Attempting To Write A Novel

You know that thing where a story is written in tight third person limited — we’re meant to be inside someone’s head, seeing the world through their thoughts — and then suddenly the narration says “the blond frowned” or “the shorter woman sighed” about a person the POV character knows really well?

That’s called antonomasia — using a descriptive label instead of a name. And it’s fine when we’re talking about strangers: “the cashier handed her the receipt,” “the tall guy blocked the door.” The POV character doesn’t know their names, and we just need a quick way to tell people apart.

But the moment it’s used for someone the POV character already knows, it breaks immersion. Because that’s not how our minds work. We don’t think “the older man smiled at me.” We think “Mark smiled.” Or maybe “my boss” if that relationship matters in the moment.

Third person limited means the narration sits inside someone’s perception. Their inner monologue is the story’s voice. So when you switch from “Mark smiled” to “the blond smiled,” you’ve pulled the camera away from their mind and turned it into an outside shot.

If you want to create distance or irritation, you can do it on purpose —

“The idiot from accounting emailed again.”

That’s character voice. That’s judgment. That works.

But otherwise?

As soon as your POV character knows someone’s name, use it. While we do tend to worry about repetitions, names rarely register as such to the readers.

If you need variety for rhythm, use relational or emotional identifiers that make sense in their head: her friend, his partner, their teacher, the person they loved.

Because inside someone’s thoughts, there are no “blonds” or “brunettes.”

If I may add some ideas:

The 666 challenge: Writing six pages a day in a month (no matter how shitty) because Stephen King writes 6 pages a day. Equating it with the devil is to explain why it's shit sometimes.

The 420 challenge: Get high. Write 420 words a day.

THE OTHER 51 challenge: Write 51 words a day because, yes, Hamilton wrote 51 essays in six months, but that bitch was crazy, and you can write 51 words without feeling like you're running out of time.

The Fibonacci challenge: Try to write as many words a day as required to meet the Fibonacci sequence. So, 100 on day one. 200 on day two. 300 on day three. Etcetera. If you don't hit the number in the sequence, you can respond "DO I LOOK LIKE A MATHIMATICIAN TO YOU"

                Something my screenwriting prof told us that really stuck with me was “avoid just moving bodies through space”, as in—movement on its own isn’t storytelling. I sometimes get into this habit where I get so caught up in where my characters are spatially that I forget to tell the story in favour of clearing up who is where and what each movement is, ala:

                Anna walked over to the kitchen, picked up the pitcher and paused, deciding whether or not she wanted water, before crossing back through the living room and looking out the window, then walked back towards the kitchen yadda yadda yadda, you’re bored, I’m bored, this isn’t a story, this is someone walking around.

                As with everything in writing, I’m not saying movement should be cut out entirely, but I am saying that it works best when it’s used intentionally. In any normal scene, other than a quick set up of who is generally where at the start of the scene: (Anna sat in the driver’s seat, staring down at her phone as John fell into the passenger seat beside her), we don’t need to know every little movement they make—readers will assume and fill in the spaces where movement may seem obvious.

                Then, the best time to bring up movement again is either for a dramatic motion (Anna leapt from the car window, tumbling across the concrete), or a dramatic shift in emotion/psychology. (John’s brows furrowed tightly. Turning on his heel, he stormed from the room.)

                Essentially, if you can take it out, you should. We have to trust our readers that they will fill in all the spaces we leave—we don’t necessarily have to write it out for them.

getting captured, manhandled by angry hands? pain.

getting tied up or chained up and thrown in a cell? pain.

getting drafted into fighting a battle because the good guys are short-staffed that day? pain.

getting a hug from an overeager loved one who missed them very much? pain.

trying to make themselves breakfast or drive a car or sit at a desk? pain.

Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential

Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all

Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done

Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?

Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.

Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart

Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.

(Emotional meltdowns that don’t look like meltdowns, but absolutely are)

 The “Smiling Too Much” Grief Your character’s entire world is on fire, and they’re asking if anyone wants more wine. That’s not denial, it’s an effort to hold the damn pieces together. Smile like a glue gun. Watch them crack.

The “Not Crying At the Funeral” Breakdown They don't shed a tear. They organize everything. Perfect speech. Perfect outfit. But a week later, they scream into the laundry basket over a missing sock. That’s the moment. That’s the eulogy.

 The “Silent Dinner Table” Fight No yelling. No slamming doors. Just chewing. Clinking silverware. The kind of silence that tastes like metal. Let the reader feel the air shrink.

