Tiny Reviews

Throughout the 15 workshops I joined in college and grad school, I encountered two types of writing rules.

First, there were the best-practice guidelines we’ve all heard, like “show don’t tell.” And then there were workshop rules, which the professor put in place not because they’re universal, but because they help you grow within the context of the workshop.

My college’s intro writing course had 5 such rules:

No fantasy, supernatural, or sci-fi elements.

No guns.

No characters crying.

No conflict resolution through deus ex machina.

No deaths.

When I first saw the rules, I was baffled. They felt weirdly specific, and a bit unfair. But when our professor, Vinny, explained their purpose (and assured us he only wanted us to follow the rules during this intro workshop, not the others to come), I realized what I could learn from them.

1. No fantasy, supernatural, or sci-fi elements.

Writers need to be able to craft round characters, with clear arcs. While you can hone those skills writing any type of story, it can be more difficult when juggling fantastical elements, because it’s easy to get caught up in the world, or the magic, or the technology, and to make that the focus instead of the characters. So Vinny encouraged us to exclude such elements for the time being, to keep us fully focused on developing strong, dynamic characters.

2. No guns.

Weapons have a place in many stories, but when writers include a gun, they often use it to escalate the plot outside of the realm of personal experience and into what Vinny called “Hollywood experience.” He wanted us to learn how to draw from our own observations and perceptions of life, rather than the unrealistic action, violence, and drama we’d seen in movies, so he made this rule to keep us better grounded in our own experiences.

3. No characters crying.

When trying to depict sadness, writers often default to making characters cry. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, tears are just one way to show grief, and they aren’t always the most subtle or emotionally compelling. That’s why Vinny challenged us to find other ways to convey sadness — through little gestures, strained words, fragile interactions, and more. It was difficult, but opened us up to depicting whole new gradients of grief and pain.

4. No conflict resolution through deus ex machina.

This is the only one of the rules I’d say is generally universal. Meaning “God from the machine,” deus ex machina is a plot device where a character’s seemingly insurmountable problem is abruptly resolved by an outside force, rather than their own efforts. These endings are bad for various reasons, but Vinny discouraged them because he wanted us to understand how important it was for our characters to confront their struggle and its consequences.

5. No deaths.

Death is inherently dramatic and can be used to good effect, but many writers use death as a crutch to create drama and impact. Writers should be able to craft engaging, meaningful stories, even without killing off their characters, so this rule challenged us to find other methods of giving weight to our stories (such as through internal conflict).

How these rules helped me grow as a writer

First things first, I’ll say it again: apart from #4 (deus ex machina), these rules were never meant to be universally applied. Instead, their purpose was to create temporary barriers and challenges to help us develop key skills and write in new, unfamiliar ways.

For me, the experience was invaluable. I liked the way the rules challenged and stretched my abilities, driving me to write stories I’d have never otherwise attempted. They made me more flexible as a writer, and while I don’t follow the rules anymore (I LOVE me some fantasy), I’ll always be thankful for how they shaped my writing.

My recommendation to you?

Give some of these rules a shot! Follow them temporarily while writing 2-4 short stories — but remember to always keep their purpose in mind, because the rules themselves will only help if you understand what they’re trying to achieve.

Write with purpose, and you’ll always be growing.

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Outside this exercise, I would even encourage people to still use tears, as long as it’s the most effective choice emotionally for the character or you want to help normalize crying.

I'm going to try it.

First, let me preface this with something very important: you can treat all of this advice as SECOND-DRAFT ADVICE. It is so much easier to rewrite this kind of stuff once you have words on the page. Telling yourself the first draft is totally appropriate and acceptable.

What we’re talking about here are FILTER WORDS (and to some degree verbs of being). Yes, “thought” words are included. But so are “heard, saw, looked, tasted, smelled” etc.—most words having to do with the senses.

This isn’t black and white advice; sometimes you’ll use these words and that’s okay. They’re not WRONG. They’re just weaker. And they’re weaker because they create distance between the reader and the experience of the character.*

If you want your reader to feel like they’re experiencing the story right alongside the character, you want to cut down on filter words.

*This is particularly important with first person and close third POVs. The reader always knows whose eyes they’re seeing through and thoughts they’re privy to. So you don’t need to tell them “I saw X.” Or “I heard X.” Or “I thought Y.” You can just jump into the action/observation as it’s happening.

This is also where you want to pay attention to verbs of being.

you want to pay attention

to verbs of being.

That means that when you read a line like

John saw that the curtains were open.

It immediately takes you OUT of the character's perspective and instead tells you what they experience as a secondhand observation.

You don't have to get fancy or purple with how you rephrase things like this. Not everything needs a ton of breathing room.

You wanna know what's perfectly impactful while keeping a tight POV?

The curtains were open.

but a good writer allows their reader to add colors and textures of their own, project their own self and biases into the characters, hallucinate motivations and details that the writer suggests but never quite say aloud.

sometimes the reader even comes up with a better story than the writer intended, because the writer leaves space in the narrative for the reader to fill by themselves.

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Meet Aaron Benham – a family man, professor, and writer. He loves motorcycles (and women). Faces writer’s block. Struggles with unhappiness. He’s also the main character of Thomas Williams’ 1974 novel The Hair of Harold Roux, one of Stephen King’s favorite books on what it means to be a writer.

