Contents

Introduction
Instructions
Critique Basics
Anatomy of a Story
Perspective
Character and Dialogue
Story Mechanics
Clarity and Craft
The Dictionary of Fiction Critique
Acknowledgments
 The Dictionary of
Fiction Critique
First edition

By Kate Jonuska
©2018 Kate Jonuska, all rights reserved
 Introduction
We do not learn to write by reading for pleasure. No
matter how many millions of pages and hundreds of books
you've consumed, even if your bookshelves and Kindle
library overflow, reading stories is an act of consumption.
Writing stories, on the other hand, is an act of creation
requiring a completely different set of intellectual muscles,
and the gym in which most writers develop those sexy writer
muscles is the critique group.
I know in my case, critique was hands-down the most
important factor in my transition from passionate reader to
author — and one I cannot imagine making that journey
without.
Distilling the creative power of critique is difficult. The
idea of a writer alone in a tower, their pen controlled by the
muses, might be a romantic ideal, but in practice, writers
working together is actually effective and therefore better than
romance any day. A critique group's regular meetings offer
accountability, deadlines and peer pressure — the good kind
— and the shared vulnerability of critique creates a safe place
where it's OK to fail, edit, polish, argue and fail again.
Most importantly, though, the critique process teaches us
how to read for the second time, this time with a writer's X-
ray vision that slices through the words on the page to expose
the framework of story underneath. After all, reading for
pleasure worships the finished product of writing rather than
the journey, and stories published in books or shown on the
movie screen have already been polished of errors. In the safe
space of critique, on the other hand, we instead go behind the
scenes to see the mess, the guts, the surgeries — major and
cosmetic — and the results on the page. We sharpen our skills
most on the roughest drafts, and in my opinion, only the
sharing and discussion of unfinished and imperfect fiction can
teach writers what finished and perfect really mean.
Ah, but having that discussion requires learning the language of our craft,
because we cannot fully understand what we don't have the vocabulary to
express. Hence, the creation of The Dictionary of Fiction Critique. Pulling from
both my undergraduate and graduate literary workshops and my more genre-
fiction critique groups, the dictionary is a collection of helpful writing terms,
some common and others wholly unique to my personal experiences. Your
mileage with this vocabulary may vary, so please take what's helpful and feel
free to leave what's not.
The first section of the dictionary aims to be an approachable, non-
comprehensive primer on reading as a writer and giving as well as receiving
valuable critique. If you're looking for a definitive guide to all writing skills, you
will not find it on this ride. Debates about split infinitives or the serial comma
are pedantic and ultimately don't help you create a story, let alone finish a book.
Instead, I hope this first section explains that X-ray writer vision and other
helpful authorial superpowers along with context about when and how to apply
them.
The second section of the dictionary is pure reference material, consisting of
an A-Z list of definitions, both those included in the first section and many other
specialized terms for which the first section had no use. These new definitions
will be set off in larger font.
Before we officially set out, though, remember joining and participating in a
critique group is not the easiest life choice. The easiest choice would be to sit on
our couches and criticize from the sidelines without creating any story of our
own. That choice, however, will keep an aspiring author only aspiring, never
successful. Writing is hard work, being trusted with someone else's writing is a
privilege, and maintaining a healthy critique environment takes effort and
patience.
That said, there are huge rewards waiting for critiquers who commit.
Learning to write fiction is a messy and soul-stretching experience, full of dead
ends and stubbed toes. Never underestimate the power of having fellow writers
to share that journey, pooling their knowledge and providing moral support and
vital perspective.
In your critique group and other writing communities, you will find your
tribe. Writers are usually deeply generous people, giving freely of their time,
expertise and compassion. Writers are simply some of the best people, period:
open-minded, creative, dedicated, smart, caring and incredibly entertaining.
They can become friends for life and give you far more inside jokes than you
know what to do with. Strive to be part of a critique group that takes care of each
other, nurtures each other, and you'll be amazed at how much you can achieve
together that you'd never have been capable of alone.
A last word of warning, however, before you start this critique journey: The
ability to read as a writer cannot be unlearned once acquired. Never again will
you be able to easily devour a book or even watch a film or TV show with the
same wide-eyed naiveté. You become the magician who spots the secrets of
other performers' tricks, the annoying person watching the latest blockbuster
movie and pointing out all the plot holes to their friends.
Instead of a mere consumer of story, you will become a creator of story —
permanently — but in my opinion, the superpowers are worth the sacrifice. As a
writer, you can build entire universes out of pure imagination and create
characters that change readers' lives. You can change people's lives with your
mind.
That godlike ability is the magic of writing, and it, too, can be yours for the
low, low price of humility and a shit-ton of hard work.

- Kate Jonuska
 Instructions

How to use this book:

For ease of reading, this dictionary has been divided into two sections. The
first, geared towards those new to writing or new to critique, is a whirlwind
introduction to critique divided into themed chapters, with definitions pertaining
to that theme scattered throughout the chapter. Bolded words denote terms
defined later in the dictionary, and underlining is used for special emphasis.
The second section of the dictionary, however, contains a full, alphabetized
list of definitions for easy reference and for those writers who may not want a
thorough refresher. New definitions not mentioned in the book's first section are
set off in larger font.

How not to use this book:

A dictionary is designed to teach and spread information. If any idea within

the book is instead weaponized to cause insult or injury, the insulted has the
author's permission to threaten shoving said dictionary up the perpetrator's
backside. If you are such an insulter, say you're sorry, strive to do better, and
let's all hold hands and kumbaya.
 Critique Basics
So you're writing fiction and you want to be part of a writing-critique
community. Congratulations!
Let's be honest. Your motives in making this gutsy move are not pure,
probably being first and foremost to shine up your brilliant novel, wow your new
writing friends with your brilliance and get started making those first few million
dollars. Aw. Don't worry, we've all been there because in the privacy of our own
heads, most writers think they are further along than they truly are. Thankfully,
though, the point of a critique group is to bring your story to an audience larger
and less biased than yourself (and maybe your mom) to see if that work is truly
fit to print.
While of course there are writers who create for themselves alone, most aim
to share their stories with the outside world, just as the writers we love were
willing share their privately crafted stories with us. Believe it or not, all books
are someone's vulnerable act of creation. The authors you adore were not handed
completed manuscripts whole by the muses — nor by demons they summoned to
bang away on typewriters, although, huh, what a lovely thought.
No, all authors, including the best of the bunch, are as human as you and me.
They're just humans who have put in the work. In fiction, critique is a huge part
of that work, whether done in an academic context or peer-to-peer in your
community.

Critique.
An offer of constructive and specific feedback on a piece of fiction by a
fellow writer, usually made in the context of reciprocation. Critique
 therefore requires at least two participants who meet regularly to discuss
their work. Example: "The main thrust of my critique is the tension
drops off at the end of the scene, along with my interest in what happens
to this lovable band of misfits you've created."

In my opinion, critique is hands-down the quickest and most reliable way to

professionalize and improve specific projects as well as generally improve
yourself as a writer. However, critique is not the only type of writing feedback
offered in the community, so it's vital to talk about what critique is not.

Non-critique fiction feedback

For starters, much of critique's benefit flows from the fact that the feedback
is given peer-to-peer in the spirit of reciprocity and, as much as possible,
objectivity. Your friends and family, for instance, cannot be objective about your
writing. They love you! Therefore by extension, every story you create is
something they will love, and unless your friend or family member is also a
member of the writing or publishing community, their feedback is too subjective
to be useful.

Mom read.
A subjective and surface-level critique full of praise, usually given by a
person who either loves everything you do or has no vocabulary with
which to discuss the finer points of fiction. Example: "You're brilliant,
son. Haven't I always said he was brilliant? He's brilliant."

Second, a critique group usually deals with only one segment of a larger
piece of fiction at a time, whether that's a short story, novella or novel — which
in the context of this dictionary, shall all be covered under the broader term of
"story." A peer-to-peer critique of an entire book-length manuscript is too time-
intensive to be accomplished in most critique settings, and therefore that larger
request goes by a different name, beta reading.

Beta reading.
An offer of peer-to-peer constructive and specific feedback on the
entirety of a project, usually a novel, from start to finish, best
accomplished if that manuscript has already been subject to some
critique feedback. This bigger-picture read can analyze continuity,
consistency, character growth and plausibility in a way a traditional
critique of limited pages cannot. Example: "I need a beta reader's input
 to see if this subplot is necessary or needlessly complicates the main plot
line."

Granted, critique partners are sometimes generous enough to beta read for
one another, and writers can also partner up to beta read for one another as an
even exchange. The drawback of a beta read is that its usually a favor or
exchange rather than a paid job, meaning you cannot expect extreme speed from
a beta reader, who likely has other real-world commitments. Remember to be
nice if you're asking for favors.
The world of paid feedback, on the other hand, is usually called editing
instead of critique, and there are several levels or types of editing, including:

Developmental editing (also called "content editing").

A professional and paid beta reading, the benefits of which include
objectivity and trustworthiness of feedback and speed of completion. A
developmental editor evaluates big-picture issues like plot, character
development, continuity, tension and other broad features, and though
they may proofread for errors of spelling, punctuation or grammar, those
errors are not the main focus. Example: "His developmental edit helped
me see my character fails to make a significant change by the end and
how the whole thing needs to be rewritten."

Line editing.
An edit, usually done by a paid professional or a trusted associate that
reads a project with an eye on the plot, writing style and language —
basically an in-depth critique — at the sentence and paragraph level. A
line editor is not dispassionate and will point out word-choice issues,
redundancies, flow problems, cliches and general confusions. You will
still have to make real choices and edits after a line edit, more than the
simple crossing of t's and dotting of i's. Example: "This sentence would
be clearer with the phrases transposed, but also relates more to the
previous paragraph than this one. Move up?"

Copy editing.
An edit focused on typos, grammar, consistency, spelling and other
details. A copy edit will not fix or even point out larger problems of plot,
plausibility or character, and a copy edit cannot be a substitute for
substantive critique. Example: "Paying for copy editing would have
avoided the one-star reviews you received for using 'condom' when you
 meant 'condone.'"

Most paid editing options are not for works still in progress. They are only
truly helpful after a significant period of critique and once your work in
progress has become a proper manuscript.
In my experience, writers who leap directly to paid editing miss out on the
honesty of critiquing. People you pay will never be as honest as people
participating out of pure passion for writing. Such writers also miss out on the
camaraderie of the critique community, which is built on the shared goal of
improvement and sense of reciprocity. These critique partners are not just people
you need to help yourself. You will also materially benefit when you help your
group members grow and improve because you are creating better critics for
your work.

Introduction to critique

The scariest part of jumping into critique instead of hiring an editor is

perhaps that critique requires dealing with other people in a social setting, an
experience which does not come naturally to a lot of us writerly types. The
antidote to that fear, however, is that a critique group is a friendly audience made
up of people who will match your vulnerability with their own, "you show me
yours, I'll show you mine" style.
Trepidation to share your work is natural, but think of this group as the
intermediary step between your audience of one (or maybe two, counting Mom)
and publishing your work for, you know, the entire world. Publishing is
permanent, no take-backsies, but critique is fluid and based on improvement.
Private, small-scale embarrassment in front of a group of writer friends is
preferable to the public kind— and there will be embarrassment. We are all blind
to the failings of our own work to some degree, hence the need critique in the
first place.

Treed.
Taken from the inability "to see the forest for the trees," the quality of
being caught up in details and specifics instead of looking at the big
picture. An individual writer can easily get too connected to their work
and can benefit from stepping back to look at the scene or story as a
whole. Example: "Perhaps you're too treed in making the science work
that you don't see how the characters have become wooden."

So at the outset of your critique journey, first forget the romantic, self-
aggrandizing idea that you are so tuned in to literature and your tastes are so
solid that any group would be thrilled to have you as a member. Enter the
critique experience open to learning and growth, and try to respect the spoken
and unspoken rules of critique this chapter of The Dictionary of Fiction Critique
attempts to cover.
Most of the following rules and concepts are based on the fundamentals of
critique, which ask all participants to be:

1. Honest. It's awkward to point out problems about another person's

manuscript, but they have come for your thoughts, not your lies. Much like
avoiding telling a friend they have spinach in their teeth, you are only setting
them up for bigger awkwardness later on.

2. Specific. The answer to what you didn't like can't be "everything," or

there's nothing for the writer to fix. Having the language to address specifics is
therefore vital — and is a main purpose of this dictionary, so don't fret if you
feel behind the ball. Keep reading.

3. Constructive. The difference between criticizing and critiquing is all

about being constructive, which in this context, boils down to an attitude of
encouragement rather than judgment. If there's a problem, a constructive critique
partner encourages you to fix it rather than calling you a bad writer.

4. Kind. Every critique member has different life experiences, education,

idioms, blindnesses and sharp edges — including you. Remember, we are all
human, we are all showing up to learn, and politeness and respect cannot be
overrated.

These four concepts are obviously interconnected, and basically boil down
to geekery's favorite Wil Wheaton maxim: Don't be a dick.
And it is vital to not be a dick on either side of the critique process, whether
you're the giver or recipient of criticism. Some critique tact you develop over
time — and after a few hurt feelings — and others are more straight-forward.

Compliment sandwich.
The practice of beginning and ending a critique with positive feedback,
with negative and constructive feedback in the middle. The technique is
meant to cushion the submitting writer from being overwhelmed with
negative feedback. Plus, forcing the critiquer to find positive remarks
promotes close reading and defends against bias. Example: "Your work
 is clever, but at times crosses the line into pretentiousness. Deal with
that and I think the main character will be very amusing and appealing
to readers."

Thick skin.
The ability to disassociate from your emotions about and connection to
your submission during the process of critique. Skin thickening usually
requires avoiding voicing justifications and explanations in favor of
hearing out other's opinions, regardless of whether you agree. Skin
thickening also works to make critique meetings efficient and on time,
since the critiqued saves their processing of the feedback for their own
time. Example: "Sorry I flipped out when Paul said my timeline didn't
make sense. I suppose I could use thicker skin."

These rules are not always discussed openly or laid out in advance in
critique groups, but even if unspoken, all four basics of honesty, specificity, a
constructive attitude and kindness are essential to good critique. Even when
respecting the rules, no one's perfect and feelings will occasionally be hurt, but
repeated violations are red flags you may not be in a healthy environment.
Sadly, unhealthy environments aren't uncommon in the writing world, which
has the same pitfalls of people skills as any other craft. Other common warnings
to heed include groups where payment is required by some members but not
others — which doesn't include shared, split expenses for critique space or
materials — and groups in which one or two people rule without democratic
consent. Having a leader or leaders is not wrong, far from it, but one person's
ego or experience shouldn't steer the entire ship. The exception here is academic
writing workshops, such as MFA creative writing programs, where tuition is
indeed required and a teacher leads the experience. In that case, the teacher will
likely guide the group in accordance with the same principals of respect and
equality.
Also, as stated earlier, critique should be a safe place where everyone is
respected. Only in unhealthy groups is there one solution or correct answer.
Writing experience does matter in terms of the perspective a critique partner
brings to the table, but no one's opinion should weigh heavier than another's and
no one should ever be shamed for learning something new.

Critique structure

Now that you understand what critique is in a general sense, let's talk
structure, meaning how your critique group operates. Obviously, the most
essential first steps are assembling a group of other writers and getting your
work in progress in front of their eyes.

Work in progress (also known as "WIP").

A piece or entirety of a story that's in draft form, meaning not yet
complete or fully edited. While a writer may have several works in
progress at any time, for the purpose of the group, it's usually the story
currently under consideration. A WIP is usually shared only with other
writers, editors and/or beta readers and should not to be submitted to
agents or publishers. You don't want a WIP to make your first and only
impression. Example: "Bring ten pages of your work in progress to
share at the open meeting next week."

How this WIP is shared is matter of preference. Groups can choose how
often they meet, how many writers submit per meeting, how long submissions
should be, and when/how submissions are presented.

Submission.
The portion of work offered to another person or group for critique,
usually within that person or group's stated limit on length (in pages,
words or chapters). Example: "Both people up for critique next week
have posted their submissions on the website, so download, print and
read them before the meeting."

Some groups, typically with fewer members, allow every writer to submit
every meeting, though perhaps with shorter submission lengths. Other groups,
especially those with larger numbers, might instead schedule a limited number of
submissions per meeting, rotating through members. You do you.
How submissions are presented is an important point for your group to
decide. Many critique communities — in my experience, often those without a
stable group of members or less formal in character — ask participants to bring a
submission to the group, where a printed copy will be either distributed to be
read or will be read aloud, followed by immediate discussion.
My strong preference, however, is for submissions to be distributed digitally
a reasonable time in advance of the meeting, usually at least 5-7 days
beforehand. I prefer this method, first, because the advance notice allows for real
consideration rather than only first impressions. Some participants enjoy reading
submissions twice, for instance: once as a reader and once as a writer.
 Second, I critique more in-depth on paper than I can based on an oral
reading. The physical copy of the submission can be easily annotated — with a
pen or using "track changes" in a word-processing program — and given to the
writer after critique. They have a copy to take home and process rather than
needing to take copious notes.
Once you're into the realm of paper submissions, groups must agree how
work is to be formatted. Formatting is key to critique because double spacing
and standard fonts allow more white space on the page, making reading and
commenting in that white space much easier.

Standard manuscript formatting (or SMF).

While specifics vary from critique group to critique group, this is the list
of requirements for submission formatting. These usually include
pagination (page numbers), double spacing, 1-inch margins and 12-point
font of a standard type (Courier, Helvetica or Times New Roman).
Groups may also lay out which file types are preferred for submissions,
such as .doc or PDF. Example: "If you'd followed standard manuscript
formatting, we could literally be on the same page right now, Jennifer."

Whether your group decides on submissions of 10 pages or 5,000 words or

one chapter, the length of submission you choose also affects the critique
process, and your preference might vary based on the goals of the group. The
two groups to which I belong offer different advantages. The smaller of the two
is composed of other writers with book-length WIPs. We all submit every
meeting and we meet often. Therefore we've built up a familiarity with each
other's stories and worlds.
The benefit of this group's format is continuity of readership, which allows
those partners to offer critiques about a submission in the context of the larger
WIP. They are therefore less likely to suffer from the inevitable ten-page
syndrome common in critique.

Ten-page syndrome (or TPS).

The inability to consider one submission in the context of a larger work,
either because the rest of the work has never been shared or memory of
that work is hazy. Because critique groups sometimes read in chunks of
10 pages at a time, TPS is an intrinsic and unavoidable due to size of
group and/or length and frequency of contribution. You cannot expect
critique partners to see the larger picture when they've been presented
with only pieces. Example: "Wait, how does your protag know how to
 hack an ATM machine? Did you explain these skills earlier and I have
TPS?"

My other and larger critique group is more varied in terms of those writers'
goals and WIPs. Only two writers submit per meeting, but with longer
submissions. So we get in-depth into whatever 5,000 words (about 20 pages)
you're working on, but your turn only comes around once every two months.
These varied and in-depth critiques are lively and inspiring, but the group doesn't
build up the same familiarity with each person's WIP.
Both of these formats, of course, have limitations and benefits, and there is
no one right formula, only the right choice for your group.
In fact, group consensus can and should be used to set whatever rules make
sense and would facilitate more successful meetings. A few examples of rules
I've encountered:

First to submit, first to be critiqued.

First person to critique is the last person to experience critique.
Critiques limited by time, whether to 5, 7 or 10 minutes.
Rotation of critique clockwise for the day's first submission and counter
clockwise for the second, so the same person doesn't have to wait until last
every time.
No interrupting.
Interruptions limited to hand gestures of thumbs up to agree with a
sentiment and thumbs down to disagree.
A certain interruption allowance per participant, such as twice per meeting.
Piggybacks permissible, but dog piles out of bounds.

