of purpose, gets diagnosed with cancer, takes up pottery, makes great ceramics, meets dashing ceramicist, gets the cancer all clear.

And, yeah, OK. I mean: in an actual person’s life, that’s all bad (to start with) then heart-warming (to end with.) But we all know people with stories like that. And – readers don’t care. They want really bad stuff to happen to characters. They’re sadists. So you have to be too. That’s just how it is.

  1. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

Yes. I agree with that. (It’s also, by the way, an exceptionally good rule for marketing books too. Sell hard to your ideal reader. Bore the rest. Ignore the rest.)

But I think it’s not clear enough. Who is that person? In the end, there’s only one person who matters and that’s you. Every line you write, every word choice you make, you’re just asking the question: do I like this? Or that? Which pleases me more?

So your task as a writer is to develop your tastes as far and as finely as possible. You can’t do that in isolation from the broad sweep of contemporary writing. You have to develop your own taste with reference to what others read. But still – write to please just one person. And make it you.

  1. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Uh, Kurt? This is just BS, and he surely knew it.

I mean the cockroaches/pages thing: OK, yes, at that point, I think there is often a kind of solid inevitability in play … but not always. In one of my Fiona books, Fiona ends up clapping handcuffs on the dastardly people who tried to imprison her (in a very weird way.) That part plays out as the reader should by then expect.

But then, a Ukrainian millionaire tries to bribe her … and she (in a Fiona-y way) semi-accepts the offer.

And a girl who went missing needs to be reunited with her father, and Fiona does just that.

Both of those things make sense from what went before, but I don’t think any reader could plausibly have mapped out either scene. So, sorry, Kurt, no way. I think you were having a laugh.”