In the story, Aaron Benham reflects upon his unhappiness. He recalls his days as a student, tirelessly working toward a dream of becoming a successful writer – but now that he’s achieved that dream, he ironically longs to be as he once was: a student in pursuit of a goal.

I read The Hair of Harold Roux toward the end of my MFA while racing to finish my thesis (Ann Joslin Williams, the author’s daughter, was my advisor). Aaron’s reflections, however, made me pause, because they resonated with a question whispered from the back of my mind.

What happens after I achieve my goals?

I dreamed of graduating, and I dream of publishing novels. I dream of success. But what happens when (if) I get there?

Will I be dissatisfied?

And if I’m dissatisfied by success, as well as the years leading up to it, then when the hell will I ever find satisfaction as a writer?

The trap of dissatisfaction

We all began writing with simple motives. We wrote because there was something exciting inside us that wanted out, and we kept writing because we loved it.

But early on there came visions of success. We imagined our stories in print, winning awards, being adapted for film, etc., etc. Shimmering and alluring dreams, all exciting, so much more exciting, in fact, than the present, that we started to live with our heads in the future.

The future became the answer to our dissatisfaction, and our present efforts in turn became a means for achieving it.

No wonder we struggle to be satisfied, when all our present efforts are treated like a passage to somewhere else. It’s even worse when we do reach success, only to realize the joy we’ve been working toward is quick to fade: a phenomenon called the “hedonic treadmill.”

That’s the trap of dissatisfaction.

Remembering why you write

How do we break free from dissatisfaction?

By refocusing on the little things.

There’s joy to be had in every stage of your writing life – the excitement of finishing your first story, the comradery of a student workshop, the affirmation of publication, and onward. All of these experiences are worth savoring on the road to success.

And even when those joys pass, the craft itself will always offer humble, everyday rewards, like the triumph of finishing a difficult chapter, the excitement of new insights, or the simple satisfaction of growth and progress. These are the joys that never run dry.

So write for these present-day joys. For the fulfillment and love of the craft. 

Still dream big and set goals – but let “success” be a consequence of your earnest pursuit of writing, rather than its driving purpose.

That way you can savor your writing today. You can enjoy success tomorrow. And when the thrill of success fades, rather than feeling empty, you’ll feel ready and excited to start your next story.

— — —

No. Just NO.

As writers, we want our work to hold weight — for our characters’ actions, emotions, and desires to resonate with and impact our readers. But how do we make that happen?

The most helpful advice, in my experience, has been to:

Make the internal become external, and

Make the external become internal.

Let’s talk about what that means and how these tips can help you add emotional weight to your story.

1. Make the internal become external

To “make the internal become external” is to take the interior aspects of your character (their fears, desires, pains, and epiphanies) and find ways to express them with external actions. For example:

If Marcos realizes his girlfriend doesn’t truly love him, don’t just make him mope; have him throw the engagement ring he purchased into the river.

If Amelia feels overworked and stressed at her new job, don’t just show her exhausted in bed; show her bailing on plans with the people she cares about or giving up her favorite pastimes.

If Kara is afraid to get onstage and perform as Lady Macbeth, don’t just have her wait in fear; make her run out on the show on opening night.

By expressing your character’s emotions and realizations through clear external actions, you add weight to what they’re going through.

2. Make the external become internal

The goal here is similar, but reversed. Where before you were taking an internal emotion and accentuating it with action, now you’re taking the external elements of your story (plot, character actions, external conflicts, etc.) and making them have internal ramifications for your characters. For example:

If Thomas gets slapped by his older sister during a disagreement, don’t just move on like it never happened; make it change the dynamic of their relationship for the rest of the story.

If Davy’s new boyfriend excessively dotes upon him, don’t just have him awkwardly brush him off; make Davy tentative and uncertain because he’s never been in a healthy relationship before.

If Anna loses the championship match of a tennis tournament, don’t just have her grudgingly accept defeat; make her feel crushed because of her impossibly high expectations for herself.

By taking external actions or events and tying them to your character’s deepfelt emotions and, when possible, their core struggle, you add weight to what happens in your story. Everything starts to matter, and that makes for captivating storytelling.

A Final Word

I want to clarify that I’m not telling you to make your characters act and react in ways that don’t make sense for them. Always stay true to your characters. 

But I do encourage you to always look for opportunities to merge the internal and external aspects of your story — because that’s the key to telling stories with true emotional weight.

Good luck, and good writing, everybody. :)

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I’m gonna assume writers know whether or not their own works are ai because they either write them themselves or have ai write for them.

but as for readers (or writers who read other writers’ works), no, you can’t tell unless the writer themself says their works are ai generated. anything else is witch hunt, speculations and possibly wrongful accusations — all of which harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.

so if at any point you think an untagged work is ai and if that bothers you, quietly click away. but you can never know for sure based on vibes. because everything ai writes, a human writer does. that’s what ai was trained on and what it was trained to mimic.

every “ai telltale” is something humans write before, otherwise ai wouldn’t have been able to mimic it in the first place. because it needs human-made works to mimic on.