Piggy back.
An interruption during critique to agree with or add to another person's
feedback. Non-verbally, can be a simple thumbs up or thumbs down, but
also can be verbal depending on the conventions of your particular
critique group. Interruptions are common in moderation. Example: "I'm
going to piggy back here to add this 'humor' Ronnie is talking about
makes the character verge on unlikeable for me."

Dog pile.
A piggy back on a piggy back, or an interruption of an interruption. A
call of dog pile is a signal it's time to return to the point and/or original
speaker. Example: "And that's a dog pile, folks. Wait your turn to
 explain further, Will."

In terms of rules, see what works for your group, evaluate and be open-
minded about change.

A critique mindset

Ah, yes, the open mind. Genuine receptiveness is important not only in
terms of how your critique group functions. An open mind is actually the
foundation of constructive feedback in general because such feedback requires a
certain amount of emotional distance and the setting aside of personal
preferences.
For instance, let's say you're a horror reader and a horror writer. You may
luck out — or live in Sunnydale — and be able to find a group composed only of
other horror writers, but such a feat is rare. More likely, your group will consist
of writers of sci-fi, young-adult, romance, literary fiction, mysteries and
historical fiction in addition to horror writers, and that variation in composition
is not a drawback. Varied opinions are instead crucial, offering that many more
ways to look at and improve your work, as long as those varied people come to
the table open-minded and willing to evaluate a submission in its own context.
Good critique partners don't read a submission and ask themselves, "Do I
like this?" Good critiquers look at a work and ask, "Is this successful?"

Successful.
A story or other piece of fiction that functions as planned and/or meets
the expectations of genre or plot. Success means the expected reader
would be able to follow the piece without excess difficulty and,
hopefully, find the piece satisfying. Does not imply — and often
explicitly ignores — personal taste or opinion. Example: "I'm not
usually a fan of gore, but the combat scene was successful, and the
detail about the color and texture of alien blood was striking and
memorable."

Genre bias.
The inability to judge the success of a work due to lack of familiarity
with or outright dislike for the work's genre. This inability, while
common, is not permanent nor an excuse for lack of or shoddy critique.
Instead, overcoming genre bias is much like overcoming other biases:
Educate yourself about the common characteristics and tropes of the
 unfamiliar genre, and use facts rather than feelings to express your
critique. Also: Not every book is for everybody, and that's OK.
Example: "I don't normally read polyamorous tentacle erotica, but
setting aside that potential genre bias, I liked the lush descriptions and
disliked how the tension disappeared after the fourth orgasm."

A viral tweet from @EmilHofilena explains this idea in a way I cannot

improve. He said, "Five years ago, I had a Creative Writing professor who
responded to our bad stories the same way: he would never say, 'This is wrong.'
He would say, 'How can we make this work?' From then on, that's how I've
viewed critique. Never kill an idea. Help it become its best self."
Similarly, never shame another writer. Not for their ignorance, mistakes or
creative risks, because you were once ignorant and your risks will not always
pan out. Help them become their best selves, and they will help you become
yours.
Another facet of your all-important open-mindedness needs to be the
recognition that you are not the boss of other people's writing. Creative license is
a card every writer carries in their wallet.

Creative license (also known as "poetic license").

The liberty of the writer to ignore any advice, established rule, fact, logic
or commonsense in order to fulfill their artistic vision or produce a
desired effect. Creative license cannot be revoked; its power is absolute.
Example: "I know you guys think I curse too much, but the characters
speak to me in f-words and, in the end, it's my fucking book."

Therefore, tread lightly when offering suggestions about how to improve a

work. Instead of suggesting how to fix a problem, first concentrate on pointing
out there is a problem. Ideas will inevitably be mentioned. A writer may even
actively solicit such ideas, either along with their submission or in the moment at
critique. However, you should never feel you have to solve their writing, nor that
the writer has to use your advice. That's their writing, and therefore their call.

Fixing/Fixer.
The unhelpful practice of not only pointing out a flaw or unsuccessful
element but also offering your own advice about how to improve the
problem. Fixing fails to focus on success and does not respect the
absolute power of a writer over their manuscript. This idea is often
distilled as the maxim: Point out problems, but avoid solutions. The
 author is responsible for the direction and details of their story, and if
they want your ideas on possible fixes, they'll ask directly — and can
still totally ignore anything you have to say without guilt. Too much
fixing advice can eat up valuable minutes of your critique meetings.
Example: "I understand the janitor is coming off as simple-minded. I'm
not sure your suggestion to show him reading Plato is the solution,
though. I'll have to think about that."

Try this all-important critique response on for size: "I'll think about that."
This phrase is wonderful because it's honest but flexible. You are telling your
critique partner their feedback has been heard and will be considered, respecting
and acknowledging their contribution. However, after thinking about that
feedback, you can always ignore it or implement a different solution.
"I'll think about that" can get you through some tough situations when you're
on the receiving end of critique, but accepting feedback on your own work will
always be challenging. Most of us are deeply connected to our writing, to the
point that criticism of our work can make us instantly defensive. We feel the
need to answer the points of our peers one by one, explaining our intentions, but
in critique, the hard truth is your intentions as a writer don't matter.
Underline this in your mind, because it's true of every piece you will ever
write, published or not: Your intentions do not matter unless they show up on the
page. A critique group can only evaluate the story as you've written it on the
page, without your commentary or explanation, because such is exactly how a
reader plucking your title off the shelf will read your story. Your critique
partners are only clearing the trees out of your vision, showing what your word
baby looks like from an outside and uninvested perspective.
You want that perspective, so invite that perspective with limited
commentary or justification. Take in your critique partners' thoughts whole, and
save it for later to filter those thoughts through your own judgement.

Cooling-off period (also known as "putting it in the sock drawer").

Giving yourself a space of time between receiving a critique and
evaluating its value and/or making changes. This period allows your
emotions to disconnect to gain a more objective perspective of your
work. Related: Don't throw out the baby with the bathwater. Example:
"Carlos thinks I need to kill that darling, and rather than kill Carlos, I'll
take a cooling-off period to see if he might be right."

After consideration, you can still ignore a specific critique. Whip out that
creative license, by all means, but remember, these people are only trying to
make your work more successful. Even if you choose not to make a change, they
will have forced you to critically consider your work from a neutral reader's
perspective and have thereby made your writing more intentional. They have
made you better, even if the work stays the same.
 Anatomy of a Story
Human culture — even human psychology — is built upon storytelling.
Story is how we make sense of our world and our place within it, how we
communicate our values (parables) and how we communicate our fears (urban
legends). To stretch even further, stories are literally history, because much of
what we know about the past was passed down bard to bard, grandparent to
grandchild, through oral storytelling.
Humans have always craved knowledge and understanding, as depicted
when Eve ate of the apple from the tree of knowledge. And what did we do? We
wrote a story about that transgression and repeated that story for more than 2,000
years so we could understand our own need for understanding.
That's us humans, all right. Give a man a keyboard and he will type, but he
will still tell his story the best he can with chalk and cave walls if those are the
only tools to hand.
Over the course of storied centuries, we writers have had a lot of time to
consider the nature of story and the shapes of stories, and believe it or not, most
successful stories follow very old, well-worn patterns.
In the context of this dictionary, we'll call those broad patterns story types,
and though experts disagree, almost every satisfying story ever told follows only
six such types — and unsatisfying stories are often unsatisfying because they
don't follow story types.

All from the same mold

Yes, only about six essential stories are seen as the foundation of every one
of the billions of stories we read, hear, watch or write — even those whose plot
lines keep us on the edges of our seats, with twists that make our heads spin and
tragedy that plumbs new depths — are ancient and just variations on a theme.
Perhaps that truth punches down the art of fiction, deflating some of the
magic. You think, "It can't be! My story is unlike any other. It's wholly unique."
You're right, to a degree, because an author's voice is as original as a
fingerprint.
But on the other hand, the chance of two people having exactly same the
fingerprint — compared by the human eye and the computer's — is one in 64
million. There are 7.4 billion people on Earth, meaning there's a chance someone
shares your fingerprints. Therefore, of course there's a chance your story has
been told. Indeed, your work is just as likely to be copied via Infinite Monkey
Theorem as Shakespeare's.

Infinite Monkey Theorem.

A philosophical concept positing that given an infinite amount of time, a
monkey banging at random on a keyboard would eventually type the
complete works of William Shakespeare. Example: When his first drafts
weren't perfect, Victor tossed them aside unedited and churned out
more, sure he'd Infinite Monkey Theorem his way to genius.

While the artist in me still insists there are exceptions, that creativity and art
will find a way to innovate, I also recognize the need for general categories and
rules when it comes to story, and therefore we need vocabulary to discuss those
story types and tropes.
The vocabulary of story helps us discuss how our stories are or aren't
working, thereby helping us improve. Plus, as artist Pablo Picasso once said,
“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” We must
understand existing conventions before we can successfully subvert them.
Accepting there are story types doesn't mean you can't deviate if the conditions
are right.
Also, these six (or seven or eight, depending on which expert you ask)
stories we repeat again and again are not necessarily limiting. After all, the
English alphabet has only 26 letters, and no one claims that scant amount isn't
enough to spin off infinite words. With a handful of basic plot lines in hand,
your imagination is still the limit of your creative powers.

The experts weigh in

 To begin, no discussion of story would be complete without Joseph
Campbell, who was not an author but a mythologist who looked for patterns in
the heroic myths of human history. The result of his study was the theory of the
Hero's Journey.

Hero's Journey.
The archetypal story of a hero who goes on an adventure, faces
adversity, wins a victory and emerges changed. Campbell's template
divides the journey into three phases — departure, initiation and return
— which are then divided into a total of 17 individual steps. Examples:
The Odyssey, Star Wars, Moby Dick, The Lord of the Rings.

The Hero's Journey is often the basis of blockbuster Hollywood movies —

and yes, this dictionary will use films as well as books as examples because both
are story and we are not snobs. The nit-picky individual steps of his model aren't
as important to me as the basic structure the journey depicts: a call to adventure
and rising action, followed by victory and transformation.

Action.
The forward momentum of plot, not to be confused with the action
genre. Action/adventure stories do indeed feature a lot of forward
momentum, but psychological and emotional movement also qualify as
action as long as the reader feels the pull forward into the story, can tell
it's headed somewhere. Lack of action can feel like a stopped train, one
which the reader often wants to disembark. Example: Opening the story
as the cops investigated the scene of a murder puts us right in the heart
of the action.

We trace the Hero's Journey visually as a line cresting upward in drama,

reaching its highest point at the climax, and then more quickly falling back to a
resolution. This story diagram is called the metamyth or monomyth in
Campbell's theory, and his work has served as the foundation from which many
other thinkers have built other theories.
Kurt Vonnegut, for instance, believed there were eight main shapes for
stories (though two are repetitive, in my opinion, and I'm combining them here):

Man in a Hole.
The protagonist gets into trouble and then out of it again, transforming
themselves in the process. Examples: Pride and Prejudice, Office Space,
 Girl on the Train.

Boy Meets Girl.

The protagonist meets someone or finds something wonderful, then
loses that wonderful thing only to get it back for a happily-ever-after
ending. Examples: Jane Eyre, Sleepless in Seattle, Outlander.

From Bad to Worse (or Old Testament).

A creation story or the story of a character's life that begins in negative
conditions, and through their striving, manages only to make their
situation worse, ending in a fall. Examples: The Metamorphosis, Gone
Girl, English Patient.

Which Way Is Up?

An absurdist and satirical staple, this story's twists and turns don't allow
the audience to see what's good or bad until the whole picture is
revealed. Examples: Black Mirror, Memento, Fight Club, A Confederacy
of Dunces.

Creation Story.
Explanatory rather than conflict-based, these stories usually begin with
the gift of life and describe how the world/universe was built as is and
why. Examples: The Power (Naomi Alderman), the Rise, Dawn and War
of the Planet of the Apes trilogy.

Cinderella (or New Testament).

The story of people or a character who, given gifts or opportunities, has
those good elements taken away but is ultimately redeemed. Examples:
The Goonies, Rocky, Big (movie).

Vonnegut charted each archetype on a graph where the vertical Y axis

placed good events in the positive and bad events in the negative, and the X axis
showed time passing from beginning to end — again visually depicting rising
and falling action.
Indeed, many writers find it helpful to graph the plot of their story as both
Campbell and Vonnegut did in their different ways. Visually charting action can
help us see where we're moving to fast, too slow or not at all.
Perhaps the most respected set of archetypal plots in the 21st Century,
however, comes from Christopher Booker's The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell
Stories. Booker evolves Campbell's idea of the metamyth into something called
the meta-plot, which emphasized setback in a way Campbell did not.

Meta-plot.
A story with discernible phases, starting with the anticipation stage with
the call to adventure, followed by the dream stage where the adventure
begins and the character sees some success. Next, the frustration stage,
in which the hero has a confrontation with the enemy/enemy force and
experiences a setback, leading to the nightmare stage, where all hope
seems lost and the climax or final confrontation with evil occurs. Last
comes the resolution, where the hero is victorious. Examples: Harry
Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, The Hobbit, Hunger Games.

A great read in its entirety at least once, Booker's seven plots break down as:

Overcoming the Monster.

The protagonist must defeat an antagonistic or evil force that threatens
the character, their homeland or their way of life. Examples: James
Bond, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Harry Potter: The Philosopher's Stone,
The Nightingale.

Rags to Riches.
The protagonist begins either poor or in otherwise wretched
circumstances but acquires good fortune and/or material goods. They
then lose everything, often due to their character faults or mistakes, and
then gain it back and transform as a person. Examples: Aladdin,
Cinderella, A Little Princess.

The Quest.
The protagonist, usually with a group of companions, sets out on a quest
to reach a location or object, facing many obstacles and challenges along
the way. Examples: Lord of the Rings, The Goonies, The Avengers.

Voyage and Return.

The protagonist adventures to a strange land or dimension, overcomes
conflict and returns home transformed. Examples: Labyrinth (movie),
The Wizard of Oz, Robinson Crusoe, Life of Pi.

Comedy (also known as "farce").

 Light and often humorous, a story with a lot of drama that involves
characters triumphing over circumstances and results in a happy ending.
Humor is not the defining feature, however. Instead, comedy is about
confusion that needs sorting and eventually is sorted. Examples: Bridget
Jones' Diary, Much Ado About Nothing, Bridesmaids.

Tragedy.
Usually sad and pitiable, the protagonist has a major character flaw or
makes a mistake that results in their undoing. Examples: Macbeth, Anna
Karenina, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Atonement.

Rebirth.
An important event or large force acts on the protagonist to change their
ways, making them a better person. Examples: A Christmas Carol,
Despicable Me, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Still other conceptions of plot divides story into two basic categories based
on the characters' contentedness at the beginning of the tale, and that conception
can sometimes be helpful. Your character begins happy and events conspire to
make them sad, or your character begins sad and sees an opportunity to better
their circumstances.

Discontented story.
A character has had a break up, hit hard financial times, recently faced a
set back or have had a general hard-knock life. This discontent is then
challenged when an opportunity presents itself, and so our story begins.
Examples: The Hunger Games, The Great Gatsby, Harry Potter and the
Philosopher's Stone, Annie.

Contented story.
We meet our character in a state of happiness. They have a great job,
great love, great health and great hair, but then an obstacle arrives to
take away their happiness, beginning our tale. Examples: Gone with the
Wind, The Nightingale, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, The Kiterunner.

Either way, you've created instant plot movement, meaning that valuable
action we're always seeking, by creating an obstacle to be surmounted. Similarly,
you've set up a situation in which there is tension between what the character
wants and what they're actually being given. Action refers to plot movement, and
tension refers to characters' desires, which are often thwarted or at odds with one
another.

Tension.
Reader connection to the urgency or import of a story, created by the
successful illustration of conflict and stakes. Tension is what causes a
story to be impossible to put down and keeps a reader turning the page.
Predictability, breaks of immersion and sudden shifts of tone/action are
the main culprits of tension dissolution. The hooks at the end of chapters
are often great examples of successful tension building. Related to
action, in that both terms imply a feeling of momentum and the creation
of dramatic stakes. Example: "I love the build up of tension between the
two boys and how you leave us wondering at the end of the chapter if
they'll finally fight."

An introduction to genre

You likely now have enough information about story shapes that you could
make story identifications in the wild, able to tell a Voyage and Return from a
Boy Meets Girl.
However, the real work is far from over because most stories — and
definitely the vast majority of novels and movies — are not stories of one type,
but instead splice several types of stories together. The main plot line could be a
tragedy while a subplot is a romance.

Subplot.
A storyline that takes place simultaneously and subordinately to the
main plot line. Example: Star Wars is a metamyth as well as an
Overcoming the Monster tale, but Han and Leah's love story is a subplot
within.

The combination game gets interesting at this point, because a comedy with
a love-story subplot is a different animal than a love story with a comedy
subplot. In the slice and dice, writers find truly original gems like the movie Get
Out, which is a Man in a Hole horror movie with the unusual twist of a comedy
subplot thanks to the best friend's bumbling attempts to find the protagonist.
Several story shapes are often interacting in the same work at the same time.
Speaking of Get Out, we authors also have the added tools of genre play,
which adds another level of variation to the story formula.
 Genre.
The category into which a piece of writing is placed for the purposes of
identification and sale. Genre is fluid, however, and many if not most
books have some cross-genre elements. Example: "If you want
publishers to take you seriously, you need to define this book's genre
further than 'like nothing you've ever read!'"

For the purpose of fiction critique, genre breaks down first by age group
between adult, young adult and children's stories. I'll focus here mostly on adult,
though YA is often discussed in the same critique groups as adult.
Then within adult fiction — which is also called general fiction — we break
stories into genre in a few different ways. One division is drawn by writing style
between the categories of literary and genre fiction.

Literary fiction.
Usually more character-driven, literary fiction focuses on the craft of
writing and writing as art. Literary fiction is often more experimental in
subject and form, and wins most of the big, prestigious awards like the
Nobel and Booker prizes. However, the market for literary fiction is
smaller than genre fiction and more rooted in literary presses and brick-
and-mortar bookstores. Examples: Jeffrey Eugenides, Toni Morrison,
Kent Haruf, Zadie Smith.

Character-driven fiction.
A story in which the events of the plot are mainly dictated by the
personality and actions of the character rather than solely by outside
events. Character-driven stories often create tension by peeling away the
layers of the character's personality as the story progresses, and such
writing is likely to be classified as literary fiction instead of genre
fiction. Example: Stephen King's Shawshank Redemption is far more
character-driven than his horror work, following the lives and delving
deep into the characters of prison inmates in what is otherwise a very
static situation. Similarly, Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx isn't
about much, just cowboys doing everyday things, but it's the characters
and their interaction that creates plot and resonance.

Genre Fiction.
Usually more plot-driven, genre fiction is the umbrella term for fast-
moving, sometimes formulaic stories with clear protagonists, antagonists
 and story expectations. For instance, a romance will usually end with a
happily ever after, and a detective novel will usually end with a solved
mystery. Examples: Science fiction, fantasy, mystery, action/thriller,
romance, horror and erotica, although there are others — and these
categories break down into even smaller sub-genres.

Plot-driven fiction.
A story in which the main plot is driven by mostly outside events, drama
and spectacle. These outside events could be a wizard dropping by a
hobbit hole with a ring and a quest; a natural disaster like a disease
outbreak or volcano eruption; a missing person, murder or crime; a
wedding or divorce; a job or project; or the outbreak of interstellar war
with a new species of alien bent on galactic conquest. Plot-driven stories
are often fast-paced and exciting. They're usually considered more genre
fiction than literary fiction, though most good examples are partially
character-driven, as well. Example: Afraid for his throne, Robert called
Eddard Stark to the capital to act as Hand of the King, thereby sucking
the entire Stark clan into the larger, bloody fight for power over
Westeros.