 The “Polite but Dead Inside” Apology They say “Sorry” because it’s expected, not because they’re ready. Their voice doesn’t crack. Their eyes don’t meet yours. This isn’t healing. This is a peace treaty with no peace.

The “I Don’t Want to Talk About It” Detour The one where they ask about your day mid-sob. Redirect. Deflect. “Let’s not talk about me.” That’s rage choked by shame. Write it like it’s shoving itself into a smaller box.

 The “Obsessively Productive” Meltdown New projects. New hobbies. Suddenly they’re running marathons, baking sourdough, fixing the garage door. Because if they sit still for one second, they’ll break. Keep the camera on them when they finally sit.

The “Unsent Letters” Grief They write it all down. Every damn emotion. Then burn it. Or delete it. Or hide it in a shoebox under their bed. It’s not for closure. It’s to let the ghosts know they were seen.

The “I’m Fine” That Echoes Delivered too fast. Too sharp. You could bounce a quarter off it. “I’m fine” isn’t fine. It’s the dam cracking. Listen to the echo. Let another character hear the hollowness.

The “Hyper-Logical Rant” Rage They argue with spreadsheets. With perfect bullet points. Cold rage—like ice, not fire. “I’m not mad, I’m just saying…” But that’s a lie. They’re volcanic under that clipboard.

Toxic family stuff isn’t always screaming matches or broken plates. Sometimes it’s quiet control. The expectation to shrink, the pressure to be perfect, the guilt that rides shotgun. It’s complicated. And it’s deeply, deeply personal.

✧ Make the love real, but conditional.  One of the most damaging things about toxic family is the illusion of love. It’s not “I love you no matter what.” It’s “I love you when you obey.” Let your character notice that.

✧ Control shows up in micro ways... Who’s allowed to speak. Who’s allowed to feel. Who apologizes first, even when they’re not wrong. Control doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes it’s a raised eyebrow or a guilt trip.

✧  Let them question reality. Toxic families are great at gaslighting. Your character might constantly wonder, Was it really that bad? Am I being dramatic? Let them doubt their own memories. That internal confusion is real.

✧ The guilt will be crushing. Leaving a toxic family doesn’t feel empowering at first. It feels selfish. It feels wrong. It feels like betrayal, even when it's survival. Show your character grieving the fantasy of the family they wish they had.

✧ Let them try to earn love. Your character might work their ass off trying to “be good,” hoping maybe this time they’ll be enough. Toxic families move the goalposts. Let that break them a little.

✧ Show emotional whiplash... One moment everything is warm and nostalgic. The next, it’s tense and full of landmines. That unpredictability is the dynamic. Use it.

✧ Don’t make the villain cartoonish. Even the abuser might think they’re doing what’s best. They might bake cookies and say “I’m just worried about you.” That’s what makes it so damaging. Write them like people, flawed, manipulative, real.

For all you WONDERFUL FIC WRITERS who made the mistake of following me

I’m a big believer in letting characters bleed quietly. You know, the kind of emotional tension that simmers just under the surface—not the dramatic “I am torn!” speeches. Here’s how I like to sneak internal conflict into my writing without making my characters feel like they belong in a bad soap opera... Have Fun! (｡♥‿♥｡)

╰ Saying the opposite of what they feel. Like insisting they’re fine while gripping a coffee mug like it personally insulted their ancestors.

╰ Pausing before responding to something simple. Because sometimes the silence says “I’m thinking too hard about this” louder than a whole paragraph ever could.

╰ Changing the subject when things get too close to their emotional soft spot. Classic evasion. Bonus points if they pretend it's for someone else’s sake.

╰ Making choices that contradict their stated goals. "I swear I’m over them"—cut to them rerouting an entire road trip to pass by their ex’s hometown.

╰ Being too nice. Yep. People-pleasing? Avoidance in a trench coat.

╰ Fixating on a tiny, irrelevant detail while avoiding the bigger thing. They can’t deal with their grief, but they can definitely spend 12 minutes lining up pens perfectly.

╰ Snapping at someone they trust—then immediately regretting it. Because pain has to leak out somewhere, and it’s usually not in a convenient monologue.

╰ Doing something “just in case,” but obviously hoping for the opposite. Packing a goodbye gift they never plan to give. Writing a message they never send.

╰ Rewriting memories in their head. “It wasn’t that bad. They didn’t mean it. I probably deserved it.” A spiral in slow motion.

Meanwhile, my room:

Eowyn & Faramir