Like most fiction designations, literary and genre fiction are less black and
white than they appear. In the real world, most stories have elements of both art
and action, both character-driven elements and plot-driven elements. These
categories are flexible, but still serve a useful function for both writers and
readers when used broadly.
While literary and genre fiction tend to be thought the largest categories in
literature — and that's certainly true from one perspective — I think there's
another foundational division publishers, authors and booksellers don't yet
embrace: realistic fiction versus speculative fiction. My advocacy for the use of
these terms was created out of frustration that the current model instead divides
story into realistic fiction and the umbrella of science fiction/fantasy, when often
neither science fiction nor fantasy fit as classifications.
For instance, where do we place dystopias, those stories of dark futures?
They are certainly a different category of story than hard sci-fi space operas
with their interplanetary wars and space ships. Magical realism, a staple of latin
American and literary fiction in which only one or two elements vary from the
real world, isn't quite the same as high fantasy with its elves and dwarfs.
Similarly, superhero stories aren't really sci-fi but the label of fantasy doesn't
quite fit either.
 Therefore, I support the movement to add the terms realistic and speculative
fiction to the genre canon. That transition might not happen overnight, but will
be used in the context of this dictionary.

Realistic fiction.
A story that takes place in the real world, current or historical, with all
the rules of physics and limitations of this world. Dramatic and
statistically uncommon events can occur — gunshots might always miss
the hero or hackers can easily break into fool-proof networks — but
magic in any form is disallowed. Examples: Historical fiction, modern
romances, most detective mysteries.

Speculative fiction.
A story that takes place in a setting where the unreal occurs, be that
magic, advanced technology, talking animals, aliens or time travel.
These stories might be for adults or children, literary or genre fiction,
but are for whatever reason impossible in the world we live in.
Examples: Alternate histories, vampires, werewolves, dark futures, sci-
fi, fantasy.

Noting the difference between the two is important in critique because the
reader has different expectations in speculative fiction than realistic fiction. We
don't need an explanation of the internal combustion engine of the car a
character drives to work in realistic fiction. However, we probably do need at
least a rough idea of how the fusion drive reactor in a piece of speculative fiction
functions in order to understand the technological dimensions of the fictional
universe.
Once you add in all these variations in genre, suddenly our six story types
get incredibly complex and interesting. Now we can create a sci-fi Journey Story
with an erotica subplot or a sci-fi erotica with a Journey Story subplot — and
those stories would be very, very different in tone, action and resonance, even
though they're constructed of the same three pieces. We can take a classic story
like Cinderella and set it in a high fantasy world of elves, dragons and magic or
in 23rd Century Latin America after the fall of the bionic army or even during a
version of the Civil War where the Union troops are werewolves. Why not? Add
in a subplot or two, and the chances of two writers coming up with the same
book fall to almost zero.

There is no wrong answer

 If all those choices, types and categories seem thoroughly overwhelming,
you're not alone. Some writers thrive on the dissection of plots and need to see
their story in advance before they can write. They enjoy — or if not enjoy,
endure out of necessity — making a detailed plan for their tale. Other writers,
including me, struggle to define their story as they start writing it. We instead
enjoy/endure seeing how a story evolves as we create it. Neither way of writing
a story is better or worse, right or wrong.

Plotter.
A writer who prefers or needs to lay out the plot of their story or series
before they write, usually with some level of detail. Plotting can avoid
time spent re-writing to correct plot holes and other problems, and is
especially helpful in wide-ranging stories or those with large casts, such
as journey stories, historical epics and space operas. Plotting is socially
seen as more genre fiction's territory versus that of literary fiction, but
all writers exist on a continuum between all plans and no plans, and
some writers use different techniques for different projects or over time.
Example: J.K. Rowling is known for her extensive spreadsheet planning
and note-card organization for both her Harry Potter and Cormoron
Strike series.

Pantser.
Taken from the phrase "by the seat of your pants," a writer who cannot
or feels too intimidated to commit themselves to a storyline in advance.
Pantsers are often inspired by setting or character instead of plot, or
they're not sure what their characters are going to do until they're on the
page. Most successful pantsers use some amount of pre-planning or
outlining, if a more vague, haphazard or fluid version than those who
enjoy plotting in advance. Pantsing is not the total opposite of planning
but exists on a continuum, although literary authors are thought to be
more pantsy in nature. Example: George R.R. Martin originally pitched
the A Song of Ice and Fire series thinking Arya Stark would fall in love
with Jon Snow and that Tyrion Lannister would fall for Arya Stark. He
was obviously not afraid to write against outline once he was on the
page.

Whatever kind of stories light up your passion, you should now have a pretty
good idea how to describe yourself as a writer to a critique group or at a writers'
conference. You write children's fiction or sci-fi romances or young-adult horror
or whatever else tickles your fancy.
However, if you're still having trouble nailing down exactly what kind of
stories you write, imagine yourself as a bookstore employee. Where would your
story be shelved? Obviously, in the best-seller section, right? Good answer, but
in order to make that idea a reality, the writing craft inside your story is also
going to have to shine — which means there's a ton more information to cover.
Buckle up, cowpoke, because we're just getting started.
 Perspective
As an experiment, let's say you grab an average reader and ask them about
the last book they've read, the freshest story in their memory. If asked to describe
that story, the first facts that come to mind might be the name of the main
character, the setting and the time period as well as the subjective adjectives
they'd use to describe the book: "Thrilling!" "A sweet story." "Tear-jerker." "A
real mind-fuck." This information is exactly what a reader looking for book
recommendations might want to hear.
However, ask that same reader what point of view the book was written in,
and you can expect a longer wait while they consider, trying to remember. The
character's name is easy to recall, but whether that character was shown as a
"he/she" on the page or an "I" is not information most readers are trained to
recognize and retain. We writers, on the other hand, must always pull back the
curtain on the reading experience to look below the surface, and one key element
we're looking for is narrative perspective.

Perspective (also known as "point of view" or POV).

The direction from which a story is being told, a story's point of view is
that of its narrator or storyteller, who may or may not be a character in
the story being told. This person or presence is who readers imagine
putting the words on the page. Examples: Moby Dick is told from the
point of view of Ishmael, the only surviving crew member of the Pequod.
Hence the famous first line, "Call me Ishmael."

Narrator (also known as a "POV character").

 The character/s who are telling your story, who need not to be either a
protagonist or antagonist in that story, but often are. Most commonly,
the story belongs to the narrator — the plot works upon their lives — but
exceptions are common and often successful. A story needs to have at
least one narrator but can have several, and in fact, the majority of
modern stories have either one or two narrators/points of view.
Example: In The Book Thief, the character of Death narrates the story,
claiming the first time he saw the book thief, was on a train. The next
time he saw her was when he came for a pilot who had crashed his
plane, and the third time was after a bombing. The story is that of the
book thief's life, though, even if she is not the one narrating the tale.

Many readers will be able to recall the point of view of their book after some
thought, of course. Others might easily be able to guess, because one type of
POV is far more common than the other two, making up an estimated 75-90
percent of published novels: third-person.
Personally — har — I sometimes have difficulty keeping the three "persons"
of narrative perspective straight. Luckily for me, memorization of "persons" isn't
necessary, because we're no longer in high school. Adulthood is open book! And
anyone with similar difficulty now has this handy reference book and the
following list of all three perspectives: first, second and third.

First-person perspective.
A narrator speaking about their own experiences. Uses the pronouns: I,
me, my (and less commonly, we and our). These stories are more likely
to be close in perspective, very attached to one character, and are
unlikely to feature more than one narrator. Example: I shot the sheriff,
but I did not shoot the deputy.

Second-person perspective.
A narrator that purports to be the reader. Uses the pronouns: you, your,
yours. Second-person is the closest of possible perspectives and creates
an intense bond with the reader that can be difficult to maintain. When
handled well, however, immersion into second-person fiction is deep,
personal and memorable, because the reader sees themselves inside of
the action. Example: You shot the sheriff, but you did not shoot the
deputy.

Third-person perspective.
 A narrator describing the experience of a character or multiple
characters. Most often uses the pronouns: he/him/his or she/her/hers, but
also possible with they/their/theirs and other less common gender-
neutral pronouns like zie/zir/zirs, hen/hens/hens. The connection
between reader and narrator is not as strong as first-person narration, but
third-person is the easiest and most common choice for stories with
more than one narrator. Example: She shot the sheriff, but she did not
shoot the deputy.

Third-person perspective

Again, the point of view experts estimate makes up 75-90 percent of fiction
is third person, and for good reason since it is objectively the simplest
perspective to write. (Don't @ me.) When bards and minstrels told stories in the
age before the printing press, they did so from their own perspective. The bard or
other vehicle of oral history likely spoke in third-person perspective — so
Odysseus was "he" and Maid Marian "she" — and that story-telling style has
become part of our human DNA, in my opinion.
Third-person simply feels natural to many readers and many writers, so let's
begin the discussion with that most common choice. Third-person is popular not
only because it's common and feels natural, but because the form offers
mechanical and material benefits, as well.
One benefit of third-person POV is its flexibility. Only from a third-person
perspective can a reader be in several places at once. Multiple POV characters
pretty much require third-person POV and allow writers to tell more than one
side of their story, so naturally more books than are possible to note are told
from more than one character's POV.
In Lord of the Rings, for instance, the assembled party splits into several
groups in the second and first novels. In the second, The Two Towers, the reader
shifts between Merry and Pippin, taken captive by the Uruk-hai; the party of
Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas as they give chase; and then the story of Sam, Frodo
and Gollum as they penetrate Mordor. Imagine trying to tell such a multi-
pronged tale from only one character's perspective. With only one set of eyes,
how would you get across all the information necessary to understand the
unfolding conflict? In epic fantasy and wide-ranging space operas, multiple
POV characters are almost a necessity.
To use an entirely different example, some love stories also benefit from at
least two points of view so the reader can see the thoughts and feelings of both
parties. Rather than ruining the tension of the romance, the added perspective
allows the reader to see how each party interprets the other's actions — the
romantic disconnects and confusions — and therefore the reader feels party to
inside information. They see the two are suited and therefore desperately want
the obstacles between them lifted in a way they wouldn't if they thought the love
one-sided and unrequited.
Third-person does have some drawbacks, of course. Most annoying is
perhaps pronoun confusion, because in a third-person story, you're likely to have
several characters on camera interacting at a time. If your narrator is a woman
and her partner in crime is a women, you need to make clear which "she" you're
referring to in every scene they're in together. The reader can easily get confused
about which woman shoved the jewels down "her" pants, because both hers are
(assumedly) wearing pants.

Pronoun confusion (also known as he confusion or she confusion).

A use of I, he, she or they in which the average reader is not sure which
character/s the author is referring to. Most often occurs with he and she
in scenes where more than one character of a gender is present, and most
easily corrected by using a character's nickname, title or other moniker
instead of the pronoun. Example: Dolly and Joann tumbled outside the
party in a flurry of slapping and hair-pulling. "Bitch!" she screamed,
reaching for the switchblade in her boot. (Who's the bitch? Whose
boot?)

However, writers can often avoid pronoun repetition by alternating between

"he," "she" or "they" and the character's name, or even convenient label names
like "the boy," "the seamstress" or "the fellow with the shifty eyes."

Label names.
A designation given to a character whose name the reader does not know
or used in order to avoid name/pronoun repetition. Label names are
often physically descriptive or job titles. Example: The thief with the red
shirt demanded cash from the teller, while the ringleader took the
manager into the back to open the bank safe.

Another feature of a third-person POV is its flexibility in terms of how much

information the narrator is privy to about the story and the characters around
them. Specifically, this speaks to the difference between third-person's limited
and omniscient forms.
 Limited POV.
A type of third-person perspective in which the narration is tied
specifically to one character at a time, with the ability to know only the
mind of that one character while that character is at the helm. A story
may have more than one narrator and still be limited if they take turns
and obvious breaks occur between perspective shifts (page breaks,
chapter breaks, formatting change, etc.) Example: After four years of
marriage, Pat expected to have a better idea of Marilyn's mind, but
staring now across the dining-room table at her set jaw and pursed lips,
he had no idea what he'd done wrong."

Omniscient POV.
A type of third-person perspective in which the narrator exists in the
thoughts of all characters simultaneously and/or without division or
breaks. More distant by design, an omniscient story often feels magical
or fairy-tale in tone due to the wide-ranging lens of the narration.
However, omniscient narration needs to be intentional and consistent
beginning to end, and should not be claimed in order to avoid fixing
point-of-view violations. Example: After four years of marriage, they sat
across the table as distant as strangers and equally unhappy. Pat was
befuddled by Marilyn's turbulent moods and Marilyn was wounded by
the befuddlement, because love to her was about understanding without
explanation. Pat, on the other hand, needed explanation in every facet of
his life and was even unable to shop at the grocery without Marilyn's list
in hand."

Granted, every writing rule can be and has been successfully broken at least
once, but in general, writers cannot shift between limited and omniscient POVs
in the course of one story or novel.
When a story is written in third-person limited and includes several
narrators, a writer also cannot accidentally (or intentionally) head hop between
characters without transferring the baton of POV in some way recognizable to
the reader. This shifting is known as a POV violation, and such transgressions
can cause the reader to get confused.

POV violation (also known as "head hopping").

The act of breaking the established first-, second- or third-person point
of view of a story. Most commonly, a violation will dive into a non-
narrator's perspective, which leads the narrator to appear as if they can
 read other character's minds. Note: A narrator can observe other
characters and assume or deduct their motivations or emotional state —
that character can "appear to be" sad or be "obviously distressed" — but
the appearance of surety or direct knowledge is a violation, unless the
narrator is actually telepathic. Example: Angela was impatient, kicking
her feet against the park grass as she waited, when Marci first caught
sight of her from the path. (Whose POV is this?)

Head hopping can also lead a writer to believe your character is telepathic, a
problem if your story is intended to be strictly realistic. Bending the laws of your
story's universe is known as a reality violation.

Reality violation.
When the author breaks a law of the world, whether of the real world in
the case of contemporary fiction or the created world in the case of
speculative fiction. Related to suspension of disbelief and reader trust.
Example: By mistake, a character is said to be in two places at once, or
clothing described as red in one scene becomes green in another with no
change of attire.

Both POV and reality violations are some of the bread and butter of critique
policing, so to speak, because they are common errors writers create by accident
and often don't pick up when reading solo. So take up the badge and keep your
eyes peeled.

First-person perspective

The second most common type of narration in novels is first-person,

meaning stories told from the "I" POV. Perhaps the largest feature of first-person
narrators is how close the reader feels to the narrator. We simply bond and
identify with an "I" more so than we do with a "he/she/they," meaning first-
person is almost always a closer perspective versus a more distant perspective.

Close perspective.
A type of narration (possible in first-, second- or third-person) in which
the reader is intensely connected to the narrator and their experience,
favoring the narrator's subjective voice rather than the more objective
voice of a separate narrator. In close perspective, the character's
thoughts, sensations, opinions and personality are at full volume, so
close perspective is often chosen for character-driven fiction. Example:
 By the time she got back, all her friends had gone home, the losers.
Some friends they were to leave her in moment of need — especially her
supposed best friend, Brenda — though perhaps their betrayal was a
blessing. Surely she looked like death warmed over, having had a good
ugly cry in the bathroom.

Distant perspective.
Also possible in first-, second- or third-person, a less attached and/or
claustrophobic form of narration. While the reader is connected to the
narrator and able to see their thoughts, distant perspective keeps a level
of objectivity, a filter on the character. Distant perspectives are more
often used in stories with more than one narrator, because the tone of the
piece will vary less as the voices switch. Distant perspectives can still
tell character-driven stories, but are often more plot-driven. Example: By
the time she got back from crying in the bathroom, the party was over
and she was alone. She felt abandoned.

Because we more firmly inhabit their minds, first-person narrators are often
characters who have unique and interesting talents, and hence have a lot of
information to convey to the audience about lock-picking or geopolitical events
or high-stakes poker. Being inside their minds can be an easier way to convey
that information than revealing the expertise in conversation, for instance, or
another more distant method. The reader feels as if they are the lock-picker, not
that they're being told about the lock-picker.
Similarly, first-person narrators sometimes have a colorful past or
personality, meaning the writer wants the character's voice to be close and on
full display, rather than feature the more tepid voice of a disconnected narrator.
"I" characters are funny or pompous or sinister or incredibly intelligent. They are
different from the reader in a way the writer finds interesting and wants to
explore.
However, first person can also step over the line and be too close, sometimes
verging on claustrophobic. Not every reader enjoys being so deep in a character's
mind. Of course, a writer must also make sure to keep a consistent depth of
perspective, no matter what perspective they're using, so as not to confuse or
annoy the reader.

The bends.
An alternation between close and distant perspective that's jarring or
confusing for the reader. Taken from the scuba condition of the bends,
 caused by rising or diving too fast for the body to adjust. The bends
speak to an inconsistency of voice that's damaging to immersion and
reader trust. Example: "We spend two solid pages on introspection and
then two solid pages of dialogue with no POV observations to speak of.
You're giving me the bends, and I'm feeling disconnected from the
character and the voice of the piece."

Much like third-person often drifts toward pronoun confusion, first-person

has a different pronoun issue, namely that you cannot use the person's name on
the page. "I" is the only possible pronoun, meaning "I" can very easily become
repetitive and annoying to the reader.

I parade.
Repetition of the personal pronoun I, usually in a first-person piece of
writing and most often at the beginning of successive sentences or
paragraphs. (The eye catches on sentence and paragraph starts.) A
hazard of first-person, avoiding an I parade requires conscious use of
pronouns and variation of sentence structure — without compromising
readability or creating awkward sentences. Example: "I was stunned. I
had no idea what I should do, stuck in the elevator alone without my cell
phone. I tried using the on-board telephone (dead) and even banging on
the metal doors, shouting for help, but I began to despair once my voice
became hoarse. I was trapped and trapped good."

Second-person and other creative narrative choices

Last, second-person perspective is objectively the rarest form and is

considered artsy, a toy of the literary-fiction realm. Second-person — as in "You
shot the sheriff, but you did not shoot the deputy — is also the hardest
perspective to write, mostly because it's difficult to tell a story all in commands.
You begin reading a story, and at first the idea of second-person entertains.
You find the idea novel and playful. However, as the commands drag on, you
feel the story become domineering, even unnatural, so you put the book down.
See what I mean? Using commands in such a way can become cumbersome.
Plus, it's difficult to keep the reader immersed in a character that's supposed to
be them. The reader naturally takes the character personally, thinking, "Well, I
would never do that," and thereby loses that valuable immersion.

Immersion.
 A reader attaching and/or getting lost in a story, often broken when they
see inconsistencies, have unanswered questions or sense implausibilities.
Typos or incorrect language are also common breakers of immersion, as
are most authorial missteps or lack of expertise. Example: "But why
would the detective make that choice? Even I'm smarter than that, and
I'm not a cop" or "I was totally immersed until you said the sky was
blue, when you clearly said in Chapter Two that the planet's sky was
purple and had three moons."

Accepting that difficulty, second-person POV's benefit is pretending the

reader literally is the character on the page and has an undeniable feeling of
immediacy and importance. We all loved Choose-Your-Own Adventure stories
as children for this very reason: We felt as if we inhabited the tale. If your story
calls for second-person, by all means, go for it.
You are the writer and are allowed to experiment. A story can be told from
the POV of a dog or a storm. The narrator in The Lovely Bones is a ghost. The
Virgin Suicides is told from the "we" perspective, as a first-person plural POV.
Other ambitious writers might have one narrator in the first and another in the
third or even second.

After all, first-, second- and third-person POVs are merely shells: structures
within which a great deal of variation exists. Which you choose depends on
your goals as a writer and on the character and role of your narrator. Think
about your story and ask yourself which point of view would best suit your
purposes. For instance, if you're looking for a surprise ending, first-person
can get in the way because the narrator is supposedly exposing their mind.
The reader is too close to the character for the writer to keep secrets.

Just don't let indecision about point of view hold you back. You can always
change perspective in the next draft, or write the same chapter with two different
perspectives in order to measure the different effects.
 Character and Dialogue
Just as you don't have a play unless there are actors upon the stage, story
cannot exist without characters. A theatre company can have the most talented
set designer of all time — just as a book might have a fascinating world, well
built — but without characters moving inside that world, what you have is a
static piece of art. A pretty picture to hang on a wall. Characters are the actors
upon the stage of your story, and whether they are well or poorly drawn can
make or break the production.
Notice, I use the word "characters" rather than "people," because of course,
your story's characters need not be human. Many successful stories include
characters who are animals (Watership Down), spirits (The Lovely Bones),
inanimate objects (The Brave Little Toaster) or aliens (Ender's Game). However,
in order to have action — the forward momentum that defines story — you must
have at least one mind to think, voice to speak and/or body to move.

Depth of character

This character's mind/voice/body, while absolutely a product of your

imagination, should feel real to the reader, a concept that in the writing world we
usually refer to in terms of three-dimensionality. Good characters should have
facets, meaning different sides to their personality. They should have depth,
meaning a surface level they present to the world and a more personal version of
the self they keep inside. In other words, the rest of the world may idealize
skinny people, but in fiction, we want our characters to be thick and fat and
round.
 Round character.
A fully developed character who seems plausibly real to a reader,
thereby promoting bonding. These characters may begin as stereotypes
but have a unique point of view, idiosyncrasies or surprising traits that
add depth to their personalities. Character research and character-based
writing exercises are great ways to create rounder characters. Example:
Firefly's Jayne Cobb is a stereotypical dumb strongman, but he gains
depth through several "save the cat" good deeds, an amusing attachment
to his weapons, a keen sense of upcoming danger and a ridiculous
homemade hat, all of which combined to make him unlike any dumb
strongman created.

Flat character.
A character based on stereotype or well-known tropes who has no
unique complications and little depth. These characters are predictable
and don't promote bonding between the reader and the flat character.
Readers struggle to care about flat characters, though they may have
trouble explaining such as the reason for their dislike. Examples: The
gay best friend, the sassy black friend, the dumb blonde/jock, the
magical negro, etc.

Fiction's job, in my opinion, is to seek out humanity, and therefore our

conception of character is layered, nuanced and essential. Even in the most
popcorn variety of genre or plot-driven fiction, an audience will not connect with
a character that either turns them off or feels false, so you must treat the
characters who populate your fictional world as real. They should be people with
talents and flaws, dreams and fears, and an individual voice that cannot be
mistaken.
Most of this depth can be brought out by testing the character with whatever
challenges your plots presents. Like one modern master of story, Joss Whedon,
once said, “You take people, you put them on a journey, you give them peril,
you find out who they really are.” Whether a character is your protagonist, your
antagonist or something in between, your story should challenge their status quo.
Whether the plot offers them a challenge or an opportunity, the chance to grow
is vital to the creation of a round character and pulls them from two dimensions
into three.

Protagonist/s.
The sympathetic main character/s for which the reader is rooting. This
 character is often — but does not have to be — a narrator, and is often
— but does not have to be — the good guy or white hat in the story's
main conflict against the forces for evil. A protagonist need not be the
perfect personification of virtue but needs to be sympathetic enough for
the reader to emotionally connect, maintain immersion and root for their
mission. Examples: Luke, Leah and Han all qualify as protagonists in
Star Wars.

Antagonist/s.
The bad guy/s in the story, those who stand in the way of your
sympathetic main character's goals or create their struggles — while
maintaining enough sympathy to feel round and real to the reader. This
character does not have to be an individual but instead a group,
corporation, government or other larger entity, or a non-human force
like a disease or a storm. The antagonist can also be misidentified or not
unmasked until late in the story, and occasionally the main character can
serve as their own antagonist (man versus himself). While there are
successful stories that do not have clear antagonists, antagonists are the
clearest, most common driver of conflict in fiction. Examples: He Who
Must Not Be Named (a.k.a. Voldemort) is the main antagonist of the
Harry Potter series. However, the series is also populated with more
minor antagonists, including the Malfoy family and the Dursleys.

Three elements of character success

Past depth, a successful character has three further attributes, the first of
which is the person (or ghost or alien) is plausible based on the laws of your
universe. For instance, if you're writing realistic fiction rather than speculative
fiction, a 3-year-old will not be able to drive that car, nor will the kid's grandpa
be strong enough to lift said car to save lives after the inevitable accident.

Plausibility (also known as "suspension of disbelief").

The maintenance of internal consistency, which makes the reader
believe your story is, at best, believable, and at worst, possible. In
fiction, plausibility fails when the story has become too strange, risky,
out of character or otherwise off the rails for the reader to maintain
immersion. What's not plausible in the real world can often be made
plausible in fiction through proper world- and character-building.
Example: The finale of the popular show Lost was so implausible,
 obviously unplanned and slapped together, the entire series lost
credibility — and a lot of fans.

Your critique group comes in handy with plausibility, bringing outside

perspective to what makes sense and what doesn't. Your world will be assumed
to operate in the same ways ours does unless otherwise specified. If your world
is speculative, however, plausibility requires consistency within the rules you
set. Either way, our characters must be plausible according to the rules we
create.
Second, a successful character needs to be interesting, meaning the reader
finds them unique enough to be compelling. In this sense, unique need not mean
characters should be the prettiest, richest, smartest or most talented possible
person — although, hey, that's cool if they are. A large portion of fiction,
though, covers the very interesting lives of very ordinary people. A character can
be compelling for any number of reasons, including their personality, their
literary voice or the crazy situation in which they find themselves.
The last attribute of a successful character is sympathy, a characteristic that
has a very specific meaning in the world of fiction. Out in reality, we use
"sympathetic" to mean our feelings toward someone whose circumstances are
difficult. ("You have my deepest sympathy.") But in the realm of story,
sympathy leans toward its empathetic definition and has more to do with if the
reader can be sympathetic to whatever the character is experiencing.
Sympathy is about a reader being able to put themselves in the character's
place, or at the very least, being able to admit to the character's humanity. If a
character cannot qualify as worthy of the reader's tolerance, they are
unsympathetic and therefore unsuccessful.

Unsympathetic.
A character who is not only distasteful and unlikeable but to whom the
reader cannot bond. Readers should be able to have sympathy even for a
story's villains, usually through understanding some small part of a
character's personality or past. Rounder characters are less likely to be
unsympathetic, therefore adding depth can be a good solution. Note: The
line between unlikeable and unsympathetic varies by reader and is
subjective. Examples: For many readers, Patrick Bateman of American
Psycho is completely unsympathetic. For others, the heroes of Ayn
Rand's philosophical works are too selfish to ever be sympathetic. Both
are matters of taste, but truly unsympathetic characters rarely make it to
publication.
On likability

Notice that likability is not on the list of character necessities. Yes, we all
have characters we adore with every fiber of our beings, whose lives we wish we
led and whose friendship we wish we had. However, likability is by nature
subjective and therefore only of limited help in the world of critique. "I didn't
like her" is not an actionable response to your critique partner's protagonist.
However, most likely your dislike of this fictional person stems from one of
the above issues of depth, plausibility, interest or sympathy. Perhaps the woman
is too superficially drawn or her dialogue is unbelievably saccharine. Perhaps her
motives are too counter to your moral code or you find her too similar to other
protagonists in other stories. If such is the case, tell your critique partner you
find the character unsympathetic.
Of course, there are many, many unlikable characters who appear to fail one
or more of these four basic tests and yet star in very successful and/or beloved
books. Sometimes whether or not you'd like to be friends with a character has
nothing to do with character success.
Instead, the secret to success with an icky or somehow compromised
character is creating sympathetic connection to the reader, which is definitely
possible with characters who are the bad guys. We love the nasty Cruella de
Ville. We admire and even root for Hannibal Lector.
This nuance brings out perhaps the most important distinction in fictional
characters: Unlikable does not necessarily mean unsympathetic, and only totally
unsympathetic characters to whom the reader can make no bond are truly
unsuccessful.
This truth holds past the realm of antagonists and into the realm of
unlikeable heroes, as well. Unlikeable protagonists are key in redemption stories,
for instance, and are particularly popular in the realm of literary fiction.

Unlikeable.
A character who has distasteful traits the reader might not embrace as
moral or tasteful. Most antagonists are supposed to turn away reader's
support in favor of the hero, but unlikeable characters usually have
enough redeeming qualities to gain reader affection. Some readers even
prefer unlikeable characters because they're more round and true to life,
and perhaps have more unique experiences to impart than more
traditional, predictable heroes. Unlikeable, however, does not
necessarily cross the line into unsympathetic. Examples: TV serial killer
Dexter Morgan and drug kingpin Walter White; Ignatius J. Reilly from
 Confederacy of Dunces, Javert in Les Miserables, Gollum from The
Lord of the Rings.

I'm particularly fond of unlikeable characters and based my first novel,

Transference, around a particularly icky man named Dr. Derek Verbenk.
The secret of pulling off an unlikeable protagonist is somehow maintaining
sympathy despite dislike, often by giving the character a saving grace. Dexter,
for instance, is a killer, but kills only other killers. He is evil but is working on
the side of good, and many readers see that work as his saving grace.

Save-the-cat moment.
A literary device in which an antagonist or unlikeable main character is
given a trait to garner reader sympathy. With antagonists, this device
often adds depth and prevents the character from feeling flat. In the case
of unlikeable non-antagonists, the device helps keep the character
sympathetic. However, the device can be used even with heroic
characters to immediately inform the reader of their heroic status. The
name of the device stems from the old canard about cats getting stuck in
trees and the heroic efforts of good Samaritans or firefighters to rescue
the poor, stupid cat. Example: "There is good in him. I feel it." Darth
Vader's save-the-cat moment is his last-minute turn from the dark side
when he murders the emperor to save the life of his son.

Les Miserables' Javert is hunting the hero and causes the protagonists a lot
of unnecessary pain — unnecessary in the eyes of those heroes, that is, because
pain is a necessary writing tool used to provoke growth. However, we
understand Javert despite his flaws because he's a product of his rough
upbringing and is so dedicated to justice that he's blind to humanity. What could
in other circumstances be strengths have become his faults.
These explanations for unlikeable character's actions are the good traits that
help level out their bad characteristics and allow your reader to connect despite
the ick.
On the other hand, some stories absolutely require a character to be
untrustworthy, the author intentionally allowing the character to manipulate the
reader. These characters are not only (or necessarily) unlikable, but they are
unreliable.

Unreliable narrator.
A narrator that for reasons of character, circumstance, ability or age is
 unable to convey a full and/or accurate account of events for the reader
— in a way the reader immediately or eventually notices. This character
might be untrustworthy (a thief, an admitted liar), mentally unfit (faulty
memory or sensory input, mental illness) or too young to understand the
true meaning or import of events despite the fact they can describe those
events for the reader. A complicated concept to execute but one which
creates a mystery or gives the reader a secret and/or a feeling of figuring
things out for themselves that often bonds them to the story. Example: In
The Girl on the Train, the narrator Rachel is an active alcoholic who is
often drunk in scene. Her judgement about right and wrong, or even
objective reality, can therefore not be trusted.

The unreliable narrator is a relatively advanced technique, requiring a certain

skill with obfuscation and reader persuasion, but the effort pays off in certain
contexts. Mystery and suspense stories use unreliable narrators to intentionally
confuse the reader or hide the solution of the puzzle from view.
Other stories are intentionally confusing, geared toward readers who enjoy
the whoa plot twist that reveals they've bought into the tale of an unreliable
narrator, that the world as it's been assembled is wrong. This sudden shift in
perspective is a feature of many short stories but also longer works in the mind-
fuck genre, which often uses mental illness or limited perspective to hide
important revelations until just the right moment.

Gotcha moment (also "mind fuck").

The moment in a story in which a reader's conception of the world,
events and/or a character are drastically different than they'd first
assumed. Especially important and popular in the realm of short stories,
gotcha moments are reveals of new information that places the rest of
the story in a new light. Time travel, mysteries, horror, unreliable
narrators and literary fiction are ripe fields in which to cultivate mind
fucks. However, these gotcha moments have to be intentional to be
successful, and it's a fine line between betraying a reader and creating a
thrilling reversal. Your mileage may vary. Example: "You mean Bruce
Willis was dead the whole time?!"

While the concept may seem counter-intuitive to building reader trust,

never underestimate the power of surprise — if in the right context, written with
skill and pulled off without sacrificing that all-important sympathy.
Introduction to dialogue

In general, sympathy is based on how the character is presented — or sold

— to the reader and to what pieces of information are revealed and how.
If a character is a narrator, the reader gets to know their personality through
the narrative sections of the story. Obviously, a close perspective will give the
audience a far more intimate acquaintance with the character and a distant
perspective a more general idea, but their thoughts and/or reactions should be
accessible. Their skulls are transparent to the audience, to some degree. Unless
you're breaking the fourth wall, however, these personality tidbits are delivered
to the reader without the character's knowledge or consent. The character is
unaware of the intrusion.
But the main way characters consciously communicate themselves on page
is through dialogue, which takes two main forms. The vast majority of dialogue
is external, meaning spoken aloud, so much so that if only the word "dialogue" is
used, external is assumed. The second form, internal dialogue, is not uncommon
either, however, and consists of a character's conversation with themselves. Most
stories have at least a small amount such self talk.

Dialogue (specifically "external dialogue").

External dialogue is the literal words of a character, spoken aloud and
framed in quotes. Example:

"How could we be out of latex gloves?" she asked her

accomplice. "I just went to the store yesterday."

Internal dialogue.
The narrator's unspoken thoughts or inner monologue. If these thoughts
are direct, meaning the character is speaking to themselves using I or as
if speaking aloud — like we all tend to do when alone, consciously or
not — this dialogue should be in italics (shown here underlined, as
well). Example:

She searched the murder kit for latex gloves, wondering how
they could already be out. I just went to the store yesterday!

As direct forms of dialogue, both of these types require some degree of

special formatting.

Direct dialogue (internal or external).

 When a character speaks to another person aloud in real time or to
themselves as if in conversation, the latter often using the I pronoun.
Both forms require special formatting: quotes for external and italics for
internal (the latter also underlined here). Example:

"No, you haven't gone out for supplies in three days," the
accomplice responded, shaking his head and wondering if he should
have chosen that younger serial killer in Brighton to follow. This is
the person I chose to commit felonies for? Senility wasn't a good
trait in their line of work.

Direct external dialogue is usually framed in quotes and, when not crystal
clear via context, includes a speech tag. (Cormac McCarthy can get away
without quote marks. Most writers are not Cormac McCarthy, but even he
alienates some readers with his lack of punctuation and speech tags.)

Speech tag (also known as speech ID or "dialogue tag").

The identification of who is speaking a line of dialogue or responsible
for an internal thought, usually a pronoun or name accompanied by
"said" or another speech verb. Example: "This is a ridiculous but
nonetheless correct example of a speech tag," she said. He replied,
"You are right on both counts."

Direct dialogue is effective for many reasons, the first being its clarity. Who
is speaking is immediately clear thanks to the formatting. As a bonus, that
formatting usually breaks up the text on the page, drawing the eye and also
giving the eye a nice break by creating white space. Direct external manages this
feat with lots of line breaks between speech and narration or between speakers.
Direct internal dialogue's italics are less drastic of a break but the italics can
nonetheless make the page seem less like a wall of text.

Creating voice in dialogue

In addition to a round personality, a well-drawn character should also have

their own unique voice, a manner of speech that's uniquely their own. In other
words, characters shouldn't all sound alike. A critique group should keep a sharp
eye out for if and how characters' voices are differentiated because when we
speak, we are conveying not only what we want to communicate, but also who
we are and who we want to be. The way a character speaks might be bossy or
timid, serious or joking. Your characters have different levels of education and
therefore vocabulary. They may hail from different locations, and they may even
speak with different accents.

Dialect.
Use of accent or historical/regional language to create setting and world
build. Can easily be overdone, and best if kept to the absolute minimum
that will convey the necessary setting and tone without confusing the
reader and/or breaking immersion. Example: "Have you never been to
the Emerald Isle before? Yer in for a treat."

A good critique exercise when it comes to direct dialogue is to cut each

character's speech tags out of the submission. If without a speech tag or context,
you can tell which character spoke the given words, the writer has successfully
created a strong voice for that character. If not, you have valid feedback to bring
up about voice.
Granted, not every exchange will be identifiable — "Pass the salt" could be
attributed to anyone. You might choose to keep some dialogue exchanges neutral
and quick, perhaps in order to not break the momentum of a tense scene, or
maybe in order to convey a character in a formal or foreign environment.
However, whenever possible, a writer should try to make every action and
word on page not only communicate what's being said but also communicate or
reaffirm information about the character.
For instance, "Pass the fucking salt, mate" might be apt for one character,
while "Um, hey, guys? Where's the… Oh, when you're done, Jerri, can I have a
bit of salt?" conveys a completely different character. Keep in mind that your
dialogue should not feel unrealistic or two-dimensional, which in Fiction World,
we often call wooden.

Wooden.
Dialogue that does not ring true to life because it's awkward, overly
formal or otherwise implausible. Wooden dialogue can be avoided when
a writer listens to real-world conversations with an eye toward rhythm,
slang or colloquialisms, filler words and other details to give your
dialogue life. Common pitfalls include overuse of character names,
repetition of known information, failure to use contractions in dialogue,
every character sounding the same and overuse of dialect. Example:

"What are your plans for the season this year?"

"Our plans for this year's season are to win as much as
 possible."
"That will be a nice change."
"Yes. That will be a nice change."

In the quest for realistic dialogue, be aware that transcribing real-world

conversations word for word is not necessarily a successful formula. In the real
world, humans often take longer to get to a point than a character should. We too
often use filler words like "um," "you know" or "like," or we make our meaning
clear nonverbally in a way impossible to replicate on the page. Therefore, ideal
dialogue is plausible but also the best possible version of itself — think of the
snappy dialogue in The Gilmore Girls — with each word choice or phrase
chosen for its impact, character building, clarity or personality. A writer
sometimes has to tune in on success by first failing in both directions.

Indirect dialogue

In addition to direct external and internal dialogue, indirect dialogue of both

types is also an important tool in the writer's toolbox.

Indirect dialogue (specifically "indirect external dialogue").

A summarized version of words spoken aloud by characters, either in
scene or in flashback, often used to explain concepts or convey
necessary information without adding length or boring the reader.
Indirect dialogue does not require quote marks. Examples:

Direct: "That's not how you play a ukulele," said the barista, who grabbed
the instrument and explained the correct hand placement.
Indirect: Fatima cursed at the barista, yanking back her precious ukulele
and muttering about mansplaining idiots.

Indirect internal dialogue.

The narrator's unspoken thoughts or inner monologue in summary form.
Indirect internal dialogue does not require italics or special formatting
(also underlined here for clarity). Examples:

Indirect: Luca wondered if the skirt she was wearing today was for his
benefit. He loved how the length showed off her legs.

Direct: She was wearing that cute skirt again. Is that for me? Perhaps she'd
noticed how he liked when she showed off her legs. Hot, he thought.
 Indirect dialogue is a helpful tool to fast-forward the story a bit. Sometimes
indirect summary acts as the "previously on" section of TV series, as in, "The
last time she'd visited the tarot shop, the medium had told her someone close to
her heart would fall in love with someone dangerous." In that case, we've been
reminded of the past without taking the detour of an entire flashback.
Communicating backstory can also be short-cutted through indirect
dialogue, as in "Grandpa launched yet again into the story of his involvement at
Area 54, reasserting the old and debunked claim that as janitor, he'd been in
charge of dusting the UFOs weekly." That indirect dialogue saved a minimum of
a page compared to having grandpa speak directly on the page.
Similarly, complex subjects can benefit from the indirect treatment, such as,
"Kaylee described the inner workings of the atomic engine in far too much detail
for Captain Reynolds, dipping into thermodynamics and fission propulsion,
when all he really wanted was the name of the part she needed him to buy on
Persephone." We don't necessarily need to hear Kaylee's full description of the
engine. The parts Mal thinks are important are enough for our reader in that
context.
Fact is, when a writer is deep in their story, it's difficult to remember not
every word and event belongs on the page or should take up the same amount of
space, but it is perfectly acceptable to summarize on occasion.
Remember, The Hunger Games described every meal Katniss eats in detail,
but skips completely over all the times she'd have needed to use the bathroom.
(Thanks for that metaphor, Jody. It's one I've never forgotten.) Describing every
trip to the loo — in addition to being gross — was not as necessary for the story
or world-building compared to the food, which helped convey all the hunger in
the world of The Hunger Games. You're allowed to fast forward, to pause, to
slow down, and to rewind.

A character is not a game piece

Also easy to forget in the need to set a story down on the page is the fact that
characters are not simply game pieces moving around a board, speaking lines.
We often fall into a mindset of action — first she did X, then she did Y — and
can easily find ourselves describing our characters moving through the world in
terms of only their movements. Always pipe up with such feedback in group,
because that writer is using their character as only a camera rather than a person
and is likely showing action without much in the way of reaction.

Character as camera.
 A passage or entire story in which the narrator is too distant, providing
mostly visual and auditory information in the same way a camera would
recording the scene rather than showing the scene through the lens of
character. A character will always have a unique, personal way of seeing
even the most mundane scenes or events, and respecting that personal
lens gives a character voice and depth on page. Correction often means
adding sensory, physical, emotional or psychological detail, which
serves the added purpose of character building and/or backstory
conveyance. Examples:

Character as camera: Entering the ballroom, Esmond walked to the punch

table and saw his nemesis, Josiah, dressed in a black and white tuxedo. The
room was decorated with swags of evergreen boughs and bundles of
mistletoe.

Character with POV observations: Entering the ballroom, Esmond walked

to the punch table and saw none other than Josiah, looking dashing as ever
in a tailored tuxedo. Far more dashing that Esmond himself, he feared. The
swags of evergreen decorating the room created the appearance of holiday
cheer, but Esmond had never loved the Christmas season. The holidays
created too much pressure and far too many opportunities for comparisons
in which he was never the most handsome, never the most accomplished.

Reaction.
What a character — most often a narrator — should have at a turn of
events, usually an event, clue or piece of dialogue that's important,
unexpected, interesting, or impacts the character's life or plans. A
narrator's reactions are a vital way to create the lens of the POV. Note:
Characters do not necessarily notice everything a reader does, and
therefore their lack of reaction/failure to notice a clue or telling detail
can also be important. That failure to react, however, should be
intentional. Example: "Wait, that Mr. Hyde is his real father should give
Stephen pause. Where's his reaction?"

In narration as much as in dialogue, a writer must pay attention to character

voice and experience. Your character is the lens through which your reader
experiences the story, and their personality and/or experiences should color the
whole of the tale. They must not only exist but also experience.
Writers often default to using only two senses, the visual and the auditory, to
experience the world, when smell, touch and taste can be fantastic tools to create
immersion. Such dry storytelling can feel to the reader like the script of a play
with stage blocking rather than fiction, so always read in critique with an eye
toward all of the senses.

Senses.
As a critique note, indicates the failure to use details from the character's
five senses. Vision and hearing are the most often used senses in writing,
but smell, taste and touch can — in moderation — add depth, create
reader connection and bring a fictional world to life. Example: The smell
of fresh cigarette smoke in the entryway made Ingrid's face light. Her
grandfather had arrived and was likely already in the kitchen with Mom,
drinking coffee so sweet a spoon could stand in it. At least, so Dad had
said, but Ingrid hadn't yet seen the spoon trick work.

When we treat our characters as cameras, we tend to give them obvious

stage direction that impedes the tension of a story or causes reader disconnect.
Because we are thinking of these characters as game pieces to be moved, we
state on the page what is — or should be — implied.

Looking on camera.
When a POV character's gaze is too obviously directed, most egregious
when the word look is used on the page. Since the narrative is literally
the character's experience, these looks are often — but not always —
unnecessary and act as distancing language. While some uses of look are
necessary, if the POV/narration sees what the character does, it's
redundant to specify the gaze is the character's. In this context, words
similar to look include watched, saw and observed. Example: "Joan
looked at the restaurant's host station, where a handsome older gent in a
leather jacket waited for a table" versus "A handsome older gent in a
leather jacket now stood at the host station, waiting for a table."

Thinking on camera.
When a character's main action in a scene is all their in head, most
egregious when the word "thought" is used on the page. A POV
character's thoughts are the narrative, for the most part, so use of
"thought" is often redundant. Its use can impede flow, break immersion
or cause character disconnect. In this context, other words similar to
thought include decided, hoped and imagined. Example: "Joan thought
 the gentleman was attractive and hoped he was the blind date she was at
the bistro to meet" versus "The gentleman was attractive, and Joan
would not at all be displeased if he was the blind date she was at the
bistro to meet."

Distancing (or distancing language).

Words or phrases that serve to put the reader at an unnecessary
remoteness from events. Often occurs when a writer, attempting to avoid
POV violations, treats the narrator as a filter or camera and thereby does
not put the reader into the scene. Example: "She watched the host
consult his reservation list then glance around the dining room" versus
"The host consulted his reservation list, then glanced around the dining
room."

Exceptions exist! Distant perspective and omniscient POV might not use the
lens of character to color the story as much as closer perspectives or first-person
POV. Still, writers must choose the narrator/s who tells the story for a reason.
That character will tell that story in a different way than any other character, and
that voice should permeate the story completely.
Perhaps the voice need not be present in every line, but the character's POV
is like a spell that must be recast before the audience has a chance to notice its
absence. In critique, you are that audience, so watch out for places in a
submission where you feel the voice fade away.

Recasting the spell.

A technique of teaching or reminding the reader about the perspective,
unique voice or sensory experiences of the narrator or about the story's
surroundings, positioning and/or choreography. A writer juggles all
these world elements simultaneously and must keep the balls in the air
lest the reader notice their absence. Every writer has a different style and
timing when it comes to spell-casting, but a reader should never feel the
world or the voice revert back to a blank slate. Related: underpainting.
Example: "Wait, they're still in the prison cell? I've forgotten how big
the cell is and if there's a window. Is there even light to read that note?
Actually, is Lareth literate? I'd love to have answers before I have the
opportunity to form the questions."

Now, this chapter aims to help you target the basics of character, enough to
allow you to discuss and begin to explore your characters and those of your
critique partners, but these ideas are only the beginning of character exploration.
A ton of resources exist outside this dictionary to help you understand and flesh
out your characters or create realistic, snappy dialogue.
Still, never underestimate how much you can learn about doing something
well by first doing something badly, and a critique group is the ideal, non-
judgmental setting for such exploration.
 Story Mechanics
This dictionary began in the realm of the objective, with terms and concepts
upon which most people can agree. A story either is or isn't told from a first-
person perspective, for example.
However, a journey into the realm of story necessarily goes deeper into the
here-there-be-dragons territory of subjectivity, an idea that proves true across
most of the arts and learned crafts. After all, all artists can likely agree paint is
usually classified as oil-based or latex. However, once that paint is on the
canvas, evaluation of the work becomes much more a matter of opinion. An
abstract artist will have a very different audience and set of expectations than a
photo-realistic painter.
As we push into the last instructive chapters of this dictionary, so, too, will
our styles begin to diverge as we express ourselves in different ways upon the
page — and express ourselves for different audiences. A thriller reader expects
snappier action with shorter chapters and more white space on the page, whereas
a reader of literary family epics probably enjoys longer descriptions, more
introspection and a higher total page count.
As critiquers, when we feel our own opinions bubbling to the surface —
"Dammit, man, I don't care about the breeding history of the family's racing
thoroughbreds" — we need to retreat to the tools of story mechanics rather than
opinion to express ourselves — "The breeding history went on so long I felt the
tension you created about the upcoming horse race completely dissolve."
We need to focus on framing our feedback in terms of our experiences as
readers, in part by looking at the important tools of story mechanics.
Creating and maintaining tension

The horse history above gives a great example of one of those frames of
reference: tension, meaning the forward momentum of the story. A thriller might
require a higher volume on the tension knob, but literary fiction requires that tug
forward to turn the page, as well, even if at a lower volume.
We all must learn to read with an eye toward tension, because a story
without tension is often one a reader abandons halfway through. If they want a
long, detailed but pointless series of events, they have, you know, their real lives.
Critique partners should pay attention to when they feel like putting down the
story because that feedback is important. Most people don't like shaggy dogs.

Shaggy-dog story.
A long and often complicated story or anecdote — a yarn — which
winds up being irrelevant to its supposed point and/or ends
anticlimactically. While characters inside fiction may employ this device
to distract other characters or reveal their own personality/humor, an
irrelevant and shaggy-dog plot line is unsuccessful story-telling.
Examples: "The Aristocrats" joke, the song "Alice's Restaurant," your
drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

When tension is lacking, you can look to a few main culprits for
explanations why. Conflict, for instance, is one main driver of tension, meaning
when a character is set against a foe or an obstacle. When conflict exists, such as
when a character wants a thing they currently don't have, but tension still feels
lacking, the issue might be one of motive and consequences.
In other words, ask yourself: Why does the character want the thing, and
what will happen if they don't acquire it? Answers to these questions create a
more sympathetic character and up the stakes of the story, which then strengthen
the reader-character connection and make the reader more likely to turn the
page. As you read critique submissions, ask yourself if you see stakes on the
page.

Stakes.
The consequences attached to conflict within a story should the
character/s succeed or fail, and a near necessity for the building of
tension. Readers bond with characters when they feel the urgency of
their mission and the consequences attached. Example: "If I can't win
the $10,000 tournament prize to replace the money I borrowed from
 Johnny," she lamented, pacing the casino parking lot, "I'll not only lose
my apartment. I'll also lose custody of my children. Everything rides on
my luck tonight."

Any detail or action that dissolves all-important tension should be

questioned — even if that detail is an otherwise lovely one. All writers have bits
of story we fall in love with that we find in the end work against our story's other
goals. In Fiction World, we call the culling of such beloved bits killing our
darlings, and sadly, all writers must sacrifice a few on the altar of story.

Darling.
Short for the common writing advice to "kill your darlings," a phrase,
detail or event for which the writer has an emotional connection, despite
the fact that it adds little to nothing to the scene or the plot. A darling is
by definition something your story could ditch without affecting the
quality. Darlings are often purple prose or distracting, non-relevant
details. Example: "That line of dialogue is indeed witty, but it's
unrelated to the conversation. Are you sure it's not a darling you can
cut? Maybe you can use that line in another story."

World-building and back story

Another common decelerator of forward momentum is the necessity of

world-building and back story.
The first, world-building, is often thought of as a problem of speculative
fiction, and it's true such writers have their world-building work cut out for them
since the setting or the society cannot be assumed. But even in realistic fiction, a
writer must make space to establish where the story takes place, who the
characters are and the status quo, because no one part of the realistic world is
like another.

World building.
The creation of the fictional world of your characters, focusing a lot on
setting — the physical landscape and/or surroundings but also any other
part of the cultural landscape, including social norms, technology, magic
systems, economics, taboos, cuisine, etc. World building is spoken of
most in the realms of speculative fiction, in which the time period,
setting or possibilities are far different than our own. However, even
realistic fiction requires some world-building in order to establish the
 status quo of the world and the characters before unfamiliar and exciting
developments move the plot forward. Example: "Look, you have magic
in this world, so I don't know if this is a bear meaning a tubby but sexy
gay partner or a literal bear with fur and claws. More world-building is
going to be vital, especially as new characters and concepts are
introduced."

Back story.
The transmission of information that took place before the story began.
Not all of a character's or world's past is of significance to the story, so
should be restricted to need-to-know information. Related term:
Exposition. Example: In Ender's Game, the author chose to open the
story as a the protagonist is bullied for his status as a third child in
order to convey the unique back story of Ender's family, who were
allowed to have three children rather than the standard two.

Back story, on the other hand, is like world-building for characters,

explaining where the character has been and what they've been up to in the life
they had before they hit the page. (And even if they're literally born on the page,
the reader probably needs to know who their parents were and why they left their
baby on that door step!)
World-building and back story are both matters of delicate balance. Too
little, and your reader doesn't understand or connect with the world or your
characters. Too much, and all the tension of the plot drains away. Outside
opinions like those of your critique partners can help you find the perfect
balance.
Even when you're certain a piece of world-, character- or plot-building
information needs to be conveyed on the page, it's necessary to do so skillfully,
without the reader becoming overly aware you're delivering information.
Sadly, you can't just ring their bell and dump an info package on their door
step — and you should always note whenever you feel dumped on by another
writer's submission.

Info dump.
A passage in which world building or character backstory is related
clumsily, all at once or in too large a chunk. While conveying world and
backstory details is necessary, a dump relays information in a way
perceived as clunky or obvious. Example: Jaxon shined his badge with
pride. He worked for the Intergalactic Council, which was founded in
 2103 in response to the alien Quanis invasion of the Milky Way but
which far outlasted the Quanis Wars. The Council's power was
consolidated under Chairman Gigi Middleton, who created the off-
planet police force that eventually grew into Earth's personal army.
Today the chairman was Muhar Dinar, who made his original fortune
mining asteroids — back when the asteroid belt between Mars and
Jupiter was still heavily populated. Now the Council's headquarters had
filled the belt's space, creating the first manmade planet to orbit the
system's sun. That headquarters was home to more than 16 million
people and…

Instead, world- and character-building information needs to massaged into

the narrative and should feel relatively natural. Good writers are skilled at
finding backstory and world-building opportunities within the action of the story
and can slide that information into scene in a manner that feels welcome to the
reader.
Let's use a common problem for an example: You need to convey the year in
which the story takes place. Info dumping would be blatantly stating, "The year
was 1863 in the Colorado Territory." A more massaged way of conveying the
same info would be to expose a character to a newspaper with the location and
date printed upon on its front page.
This example is far from original — such tricks become obvious with your
X-ray writer vision — but once you begin searching for such openings to
massage in back story and world-building, you can find several in every scene.
You can begin to provide answers before the reader has even thought to have a
question. Just as they wonder about some aspect of the tale — "Wait, they don't
have gravity on the ship?" — the story should find a way to answer that question
almost seamlessly — "As the ship left hyperspeed, the artificial gravity system
issued a warning for crew members to brace themselves before activation."
When you don't leave important questions hanging, you preserve immersion.
Critique partners should always keep note of where they're thrown out of the
story with such questions. Of course, to create mystery, some questions must
remain unanswered, too. Maybe your writer friend intentionally left out that
information to build tension, but no harm is done in asking and much good can
be done when they see what their readers do and don't understand.
World-building is not always separated from a story, either in flashback or in
a whole paragraphs. Ideally, world-building should take place in the action of a
story, in the moment. We must see the world of every scene, see every room as
the character enters that room. In every scene, the reader is curious about which
characters are present, where everyone is standing, what time it is and other
grounding information.

Choreography (also known as "mapping").

The physical movement or location of the characters in space, especially
vital in action and sex scenes but necessary to a degree in every scene.
Does not apply only to where everyone is standing but also positioning
in space, and when layout of a world or building is important, sometimes
includes a rough map of the surrounding area. Examples: "Take a look at
the choreography in that sex scene because I'm pretty sure at some point
he has three hands. Time to get out the action figures to make sure that
sex act is possible."

As you read your own or your critique group's work, think: Can I visualize
this scene based on the information on the page?
Hopefully the choreography is subtle and composed of a small number of
details that succeed in drawing the whole scene, rather than a large number of
generic or extraneous details that get in the way of momentum. But without at
least a small amount of such choreography — and internally consistent
choreography — the reader cannot create the mental picture and will be tossed
out of their immersion by either the blankness of the scene or their unanswered
questions.
Learning how to subtly weave information delivery and story together is an
advanced writing skill and often takes many drafts of fine-tuning, critique, fine-
tuning and more critique, also known as dowsing.

Foreshadowing

Writers also face a similar but opposite challenge. In addition to informing

the reader about the world they're entering and the people inside it — showing
the past and the present — a storyteller must also simultaneously foreshadow
where the story is going, thereby hinting at the future.

Foreshadowing (also known as "painting attention").

An advance hint of what will come to pass in the story, which should be
neither too obvious or completely unnoticed, or an item of importance to
which you are drawing attention. Foreshadowing avoids a result that
feels like deus ex machina, but does not always need to be correct, as in
the case of a red herring. Example: As she rushed from the house, she
 failed to fully shut the gate and Dora, the retriever, began to follow her
to the bus stop. "No, Dora," she said, grabbing the dog's collar to lead
her back home and this time checking the gate twice. (Spoiler: Dora
escaping and/or the gate being left open will again become important
later in the story, or this tidbit would be irrelevant and therefore
cuttable.)

Fundamental to foreshadowing is the idea that everything that happens on

camera is important for one reason or another. Every detail the reader's attention
is drawn to should eventually be important for world building, character
development, plot movement, plot hinting or, ideally, more than one at a time.

On camera (also known as "in scene").

Shorthand for the events transpiring on the page as opposed to those that
happen outside the narrative. Events or ideas related in backstory or
indirect summary are still considered on camera, but irrelevant events
(such as stopping to tie a shoe or the fact a character slept well) should
usually be ignored and kept off camera. Example: "Have we seen this
character on camera yet? If not, I don't think there's near enough
description of his appearance and personality for the first time we meet
him."

Every detail in a story should be an intentional decision, and in the case of

foreshadowing, meaning you often will lampshade a detail of significance to
future events or to reassure the reader that, yes, said detail is odd and the writer
intended the oddness to be apparent.

Lampshade (also used as hanging a lampshade or put a lampshade on

it).
An author's alerts to the reader as to the significance of a detail or
development, created in any number of ways but usually by directing
attention. Lack of lampshade creation can cause readers to miss
important context or information, and therefore often leads to the
assumption of authorial incompetence or lack of experience. Example:
"Grandpa would never forgive her if blind old Dora ran into traffic"
lampshades the importance of the dog, Dora, and foreshadows the sense
of shame the character will feel when the poor pup gets out.

Foreshadowing is a dance of subtlety, and is undeniably subjective. Still, we

must learn to take note when a plot twist takes us by surprise or betrays our
expectations. A writer might not themselves see where they are being unclear or
too unpredictable because they wrote the story and know what's going to happen.
Outside eyes can see foreshadowing in ways an author cannot, making critique
very important to successful foreshadowing.
Some stories require more or less foreshadowing than other stories. Ideally,
though, when something interesting or shocking takes place later in the story,
that future plot point should have been seeded earlier so the development makes
sense to the reader.

Seeding.
Going back into a story to insert a detail that will become important later
or that needs better foreshadowing. Seeding a story with this important
detail allows you to create a call back to the information later. Seeding is
often necessary as a plot evolves in order to make new developments
possible and plausible. Example: "Rylan has a brother?! Rylan running
away from the family home was a large part of his backstory and a
sibling was never mentioned. Go back and seed the brother in."

Call back.
Similar to foreshadowing, a device where the reader is instantly
reminded of a resonating concept or experience, often to create a laugh
or an emotional response. Example:

Page 22: Sanjay's bad dreams replayed the abuse on loop — the priest
removing his belt, the clank of the buckle, the snick of the door lock — and
he'd wake chilled and unrested.

Page 79: In the man's assurance, Sanjay heard the clank of belt buckle, a
threat.

Always read a submission with an eye toward seeds and call backs, because
these devices create much of the fun of reading. One of reading's greatest
pleasures is that dawn of understanding when a previously noticed but seemingly
insignificant detail becomes important. Readers enjoy learning a character and
their unique quirks, then seeing how those quirks affect their actions. They
especially love when the pieces of a story suddenly align, the world makes
sense, and the reader has put together the pieces on their own.
On the other hand, obvious and heavy-handed foreshadowing can make the
reader feel condescended to, as if they're being told the story's point rather than
being allowed to discover it themselves.

Frying pan.
Taken from the cartoonish idea of hitting a person over the head with a
frying pan, a piece of writing or phrase that is heavy-handed or too
obviously or forcefully presented, thereby treating the reader as if they're
unintelligent and turning them against you. Readers love the joyful click
of putting together a story's pieces for themselves, meaning the writer's
goal is merely to artfully lay out those pieces. Example: "I prefer a
romance where there's some doubt about if the characters will
eventually unite. I hate being frying-panned from page one that the two
will be perfect together. Let me have some doubt or the ending feels like
a bygone conclusion."

Readers also can feel betrayed by a story or by a writer when their

expectations are completely violated or big, important plot points seem to
materialize out of the blue, meaning the foreshadowing has misled. If Dora the
blind dog and her gate from our previous example don't make another
appearance in the story, the reader is left with a sad-eyed pup in a yard in their
mind, a literary loose end.

Reader trust.
The implied expectations a reader demands an author meet. More
established writers have pre-built reader trust, meaning they are able to
string along, mislead or disappoint a reader and yet that reader will
continue reading. First-time or unknown authors' work must be cleaner,
sharper and overall better in order to build reader trust. However, any
violation of reader trust — via plot holes, unanswered questions,
implausibilities, etc. — will break immersion, no matter who the author
is. Example: "A giant spider?! Are you fucking serious? I'm never
reading Stephen King again."

Similarly, if Dora the blind dog is featured in the story's finale, the reader
should clearly remember the gate scene seeded earlier or her appearance is too
unexpected to be satisfying.
This is especially true of dramatic foreshadowing that fails to trigger an
expected response, for instance when weapons are introduced but never fire or
secrets are dramatically hidden but never revealed to be of any purpose. Readers
can also feel betrayed by too-easy solutions, when they feel the plot has brought
the characters to a place of no return and they're excited to find out how the
characters will save themselves, then the author provides an implausible or
unsatisfying fix.

Chekhov's Gun.
A literary concept popularized by Russian writer Anton Chekhov, who
advised a gun introduced into a story needs to go off at some point or it
should not have been introduced. While weapons are dramatic examples,
the gun is metaphorical and could stand for any plot element or object
whose foreshadowing feels fake or fails to pay off. Example: "You made
such a big deal about her putting the letter in her purse, but then the
letter was forgotten and the Chekhovian gun never fired."

Deus ex machina.
Literally translated as "god from the machine." In fiction, a plot device
in which a complicated and seemingly unsolvable problem is solved
simply and unexpectedly by an outside force, specifically in a manner
that leaves the reader feeling cheated. This solution could be an act of
god, a previously unmentioned magic or skill, an out-of-character action
or any other quick fix. One common example is the "it was all dream"
trope ending. Example: The eagles that save Frodo and Sam in Mordor
can be seen as deus ex machina, because if they had eagle transport on
standby, why would they walk to Mordor in the first place?

Intentional misdirection

Big violations like Chekhov's Gun and deus ex machina are relatively easy
to find and point out during the critique process, but of course, nothing in writing
can ever be one sided. Sure, readers hate having their expectations violated. But
guess what? Readers also love having their expectations violated — in the right
context.
This seeming contradiction relates to the reader's need to put the story
together for themselves. Sometimes an author needs to foreshadow more than
one outcome — another man comes on the scene of the romance who the
heroine finds captivating in an entirely different way than her original beau — so
the story's ending cannot be foreseen. Which one will she marry? The world
must know! Foreseen endings don't turn pages.
Intentional misdirection, therefore, is also a necessary skill in fiction,
particularly in mysteries and thrillers.

Red herring.
A piece of false foreshadowing. A plot element that deliberately
misleads the reader, most commonly used in mysteries and thrillers to
keep the solution to the mystery or crisis a surprise/delight. Can be
unintentional, but is most successful if intentionally placed — and
eventually explained or dismissed to prevent becoming a Chekhovian
gun. Example: '"While he certainly had the best motive," said the
detective, using the stem of her reading glasses to point for emphasis,
"the butler could not have committed the murder. Could you, Jeeves?
You were too busy shagging Lady Greyson on the evening in question."

In certain stories, the main draw is the misdirection, in books as well as in

movies — especially in the mind-fuck genre, stories which are essentially an
intentional betrayal of expectations.
In the gotcha-laden Gone Girl, for instance, the reader is first led to believe
Amy is a sympathetic creature, taken advantage of by her cheating husband,
Nick. What readers love is the gotcha moment that story comes into context and
something much darker and more devious about Amy is revealed. The difficulty
of writing a gotcha story is exposure. As a writer, you've been exposed to your
work so many times, you can no longer be objective. Similarly, you may
sometimes want to hold back what happens later in your story from your critique
group to preserve their innocence and see if they are truly surprised.
Another technique of authorial misdirection is the MacGuffin, which can be
an idea, character or event that seems to be the purpose of the story but winds up
being only an excuse for getting the ball of the tale rolling.

MacGuffin.
A plot device in which a large goal or motivator serves no purpose but to
give the story reason to exist. A MacGuffin is not the point of the story,
is often of no importance or only symbolic importance by the end, but
draws characters together and/or changes their circumstances or setting.
Can be a person, object or mission. Example: The briefcase in Pulp
Fiction is a classic MacGuffin. Hinted to be very valuable, very
dangerous or both, the case is the ostensible motivation behind some
characters' actions, but what's in the case is ultimately unimportant
compared to the story that takes place around it. In fact, the contents of
the case are never revealed.
 Hitchcock loved MacGuffins, as do other mystery and thriller writers. The
Maltese Falcon statue from the story of the same name is a classic example.
While the statue is the literal purpose of Bogart's case, the item might have just
as easily been a painting or a kidnapped relative or evidence of blackmail. The
main point is that a case was created to bring together a certain set of characters,
not that the case concerned a bird statue.
However, MacGuffins are also common in comedies and romances, serving
as the ridiculous excuse for a story to begin — a family reunion, a switched
suitcase, a strange clause in grandma's will that sets the family against one
another. Including MacGuffins is neither good nor bad, but nonetheless, is a
technique that must be intentional to succeed.
Again, few of these story mechanics are absolute. Whether your
foreshadowing is too heavy or too light is a subjective distinction. But hey, a
variety of opinions can actually be wonderful in a critique setting. When you get
to know the tastes of your critique partners, you will know which are part of
your future audience, meaning the type of reader your story is targeting. Listen
keenly to those readers' experience with your story, which parts thrill or
disappoint, which bits they love and hate.
The non-audience member's perspective is also valid, which is important to
remember when you're critiquing a work that's not in your wheelhouse. Perhaps
the genre isn't your cup of tea or you find the story personally uninteresting or
even distasteful. Your feedback might actually be more valuable if you focus on
story mechanics because you don't get swept away by the fun, shiny elements.
If you can detach and read with an eye toward world- and character-
building, choreography, internal consistency and foreshadowing, you can help
make almost any type of story better for its audience of not-you — and sharpen
your own knowledge of and skills with such story mechanics along the way.
 Clarity and Craft
What makes your favorite story your favorite? Why do you love your
favorite author so dearly? When we try to sit down and logically explain why
our hearts love one story and not another, our arguments for our favorites are
often flimsy and subjective, because there are hundreds — if not thousands — of
other stories who share similar plot lines and pull from the same archetypes.
Hundreds — if not thousands — of authors share similar styles, to the point
where some unknown-to-you writer's work might appear strikingly similar to the
favorite author you thought so singular.
Plot, character, dialogue, point of view: All of these building blocks are
essential to create a successful story and should be the first line of critique when
your WIP is drafty and rough.

Drafty.
An obviously unpolished submission or manuscript. Drafty is usually
used when a critiquer sees the promise of the work, doesn't want to
dissuade the writer and is advocating for its continued improvement. A
drafty piece is akin to a messy baby who nonetheless reveals the promise
of the adult it can become. Example: "As a note, I know this is drafty,
but I'd love you to read with an eye toward the chemistry of the
characters. Are they working well together?"

Once the major surgery has been done and the manuscript is in its polishing
stages, what makes us fall in love with a piece of literature is good writing,
however you personally define good writing.
 Ah, but what is "good writing," then? There's no recognized line in the sand
between serviceable and wonderful in the world of story. Some people adore the
long-winded verbal wordplay of a literary writer like David Foster Wallace.
Others adore the philosophy-heavy, didactic books of Ayn Rand. Still others
would use either of those writers' tomes as doorstops rather than reading
material, instead adoring the work of Stephenie Meyers, Janet Evanovich or Joe
Hill.
In other words, "good writing" depends on context, the author's goals and
pure, subjective opinion. This inherent subjectivity makes critiquing the craft
and style of writing tricky territory, full of opinions to be stated and sometimes
dismissed. Despite that subjectivity, though, we must still engage with one
another's craft in critique — especially in the final, polishing stages of a WIP,
where critique gets granular and every nitpick is welcome.

Nitpick (or "nitpicky").

A specific, small and/or granular piece of critique that requires very little
reworking. Nitpicks often emerge after a story's foundational issues are
solid and the author is polishing for publication. Example: "This is
nitpicky, but you need to spell out numerals when they're used in
dialogue."

Thankfully, when we keep in mind the inviolability of a writer's creative

license, such craft critique is not only possible but can also be incredibly helpful.
These subjective nitpicks can help elevate a story from amateur to professional,
from work in progress to finished manuscript to book on the shelf at your local
store – and critique groups are great places to find that feedback.
To that end, I believe feedback about writing craft breaks down into three
main categories: vague and weak words; too much; and too little.

Avoiding the vague like the plague

And to dive right in, the world of the vague and weak necessarily begins
with the ubiquitous writing pet peeve of passive voice.

Passive voice.
A sentence in which the subject receives the action of the verb, usually
lacking a pronoun like I, we, they, she, he, etc. Passive voice is
considered weaker than active voice, which conveys more action and
immediacy. The passive is seen as wishy-washy and unwilling to take a
 stand. Examples:

Think of former President George W. Bush, who famously hung a banner

reading, "Mission accomplished. Who accomplished the mission? His
administration also infamously said, "Mistakes were made," a passive-voice
non-apology since no pronoun or person is admitting to making those
mistakes.

"Twenty people died in a shooting at the Holocaust Museum" is passive and

also avoids blame, which is a widely used journalistic technique when
details are still sketchy. "A terrorist killed twenty people at the Holocaust
Museum" is instantly more active — and frightening, which we want in
fiction more so than on the evening news.

Whether or not a sentence is passive might be an objective measure, but

whether or not that sentence is a problem is still opinion. After all, passive voice
can be a preferable alternative if its use fixes other more serious problems or if
it's the best choice for clarity, but its use should be policed vigilantly.
Passive sentences, thankfully, are often easy to fix. "The tree was struck by
lightning" is passive, with a force acting upon the tree, but switch the sentence
around to show the correct ownership of the action — "Lightning struck the tree"
— and the sentence instantly is more vibrant and active.
In addition to the lack of a subject or pronoun, another red flag of passive
language is the use of "to be" conjugations, meaning all the different ways we
say a person, persons or thing is.

To-be's.
Overuse of "to be" conjugations — am, was, are, were, is, had been, etc.
— and often a sign of passive voice. While some uses of to-be words are
absolutely necessary, many instances can be avoided through the use of
a stronger verb or rephrasing. Examples:

"It is believed by some that the pyramids were built by aliens" is not as
interesting or as active as "Some nutters believe aliens built the pyramids."

"The pirate map was found in the attic" does not have the interest or the
reader connection of "Jimmy stumbled across the pirate map in the attic."

"He was an unusual fellow" is not technically passive, but is tell-y. How
 and why is he unusual can be revealed and the to-be's avoided with
something like, "The man's suspenders and flamboyant pocket square stood
out in the crowd of business suits and instantly marked him as the odd duck
in the office."

In the last example, the to-be in question is not strictly passive, but the use of
the to-be word nonetheless indicates the word choice could easily be
strengthened. Much of critique in the final stages is focused on such small issues
of word choice.

Word choice (also abbreviated as WC).

Calling into question a word that's awkward, incorrect, vague or passive,
sometimes but not always suggesting an alternate word. Example: Her
legs showed (WC - awkward) multiple bruises. Alternate word choices
are that bruises marred her legs, bruises blossomed on her legs or
bruises covered her legs.

Passive language and weak word choices are often tell-y, when in Fiction
World, as many of us have heard, the goal is "show, don't tell." For example,
"He was an unusual fellow" tells the reader who the character is, whereas
showing his clothing in the context of his environment allows the reader to see
his unusual nature for themselves.
Remember, you don't need to suggest how that man should be shown as
unusual. In critique, it's more common and advised to simply point out the vague
word in question and ask the writer to show instead.

Show don't tell (also SDT or "tell-y").

Based on the common writing advice to "show, don't tell," points out a
passage or phrase which blatantly "tells" the reader what is going on or
what to think. Readers prefer to be shown the story's action and get the
mental thrill of putting together the pieces for themselves. Examples:

"The road was dangerous" is tell-y versus "The road was steep and
serpentine, and the guard rails at the many hairpin turns were scraped and
bent by previous distracted drivers."

"The woman ahead of me in the coffee line was frustratingly indecisive"

does not show the scene as much as "The woman ahead of me in the coffee
line asked first about the difference between cappuccino and lattes, then
 about the specials and muttered, 'I don't know. I don't know,' while I
seethed in decaffeinated anguish behind her."

In addition to passive language, which is by nature vague, an in-depth

critique should also keep an eye out for any and all vague word choices.

Vague.
Unspecific word choice or language that makes meaning unclear,
weakens the writing or story, or needs a modifier for more specificity.
Commonly used vague words include: they, it, this, that, some (and
related phrases including somewhere, somewhat or something), thing
(and related phrases like everything, nothing or something), and
here/there. Examples:

"He couldn't do a thing about it." Perhaps he's instead helpless to resist or
has no more feasible options.

"He didn't know who they were" versus "The people hiking up the path were
strangers to him."

"How did you get here?" versus "How did you find our secret hideout?"

Added modifiers: "What is that?" versus "What is that noise?"

All of these words should be noted when reading as a writer, even if for the
sake of clarity or word overuse those words turn out to be necessary.
In some cases, vague language might not be damaging but is still
unnecessary filler — especially when combined with the to-be's, such as "It was
already tense in the meeting." "The meeting was already tense" is both shorter
and more immediate. Similarly, "There was the smell of coffee and anxiety in
the air" can easily become "The smell of coffee and anxiety hung in the air."
These changes are tiny, but strong writing is always better than weak writing,
where possible. A writer may choose to keep that sentence weak, but no harm is
done in pointing their attention toward the problem.
In fact, the word "it" is particularly problematic — and full disclosure, is one
of my personal pet peeves. I will police your "it"'s vigilantly! While the word is
necessary in order to avoid repetition — such as "they bought the car and
immediately resold it" — many of its other uses signal weak writing, especially
when you lean on "it" too heavily.
 It storm (credit for the term to Marc Sobel).
As a noun: A veritable explosion of the word "it." While some usages of
"it" are absolutely necessary, many instances are signals of passivity and
vague language, and are opportunities to strengthen and sometimes
simplify the writing. Example: It was the dare of choice, even though
beating it was near impossible unless you made it to the bridge before
the train. But when it came down to it, it was trying it that mattered
whether you made it or not.
As a verb: The act of searching for the word "it" when polishing a WIP
or before giving your critique group a submission. Example: "Next time,
I'm going to do an it storm before I submit, because I do not want to
hear my 'it''s read back to me. Wow, that passage sounded awful said
aloud."

Other vague choices that should send up red flags include hedge words and
their cousins, inflation words. Both are inexact devices, especially when they
modify weak verbs, and many can be avoided with stronger word choice. Circle
these to your heart's content in submissions as you read, if you think the writer is
at the stage where such polishing notes are welcome.

Hedge words.
Inexact words to avoid when crafting strong fiction, hedge words are
those that modify a thought or sentence to be less bold and clear. While
some hedge words are inevitable, each one should be examined to see if
alternate word choice would strengthen the writing and the immersion
experience. Examples: Usually, sometimes, often, relatively, generally,
potentially, rather, and sort of.

Inflation words.
Modifying words whose intent is to dramatize an adjective, verb or
concept. While some inflation words are inevitable, each one should be
examined to see if alternate word choice would strengthen the writing
and the immersion experience. Examples: Very, really, truly, highly,
extremely, totally, and super-duper.

Writers are told to avoid adverbs in general — I'm one who defends their
use, in the right context — but hedges and inflations are adverbs it's difficult for
anyone to defend. A very bad day can easily be a horrendous day instead.
"Sometimes she wanted to scream into the void" can be "On horrendous days
like this one, she wanted to scream into the void." Critique partners should
definitely keep their eye out for such weak or lazy devices — even if they don't
suggest solutions as I am here in the dictionary.
"But Kate," you might be thinking, "this dictionary is full of hedge words!"
Indeed, I have leaned heavily on terms like usually and often, because in the
context of this dictionary, I cannot explain a complicated craft without such
hedges. For instance, stories are usually, but not always, told in the third-person
perspective. Adverbs are often problematic. In this context, such hedge words
are accurate and simply the best tool for the job — and some hedges and
inflations will find their way into your writing, too, where necessary. But if you
can remove a few, why not do so? Every writer should strive for their work to be
watertight and weakness-free, especially new writers who are given no leeway to
make mistakes.
Another vague device I usually loathe in fiction but lean on repeatedly in
this work is the rhetorical question, sometimes shortened simply to rhetorical.

Rhetorical (short for "rhetorical question").

A question asked, usually by the narrator, that (supposedly) does
not require and/or expect an answer, often used in internal dialogue —
supposedly because in essence, the writer is asking the reader to answer
the question so they don't have to. Hence, rhetoricals can be a writer's
crutch, a way of avoiding specificity and truly engaging with their work.
Examples:

"Who should she choose as her next victim?" could be "She weighed her
options for her next victim" or "She rifled through her mental list of
potential victims."

"Should he stay or should he go?" is in effect telling the reader the

character is unsure what he should do. The character actually engaging
with that thought process is far more interesting and informative, such as,
"He still loved her, but she'd crossed a line he couldn't forgive. Her choices
had forced his heart to battle his mind. Right now, even he wasn't sure
which would win."

In essence, rhetoricals are often used as an easy way out of engaging with
our characters' complicated emotions and decisions. If a submission asks a
rhetorical question, consider if that question can instead be answered as a
statement. "What fresh hell is this?" might or might not be better served up as
"Dorothy considered every ring of her doorbell a fresh hell."
Of course, the desired forward momentum of your story might have no time
for introspection, making the rhetorical an acceptable tool. Maybe a rhetorical
question creates a mood or a textual rhythm you enjoy. Not every unanswered
question is bad, not by a long shot, but always take an opportunity to be more
precise when possible.

Writing too little

The second main category of craft critique deals with problems of having
too little of some element. In my critique groups, we often say that such sparsity
requires more cowbell.

Cowbell (also known as more cowbell).

Named for the famous Saturday Night Live skit with guest Christopher
Walken, in a literary context, cowbell means the submission or scene is
simple, superficial, unsatisfying, and/or lacking depth and detail. Adding
cowbell usually entails including more detail — especially sensory
information — and/or engaging more directly with the narrator's point of
view and reactions. Adding more cowbell often means the passage will
gain words and length. Example: "Ricci and Nat went into the circus tent
and saw the clowns, who were scary. Then they made a carnie mad by
giving away the ring toss's secret to the crowd. They ran away from him,
laughing." Adding cowbell would include describing the circus, which is
a very colorful and sensory-overload experience, as well as the clowns
and the carnie. Fear and humor are also absent in the original, and
adding those emotions would cement for the reader the girls are
building their friendship.

In critique, the beauty of the term cowbell lies in its generality. All readers
enjoy a different amount of detail, and even if it's widely agreed a story lacks
depth and detail, how and where to make additions is utterly subjective.
However, the feedback that, in your opinion, a certain section of a story lacks
cowbell is still an actionable piece of advice for the author. How they choose to
add cowbell is their court, making the term an excellent non-fixing critique.
When the author has used too little of a more specific element, another term
might instead apply. For instance, perhaps they've not recast the spell of setting
for too long a period, so the characters now appear in your mind to be talking in
a blank room.
 Talking heads (similar to "angels on clouds").
A lack of detail, especially physical and/or emotional detail, which
makes a piece of writing read like a dry script. Talking heads is usually
caused by too much focus on only physical movement, speech tags and
dialogue, traded back and forth without interruption. When called
"angels on clouds," the term also connotes the setting has either not been
established or has been forgotten, leaving the reader picturing a pure
white background of clouds. Example: "I think the conversation has
gone on too long uninterrupted, because at this point, they might as well
being talking heads on a holodeck for all I remember about the scene
around them."

As mentioned in the chapter on character, authors must make sure to recast

all their spells regularly, preferably before the reader notices their absence, and
those spells should not only include setting and character POV but also
choreography, voice, world-building and foreshadowing.
The artful layering of all these spells in the narrative, usually beneath the
conscious attention of the reader, is something author Diana Gabaldon brilliantly
describes as underpainting.

Underpainting.
Setting the tone, setting and meaning of a scene with subtlety and skill,
sometimes to the point the reader is un- or half-aware. Coined (as far as
I know) by Outlander author Diana Gabaldon, underpainting is an all-
encompassing term for an author's skill at keeping the reader immersed
without losing setting, character connection, choreography or other
forms of broken spells. When done correctly, underpainting creates a
story with momentum but also unbroken immersion. Example, quote
from Diana Gabaldon: Underpainting "is done for the same effect, and
is just as tedious to do, as the sort of work done when constructing an oil
painting—the laying of sub-layers, half-transparent glazes, bits that
aren’t seen directly, but add to the depth of the final painting. In literary
terms, the technique involves a good deal of body language and
inconsequential small actions. The reader is conscious of the main
thrust of a paragraph, page or scene; the spoken dialogue, the main
actions. Subconsciously, underpainting brings the scene alive in the
mind’s eye."

This skill of knowing when and how to include underpainting is not innate,
or at least, not totally. Perhaps some people have natural storytelling abilities,
but for the most part, we all improve our ear for story through lots and lots of
reading and writing, just as an oil painter improves by engaging with and
creating lots and lots of art. When you consume a high volume of stories, you
begin to feel by instinct when you need to recast a spell, where your story
requires more depth and when the tension has reached the perfect balance.
In my opinion, audiobooks are an excellent way of developing that ear, but
the method of story consumption matters little. Movies, TV shows, plays,
musicals, essays, radio, oral storytelling: Every story gives you more experience
to draw upon, consciously or unconsciously, in your own work and in critiquing
the work of your fellow writers. Plus, as mentioned, the reading of unpolished
and amateur fiction in critique can hone those skills in ways reading finished
fiction simply can't.

Writing too much

Still, we need outside perspective in order to see some of our mistakes, and
that's especially true in the last category of craft critique: problems of too much.
Sadly, we often don't see theses excesses in our own writing without help
because we are too treed in the story as it exists in our head rather than as it
currently sits on the page. Therefore, we put on too much frosting, have too
much fun being fancy or become unconsciously repetitive.

Repetitive.
Repetition of a word or phrase that's distracting to the eye or ear upon
reading, often only caught from a reader perspective due to close author
proximity to the text. Repetition is common in sentence and paragraph
starts, where it's easy to overuse names or pronouns. Example: He stood
behind the shed, his body tingling with excitement. He could feel his
body touching the ground and smell the nearby raspberry bushes with
almost detached clarity. He felt strong now, powerful.

In other cases, we as authors are simply too excited to share our knowledge
about a subject or our worlds that we include far more information than a reader
truly needs or we include information in an obvious, heavy-handed way.
Historical fiction and hard science fiction writers are particularly prone to
oversharing their research, simply because their craft requires more research. If
you spend six hours at the library, of course you want that effort to show in the
story, but even research needs to be relegated to the "Information Helpful to the
Author but Not the Reader" file. Your learning is not wasted, but it may wind up
being background instead of the star of the show.

Your research is showing.

A passage or story in which it's obvious to the reader the author is
enjoying sharing the fruits of their research because the shared details
are irrelevant to the story, long-winded, overkill, repetitive or otherwise
distracting. Example: Her dress was composed of multiple animal pelts,
which had been scraped and dried, then sewn together with sinew using
a bone needle. These needles were often created from elk bone using
rudimentary tools called hand axes, which weighed about a pound.

An excess of style, on the other hand, can be equally problematic, leading to

prose that's over-written and purple — a problem slightly more common in
literary fiction, where style is sometimes allowed to reign above plot.
Other times — and I'm often guilty — we call elements literary when they
are in fact straight-forward darlings. Never be afraid to call out your critique
partners on such excesses.

Purple prose.
An overly descriptive writing style which is overwritten or pompous
enough to be distracting. When a piece edges over to purple prose varies
by reader, and some have a higher tolerance for stylistic writing than
others, but a writer should not be simply drizzling pretty words on a
page because they're pretty. A writer should tell a story, and if too
much/unrelated/meandering descriptions gets in the story's way, it's
likely too purple to print. Example, from the blog Now Novel: "Her
voluminous follicles cascaded down her blushing epidermis of neck,
catching his desirous eye" is a very purple way of saying, "The way her
hair hung across her bare neck caught his eye."

Of course, what's purple to one person might be perfectly lovely to another

reader who loves lush description and unhurried introspection. If that's the case,
your critique group may have varying opinions on what's too little and too
much.
In the realm of craft, agreement is not necessary. Discussion is one of the
best parts of critique! What matters most is your vision for your work and
making sure that vision comes across on the page in its full and radiant glory.
 The Dictionary of Fiction Critique
A reminder:
This section section of The Dictionary of Fiction Critique is an A-Z list of
helpful terms. Bold denotes terms which are defined individually, although
common words like critique, manuscript, narrator, protagonist and antagonist
have been left unformatted. Underlining is used for special emphasis. New
definitions not mentioned in the book's first section are set off in larger font.

-A-
Action.
The forward momentum of plot, not to be confused with the action
genre. Action/adventure stories do indeed feature a lot of forward
momentum, but psychological and emotional movement also qualify as
action as long as the reader feels the pull forward into the story, can tell
it's headed somewhere. Lack of action can feel like a stopped train, one
which the reader often wants to disembark. Example: Opening the story
as the cops investigated the scene of a murder puts us right in the heart
of the action.

Active voice.
The best style of sentence construction/writing for fiction, prioritizing
active verbs in order to make the story itself feel active and exciting,
 thereby promoting immersion. Active voice usually uses to-be
conjugations (am/was, are/were, had been) as sparingly as possible.
Writing or editing with an active-voice mindset is one of the best and
easiest ways to improve your writing. Example: "There were boulders
tumbling down the hillside" can be made active, as in "Boulders tumbled
down the hillside."

Agency.
The ability and capacity of a person to act
independently and to make their own choices — and
an important component of a round, interesting
character. Most main characters are unsatisfying if
they are only the victim of events, the world only
acting upon them instead of them acting upon the
world. Example: "The protag is such a poor soul, and
I feel bad for everything that has befallen him, but I
can't feel much sympathy for the kid if he doesn't
show some agency and act, whether that's to improve
his circumstances or get revenge.
Angels on clouds.
See "talking heads."

Antagonist/s.
The bad guy/s in the story, those who stand in the way of your
sympathetic main character's goals or create their struggles — while
maintaining enough sympathy to feel round and real to the reader. This
character does not have to be an individual but instead a group,
corporation, government or other larger entity, or a non-human force
like a disease or a storm. The antagonist can also be misidentified or not
unmasked until late in the story, and occasionally the main character can
serve as their own antagonist (man versus himself). While there are
successful stories that do not have clear antagonists, antagonists are the
clearest, most common driver of conflict in fiction. Examples: He Who
 Must Not Be Named (a.k.a. Voldemort) is the main antagonist of the
Harry Potter series. However, the series is also populated with more
minor antagonists, including the Malfoy family and the Dursleys.

Audience.
The pool of potential readers for a specific story,
whose expectations and tastes vary based on
personality and genre preference. Most successful
works are geared to appeal or make sense to a specific
audience. Example: "I don't know how big of an
audience there is for Sasquatch romance, but you do
you."
Awkward (abbreviated as awk).
An unclear or unwieldy word choice or combination of words, usually
requiring simplification or reworking. By labelling a sentence or
paragraph as awkward, a critiquer is pointing out a problem without
using their own time and/or ideas to fix that problem, thereby respecting
creative license. Example: Her hair was matted and oily, rolling to one
side, as if she had no strength. (Huh?)

-B-
Back story.
The transmission of information that took place before the story began.
Not all of a character's or world's past is of significance to the story, so
should be restricted to need-to-know information. Related term:
Exposition. Example: In Ender's Game, the author chose to open the
story as a the protagonist is bullied for his status as a third child in
order to convey the unique back story of Ender's family, who were
allowed to have three children rather than the standard two.

Bends, the.
An alternation between close and distant perspective that's jarring or
confusing for the reader. Taken from the scuba condition of the bends,
 caused by rising or diving too fast for the body to adjust. The bends
speak to an inconsistency of voice that's damaging to immersion and
reader trust. Example: "We spend two solid pages on introspection and
then two solid pages of dialogue with no POV observations to speak of.
You're giving me the bends, and I'm feeling disconnected from the
character and the voice of the piece."

Beta reading.
An offer of peer-to-peer constructive and specific feedback on the
entirety of a project, usually a novel, from start to finish, best
accomplished if that manuscript has already been subject to some
critique feedback. This bigger-picture read can analyze continuity,
consistency, character growth and plausibility in a way a traditional
critique of limited pages cannot. The drawback of a beta read is that it's
usually a favor or exchange rather than a paid job, meaning you cannot
expect extreme speed from a beta reader, who likely has other real-world
commitments. Remember to be nice if you're asking for favors.
Example: "I need a beta reader's input to see if this subplot is necessary
or needlessly complicates the main plot line."

Boy Meets Girl story.

The protagonist meets someone or finds something wonderful, then
loses that wonderful thing only to get it back for a happily-ever-after
ending. Examples: Jane Eyre, Sleepless in Seattle, Outlander.

Breaking the fourth wall.

The fourth wall is a phrase from theater, referring to
the invisible wall that separates the audience from the
characters on stage, which the actors are supposed to
recognize in order to maintain audience immersion.
Breaking this wall is when a character, narrator or the
author somehow recognizes the existence of the
audience or speaks directly to the audience against
this convention. This breakage can happen
accidentally, in which case it should be corrected, or
 intentionally if the author wants to draw the audience
into the story for some specific effect. Examples:
Mockumentaries like The Office or Best in Show, or
Death's speeches to the reader in The Book Thief.

-C-
Call back.
Similar to foreshadowing, a device where the reader is instantly
reminded of a resonating concept or experience, often to create a laugh
or an emotional response. Example:

Page 22: Sanjay's bad dreams replayed the abuse on loop — the priest
removing his belt, the clank of the buckle, the snick of the door lock — and
he'd wake chilled and unrested.

Page 79: In the man's assurance, Sanjay heard the clank of belt buckle, a
threat.

Character as camera.
A passage or entire story in which the narrator is too distant, providing
mostly visual and auditory information in the same way a camera would
recording the scene rather than showing the scene through the lens of
character. A character will always have a unique, personal way of seeing
even the most mundane scenes or events, and respecting that personal
lens gives a character voice and depth on page. Correction often means
adding sensory, physical, emotional or psychological detail, which
serves the added purpose of character building and/or backstory
conveyance. Examples:

Character as camera: Entering the ballroom, Esmond walked to the punch

table and saw his nemesis, Josiah, dressed in a black and white tuxedo. The
room was decorated with swags of evergreen boughs and bundles of
mistletoe.

Character with POV observations: Entering the ballroom, Esmond walked

to the punch table and saw none other than Josiah, looking dashing as ever
in a tailored tuxedo. Far more dashing that Esmond himself, he feared. The
swags of evergreen decorating the room created the appearance of holiday
cheer, but Esmond had never loved the Christmas season. The holidays
created too much pressure and far too many opportunities for comparisons
in which he was never the most handsome, never the most accomplished.

Character-driven fiction.
A book or story in which the events of the plot are mainly dictated by
the personality and actions of the character rather than solely by outside
events. All stories contain plot elements that are both character- and
plot-driven, but these stories are more internal and psychological in
nature. Character-driven stories often create tension by peeling away the
layers of the character's personality as the story progresses, and such
writing is likely to be classified as literary fiction instead of genre
fiction. Example: Stephen King's Shawshank Redemption is far more
character-driven than his horror work, following the lives and delving
deep into the characters of prison inmates in what is otherwise a very
static situation. Similarly, Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx isn't
about much, just cowboys doing everyday things, but it's the character
of those cowboys and their interaction that creates plot and resonance.

Chekhov's Gun.
A literary concept popularized by Russian writer Anton Chekhov, who
advised a gun introduced into a story needs to go off at some point or it
should not have been introduced. While weapons are dramatic examples,
the gun is metaphorical and could stand for any plot element or object
whose foreshadowing feels fake or fails to pay off. The metaphor is part
of a larger idea that nothing introduced into a story should be
unnecessary; all mentioned details should either build character, move
plot and/or increase tension. If a detail fails to do that, it is unnecessary
and should be omitted. Example: "You made such a big deal about her
putting the letter in her purse, but then the letter was forgotten and the
Chekhovian gun never fired."

Choreography (also known as "mapping").

The physical movement or location of the characters in space, especially
vital in action and sex scenes but necessary to a degree in every scene.
Does not apply only to where everyone is standing but also positioning
in space, and when layout of a world or building is important, sometimes
 includes a rough map of the surrounding area. Examples: "Take a look at
the choreography in that sex scene, because I'm pretty sure at some
point he has three hands. Time to get out the action figures to make sure
that sex act is possible."

Cinderella story (or New Testament story).

The story of people or a character who, given gifts or opportunities, has
those good elements taken away but is ultimately redeemed. Examples:
The Goonies, Rocky, Big (movie).

Close perspective.
A type of narration (possible in first-, second- or third-person) in which
the reader is intensely connected to the narrator and their experience,
favoring the narrator's subjective voice rather than the more objective
voice of a separate narrator. In close perspective, the character's
thoughts, sensations, opinions and personality are at full volume, so
close perspective is often chosen for character-driven fiction.
Example: By the time she got back, all her friends had gone home, the
losers. Some friends they were to leave her in moment of need —
especially her supposed best friend, Brenda — though perhaps their
betrayal was a blessing. Surely looked like death warmed over, having
had a good ugly cry in the bathroom.

Comedy (also known as "farce").

Light and often humorous, a story with a lot of drama that involves
characters triumphing over circumstances and results in a happy ending.
Humor is not the defining feature, however. Instead, comedy is about
confusion that needs sorting and eventually is sorted. Examples: Bridget
Jones' Diary, Much Ado About Nothing, Bridesmaids.

Coming-of-age story.
A plot that follows a young character as they learn an important lesson
about themselves or the world and propels them closer to adulthood.
Often nostalgic in tone when used in adult fiction, but more varied in
young-adult fiction since almost all YA fits the description to a point.
Examples: Stand By Me, Catcher in the Rye, Perks of Being a
Wallflower, Fault in Our Stars, To Kill a Mockingbird.

Compliment sandwich.
 The practice of beginning and ending a critique with positive feedback,
with negative and constructive feedback in the middle. The technique is
meant to cushion the submitting writer from being overwhelmed with
everything wrong with their work. Plus, forcing the critiquer to find
positive remarks promoting close reading and defending against bias.
Related: Don't be a dick. Example: "Your work is clever, but at times
crosses the line into pretentiousness. Deal with that and I think the main
character will be very amusing and appealing to readers."

Composite.
Combining some traits or actions of two or more
characters into one new character for the sake of
clarity, simplicity or length. Composite characters are
spoken of often in memoir rather than fiction, but the
technique can also slim down the cast of a novel to
more manageable levels. Example: "I can't keep track
of who's in the room. Can't Brenda have two co-
workers in this scene instead of six? Maybe composite
some of them?"
Contented story.
We meet our character in a state of happiness. They have a great job,
great love, great health and great hair, but then an obstacle arrives to
take away their happiness, beginning our tale. Examples: Gone with the
Wind, The Nightingale, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, The Kiterunner.

Context-dependent details (also time-dependent or

location-dependent details).
A story element linked distinctly to a certain time/era
or location with which you cannot assume your
audience familiar. Time-dependent details are often
pop-culture references such a song on the radio, a
 movie or a fashion trend meant to evoke a certain
mood or show something about a character, while
location-dependent details are overly specific
references to real places, such as "He turned right
from Canyon into the Boulder Sprouts parking lot,
which had a view of the Flatirons." Both can be
overly specific for people unfamiliar with either the
era or the surroundings, and you are hopefully writing
to an audience larger than readers who live in your
city. While not necessarily harmful, be careful not to
use such details in lieu of actual character- or world-
building. Example: That a character listens to
AC/DC doesn't mean much to someone unfamiliar
with the music, whereas "Her car roared into the
drive vibrating with the base of her favorite AC/DC
song" gives enough detail that even an unfamiliar
reader will understand what the music is meant to
convey.
Cooling-off period (also known as "sock-drawering" or "putting it in
the sock drawer").
Giving yourself a space of time between receiving a critique and
evaluating its value and/or making changes. This period allows your
emotions to disconnect to gain a more objective perspective of your
work. Related: Don't throw out the baby with the bathwater. Example:
"Carlos thinks I need to kill that darling, and rather than kill Carlos, I'll
take a cooling-off period to see if he might be right."

Copy editing.
An edit focused on typos, grammar, consistency, spelling and other
details. A copy edit will not fix or even point out larger problems of plot,
plausibility or character, and a copy edit cannot be a substitute for
 substantive critique. Example: "Paying for copy editing would have
avoided the one-star reviews you received for using 'condom' when you
meant 'condone.'"

Cowbell (also more cowbell).

Named for the famous Saturday Night Live skit with guest Christopher
Walken, in a literary context, cowbell means the submission or scene is
simple, superficial, unsatisfying, and/or lacking depth and detail. Adding
cowbell usually entails including more detail — especially sensory
information — and/or engaging more directly with the narrator's point of
view and reactions. Adding more cowbell often means the passage will
gain words and length. Example: "Ricci and Nat went into the circus tent
and saw the clowns, who were scary. Then they made a carnie mad by
giving away the ring toss's secret to the crowd. They ran away from him,
laughing." Adding cowbell would include describing the circus, which is
a very colorful and sensory-overload experience, as well as the clowns
and the carnie. Fear and humor are also absent in the original, and
adding those emotions would cement for the reader that the girls are
building their friendship.

Creation story.
Explanatory rather than conflict-based, these stories usually begin with
the gift of life and describe how the world/universe was built as is and
why. Examples: The Power (Naomi Alderman), the Rise, Fall and War
of the Planet of the Apes trilogy.

Creative license (also known as "poetic license").

The liberty of the writer to ignore any advice, established rule, logic or
commonsense in order to fulfill their artistic vision or produce a desired
effect. Creative license cannot be revoked; its power is absolute.
Example: "I know you guys think I curse too much, but the characters
speak to me in f-words, and in the end, it's my fucking book."

Critique.
An offer of constructive and specific feedback on a piece of fiction by a
fellow writer, usually made in the context of reciprocation. Critique
therefore requires at least two participants who meet regularly to discuss
their work. Writers and other industry professionals are often the best
people to offer critique, and the chance of getting such constructive and
 specific information from friends and family is low. Example: "The
main thrust of my critique is the tension drops off at the end of the scene,
along with my interest in what happens to this lovable band of misfits
you've created."

-D-
Deus ex machina.
Literally translated as "god from the machine." In fiction, a plot device
in which a complicated and seemingly unsolvable problem is solved
simply and unexpectedly by an outside force, specifically in a manner
that leaves the reader feeling cheated. This solution could be an act of
god, a previously unmentioned magic or skill, an out-of-character action
or any other quick fix. One common example is the "it was all dream"
trope ending. Example: The eagles that save Frodo and Sam in Mordor
can be seen as deus ex machina, because if they had eagle transport on
standby, why would they walk to Mordor in the first place?

Developmental editing.
A professional and paid beta reading, the benefits of which include
objectivity and trustworthiness of feedback and speed of completion. A
developmental editor evaluates big-picture issues like plot, character
development, continuity, tension and other broad features, and though
they may proofread for errors of spelling, punctuation or grammar, those
errors are not the main focus. Example: "His developmental edit helped
me see my character fails to make a significant change by the end, how
the whole thing needs to be rewritten."

Dialect.
Use of accent or historical/regional language to create setting and world
build. Can easily be overdone, and best if kept to the absolute minimum
that will convey the necessary setting and tone without confusing the
reader and/or breaking immersion. Example: "Have you never been to
the Emerald Isle before? Yer in for a treat."

Dialogue (specifically "external dialogue").

External dialogue is the literal words of a character, spoken aloud and
framed in quotes. Example: "How could we be out of latex gloves?" she
 asked her accomplice. "I just went to the store yesterday."

Dialogue tag.
See "speech tag."

Direct dialogue (internal or external).

When a character speaks to another person aloud in real time or to
themselves as if in conversation, the latter often using the I pronoun.
Both forms require special formatting: quotes for external and italics for
internal (the latter also underlined here). Example:

"No, you haven't gone out for supplies in three days," the
accomplice responded, shaking his head and wondering if he should
have chosen that younger serial killer in Brighton to follow. This is
the person I chose to commit felonies for? Senility wasn't a good
trait in their line of work.

Discontented story.
A character has had a break up, hit hard financial times, recently faced a
set back or have had a general hard-knock life. This discontent is then
challenged when an opportunity presents itself, and so our story begins.
Examples: The Hunger Games, The Great Gatsby, Harry Potter and the
Philosopher's Stone, Annie.

Distancing (or distancing language).

Words or phrases that serve to put the reader at an unnecessary remove
from events. Often occurs when a writer, attempting to avoid POV
violations, treats the narrator as a filter or camera and thereby does not
put the reader into the scene. Example: "She watched the Vespa pull up
to the curb" versus "The Vespa pulled up to the curb."

Distant perspective.
Also possible in first-, second- or third-person and a type of narration
that, while the reader is connected to the narrator and able to see their
thoughts, keeps a level of objectivity, a filter on the character. Distant
perspectives are more often used in stories with more than one narrator,
because the tone of the piece will vary less as the voices switch. Distant
perspectives can still tell character-driven stories, but are often more
plot-driven. Example: By the time she got back from crying in the
 bathroom, the party was over and she was alone. She felt abandoned.

Dog pile.
A piggy back on a piggy back, or an interruption of an interruption. A
call of dog pile is a signal it's time to return to the point and/or original
speaker. Example: "And that's a dog pile, folks. Wait your turn to
explain further, Will."

Dowsing (also known as "tuning").

The very common act of moving from too much of an element to too
little and/or vice versa as you hone in on successfully creating a scene or
story. The element could be description, a character trait, drama or
adverbs — whatever might be missing or wrong with the piece initially
— for which you overcorrected, and perhaps over-re-correct, as well.
Dowsing is integrating feedback and listening to your writer's instinct to
tune in on perfection. Example: "I know I thought she was too
saccharine before, but now you've gone the other way and made her
wishy-washy. Tune in and try again."

Drafty.
An obviously unpolished submission or manuscript. Drafty is usually
used when a critiquer sees the promise of the work, doesn't want to
dissuade the writer and advocates for its continued improvement. A
drafty piece is akin to a messy baby who nonetheless reveals the promise
of the adult it can become. Example: "As a note, I know this is drafty,
but I'd love you to read with an eye toward the chemistry of the
characters. Are they working well together?"

Dystopia.
A story that takes place in a dark future where the
world or society have taken serious turns for the
worst. The opposite of utopias, these stories are often
but need not be moralistic in tone. Related concept:
the darkest timeline. Examples: The Hunger Games,
The Handmaid's Tale, A Clockwork Orange.
 -E-
Epic fantasy.
See "high fantasy."

Exposition.
The beginning of a story in which the world and
situation is set up, usually as soon, fast and
unobtrusively as possible. Exposition is usually
considered unsuccessful if a non-writer can identify
its use, thereby breaking immersion. Example:
Captain Obvious patrolled the perimeter of Not New
York City, as he had every night since he'd been
promoted upon the death of his predecessor.

-F-
Farce.
See "comedy."

First-person perspective.
A narrator speaking about their own experiences. Uses the pronouns: I,
me, my. These stories are more likely to be close perspective, very
attached to one character, and are unlikely to feature more than one
narrator. Example: I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

Fixing/Fixer.
The unhelpful practice of not only pointing out a flaw or unsuccessful
element but also offering your own advice about how to improve the
problem. Fixing fails to focus on success and does not respect the
absolute power of a writer over their manuscript. This idea is often
distilled as the maxim: Point out problems, but avoid solutions. The
author is responsible for the direction and details of their story, and if
they want your ideas on possible fixes, they'll ask directly — and can
 still totally ignore anything you have to say without guilt. Too much
fixing advice can eat up valuable minutes of your critique meetings.
Example: "I understand the janitor is coming off as simple-minded. I'm
not sure your suggestion to show him reading Plato is the solution,
though. I'll have to think about that."

Flashback.
A significant scene (more than a sentence or two) in
which the narrator returns to a time in the past,
usually for plot- and/or character-building purposes.
Example: Peeta's earlier kindnesses to Katniss are
revealed in flashback in The Hunger Games.
Flat character.
A character based on stereotype or well-known tropes who has no
unique complications and little depth. These characters are predictable
and don't promote bonding between the reader and the flat character.
Readers struggle to care about flat characters, though they may have
trouble explaining such as the reason for their dislike. Examples: The
gay best friend, the sassy black friend, the dumb blonde/jock, the
magical negro, etc.

Foreshadowing (also known as "painting attention").

An advance hint of what will come to pass in the story, which should be
neither too obvious or completely unnoticed, or an item of importance to
which you are drawing attention. Foreshadowing avoids a result that
feels like deus ex machina, but does not always need to be correct, as in
the case of a red herring. Example: As she rushed from the house, she
failed to fully shut the gate and Dora, the retriever, began to follow her
to the bus stop. "No, Dora," she said, grabbing the dog's collar to lead
her back home and this time checking the gate twice, because grandpa
would never forgive her if blind old Dora ran into traffic. (Spoiler: Dora
escaping and/or the gate being left open will again become important
later in the story, or this tidbit would be irrelevant and therefore
cuttable.)

From Bad to Worse story (or Old Testament).

 A creation story or the story of a character's life that begins in negative
conditions, and through their striving, manages only to make their
situation worse, ending in a fall. Examples: The Metamorphosis, Gone
Girl, English Patient.

Frying pan.
Taken from the cartoonish idea of hitting a person over the head with a
frying pan, a piece of writing or phrase that is heavy-handed or too
obviously or forcefully presented, thereby treating the reader as if they're
unintelligent and turning them against you. Readers love the joyful click
of putting together a story's pieces for themselves, meaning the writer's
goal is merely to artfully lay out those pieces. Example: "I prefer a
romance where there's some doubt about if the characters will
eventually unite. I hate being frying-panned from page one that the two
will be perfect together. Let me have some doubt or the ending feels like
a bygone conclusion."

-G-
Genre.
The category into which a piece of writing is placed for the purposes of
identification and sale. Genre is fluid, however, and many if not most
books have some cross-genre elements. Example: "If you want
publishers to take you seriously, you need to define this book's genre
further than 'like nothing you've ever read!'"

Genre bias.
The inability to judge the success of a work due to lack of familiarity
with or outright dislike for the work's genre. This inability, while
common, is not permanent nor an excuse for lack of or shoddy critique.
Instead, overcoming genre bias is much like overcoming other biases:
Educate yourself about the common characteristics and tropes of the
unfamiliar genre, and use facts rather than feelings to express your
critique. Also: Not every book is for everybody, and that's OK.
Example: "I don't normally read polyamorous tentacle erotica, but
setting aside that potential genre bias, I liked the lush descriptions and
disliked how the tension disappeared after the fourth orgasm."
Genre dissonance.
When a manuscript or story fails to live up to the standards of its genre.
Such dissonance can be intriguing, adding a new dimension to a known
formula, but can also be distracting or feel like a violation of reader
trust/expectations. Whether a specific dissonance is good or bad is
subjective. Example: "I don't know if you can legitimately call this a
romance since there's no happily-ever-after ending. I felt a lot of
dissonance. If you'd called the story historical fiction with a romance
subplot, I perhaps wouldn't have gone in with the same expectations."

Genre Fiction.
Usually more plot-driven, genre fiction is the umbrella term for fast-
moving, sometimes formulaic stories with clear protagonists, antagonists
and story expectations. For instance, a romance will usually end with a
happily ever after (also known as HEA), and a detective novel will
usually end with a solved mystery. Examples: Science fiction, fantasy,
mystery, action/thriller, romance, horror and erotica, although there are
others — and these categories break down into even smaller sub-
genres.

Gotcha moment (also "mind fuck").

The moment in a story in which a reader's conception of the world,
events and/or a character are drastically different than they'd first
assumed. Especially important and popular in the realm of short stories,
gotcha moments are reveals of new information that places the rest of
the story in a new light. Time travel, mysteries, horror, unreliable
narrators and literary fiction are ripe fields in which to cultivate mind
fucks. However, these gotcha moments have to be intentional to be
successful, and it's a fine line between betraying a reader and creating a
thrilling reversal. Your mileage may vary. Example: "You mean Bruce
Willis was dead the whole time?!"

-H-
Hads, the.
See "past-perfect tense."

Happily ever after (or HEA).

 A story that ends with the best possible outcome for
the main character and/or most of the characters
involved. Particularly important in romance, where in
certain sub-genres, readers have firm expectations
about which stories will feature a HEA. Examples:
Every Disney movie, almost every fairytale, almost
every romance.
Head hopping.
See "POV violation."

Hedge words.
Inexact words to avoid when crafting strong fiction, hedge words are
those that modify a thought or sentence to be less bold and clear. While
some hedge words are inevitable, each one should be examined to see if
alternate word choice would strengthen the writing and the immersion
experience. When writers are told to avoid adverbs, hedges are one form
of adjective it's difficult to defend. Examples: Usually, sometimes, often,
relatively, generally, potentially, rather, and sort of.

Hero's Journey.
The archetypal story of a hero who goes on an adventure, faces
adversity, wins a victory and emerges changed. Campbell's template
divides the journey into three phases — departure, initiation and return
— which are then divided into a total of 17 individual steps. Examples:
The Odyssey, Star Wars, Moby Dick, The Lord of the Rings.

High fantasy (also known as "epic fantasy").

A non-realistic story set in a world with magic but is
usually less technologically advanced than our own.
The sub-genre has widely recognized traits, including
non-human characters like elves, dwarves, trolls,
hobbits and fairies; and a more rural setting
reminiscent of pre-modern Europe — though usually
 far from historically accurate and not necessarily set
on Earth. Villages and horses, swords and
tournaments, wizards and potions, royal intrigues and
war are common plot elements. Examples: Lord of the
Rings, The Wheel of Time, Discworld, The Once and
Future King.

-I-
In scene.
See "on camera."

I parade.
Repetition of the personal pronoun I, usually in a first-person piece of
writing and most often at the beginning of successive sentences or
paragraphs. (The eye catches on sentence and paragraph starts.) A
hazard of first-person perspective, avoiding an I parade requires
conscious use of pronouns and variation of sentence structure — without
compromising readability or creating awkward sentences. Example: I
was stunned. I had no idea what I should do, stuck in the elevator alone
without my cell phone. I tried using the on-board telephone (dead) and
even banging on the metal doors, shouting for help, but I began to
despair once my voice became hoarse. I was trapped and good.

Immersion.
A reader attaching and/or getting lost in a story, often broken when they
see inconsistencies, have unanswered questions or sense implausibilities.
Typos or incorrect language are also common breakers of immersion, as
are most authorial missteps or lack of expertise. Example: "I was totally
immersed until you said the sky was blue, when you clearly said in
Chapter Two the planet's sky was purple and had three moons."

Indirect external dialogue.

A summarized version of words spoken aloud by characters, either in
scene or in flashback, often used to explain concepts or convey
necessary information without adding length or boring the reader.
 Indirect dialogue does not require quote marks. Examples:

Direct: "That's not how you play a ukulele," said the barista, who grabbed
the instrument and explained the correct hand placement.

Indirect: Fatima cursed at the barista, yanking back her precious ukulele
and muttering about mansplaining idiots.

Indirect internal dialogue.

The narrator's unspoken thoughts or inner monologue in summary form.
Indirect internal dialogue does not require italics or special formatting
(also underlined here for clarity). Examples:

Indirect: Luca wondered if the skirt she was wearing today was for his
benefit. He loved how the length showed off her legs.

Direct: She was wearing that cute skirt again. Is that for me? Perhaps she'd
noticed how he liked when she showed off her legs. Hot, he thought.

Infinite Monkey Theorem.

A philosophical concept positing that given an infinite amount of time, a
monkey banging at random on a keyboard would eventually type the
complete works of William Shakespeare. Example: When his first drafts
weren't perfect, Victor tossed them aside unedited and churned out
more, sure he'd Infinite Monkey Theorem his way to genius.

Inflation words.
Modifying words whose intent is to dramatize an adjective, verb or
concept, which can usually be strengthened. Inflation words are "bad"
adverbs whose use is difficult to defend, and the solution to such words
is usually stronger and more specific word choice. Examples: Very,
really, truly, highly, extremely, totally, and super-duper.

Info dump.
A passage in which world building or character backstory is related
clumsily, all at once or in too large a chunk. While conveying world and
backstory details is necessary, a dump relays information in a way
perceived as clunky or obvious. Example: Jaxon shined his badge with
pride. He worked for the Intergalactic Council, which was founded in
 2103 in response to the alien Quanis invasion of the Milky Way but
which far outlasted the Quanis Wars. The Council's power was
consolidated under Chairman Gigi Middleton, who created the off-
planet police force that eventually grew into Earth's personal army.
Today the chairman was Muhar Dinar, who made his original fortune
mining asteroids — back when the asteroid belt between Mars and
Jupiter was still heavily populated. Now the Council's headquarters had
filled the belt's space, creating the first manmade planet to orbit the
system's sun. That headquarters was home to more than 16 million
people and…

Internal dialogue.
The narrator's unspoken thoughts or inner monologue. If these thoughts
are direct, meaning the character is speaking to themselves using I or as
if speaking aloud — like we all tend to do when alone, consciously or
not — this dialogue should be in italics (shown here underlined, as
well). Example:

She searched the murder kit for latex gloves, wondering how
they could already be out. I just went to the store yesterday!

It storm (credit for the term to Marc Sobel).

As a noun: A veritable explosion of the word it. While some usages of
the word it are absolutely necessary, many instances are signals of
passivity and vague language, and are opportunities to strengthen and
sometimes simplify the writing. Example: It was the dare of choice,
even though beating it was near impossible unless you made it to the
bridge before the train. But when it came down to it, it was trying it that
mattered whether you made it or not.
As a verb: The act of searching for the word it when polishing a WIP or
before giving your critique group a submission. Example: "Next time,
I'm going to do an it storm before I submit, because I do not want to
hear my 'it''s read back to me. Wow, that passage sounded awful said
aloud."

-L-
Label names.
 A designation given to a character whose name the reader does not know
or used in order to avoid name repetition. Label names are often
physically descriptive or job titles. Example: The thief with the red shirt
demanded cash from the teller, while the ringleader took the manager
into the back to open the bank safe.

Lampshade (also hanging a lampshade or put a lampshade on it).

An author's alerts to the reader as to the significance of a detail or
development, created in any number of ways but usually by directing
attention. Lack of lampshade creation can cause readers to miss
important context or information, and therefore often leads to the
assumption of authorial incompetence or lack of experience. Example:
"Grandpa would never forgive her if blind old Dora ran into traffic"
lampshades the importance of the dog, Dora, and foreshadows the sense
of shame the character will feel when the poor pup gets out.

Limited POV.
A type of third-person perspective in which the narration is tied
specifically to one character at a time, with the ability to know only the
mind of that one character while that character is at the helm. A story
may have more than one narrator and still be limited if they take turns
and obvious breaks occur between perspective shifts (page breaks,
chapter breaks, formatting change, etc.) Example: After four years of
marriage, Pat expected to have a better idea of Marilyn's mind, but
staring now across the dining-room table at her set jaw and pursed lips,
he had no idea what he'd done wrong.

Line editing.
An edit, usually done by a paid professional or a trusted associate that
reads a project with an eye on the plot, writing style and language —
basically an in-depth critique — at the sentence and paragraph level. A
line editor is not dispassionate and will point out word-choice issues,
redundancies, flow problems, cliches and general confusions. You will
still have to make real choices and edits after a line edit, more than the
simple crossing of t's and dotting of i's. Example: "This sentence would
be clearer with the phrases transposed, but also relates more to the
previous paragraph than this one. Move up?"

Literary fiction.
 Usually more character-driven, literary fiction focuses on the craft of
writing and writing as art. Literary fiction is often more experimental in
subject and form, and wins most of the big, prestigious awards like the
Nobel and Booker prizes. However, the market for literary fiction is
smaller than genre fiction and more rooted in literary presses and brick-
and-mortar bookstores. Examples: Jeffrey Eugenides, Toni Morrison,
Kent Haruf, Zadie Smith.

Looking on camera.
When a POV character's gaze is too obviously directed, most egregious
when the word look is used on the page. Since the narrative is literally
the character's experience, these looks are often — but not always —
unnecessary and act as distancing language. While some uses of look
are necessary, if the POV/narration sees what the character does, it's
redundant to specify the gaze is the character's. In this context, words
similar to look include watched, saw and observed. Example: "Joan
looked at the restaurant's host station, where a handsome older gent in a
leather jacket waited for a table" versus "A handsome older gent in a
leather jacket now stood at the host station, waiting for a table."

-M-
MacGuffin.
A plot device in which a large goal or motivator serves no purpose but to
give the story reason to exist. A MacGuffin is not the point of the story,
is often of no importance or only symbolic importance by the end, but
draws characters together and/or changes their circumstances or setting.
Can be a person, object or mission, and the Maltese Falcon from the
movie of the same name is a common example. Example: The briefcase
in Pulp Fiction is a classic MacGuffin. Hinted to be very valuable, very
dangerous or both, the case is the ostensible motivation behind some
characters' actions, but what's in the case is ultimately unimportant
compared to the story that takes place around it. In fact, the contents of
the case are never revealed.

Magical realism.
A type of speculative-fiction story in which the vast
 majority of the story's world is true to reality but one
or very few aspects of the world are magical,
paranormal, impossible or as-yet impossible in the
real world. Popularized by Latin American authors
and popular form in literary fiction, but also in
comic books. Examples: The Time-Traveler's Wife,
Iron Man, Infinite Jest, One Hundred Years of
Solitude, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Major surgery.
A significant change to a manuscript that requires a
lot of rethinking, reworking and/or rewriting. Major
surgery is usually necessary during a story's first
drafts to correct foundational problems. Example: "If
I want Patrick to fall in love with Shelly rather than
Beth, I'm going to need to perform major surgery on
the book's first act."
Man in a Hole story.
The protagonist gets into trouble and then out of it again, transforming
themselves in the process. Examples: Pride and Prejudice, Office Space,
Girl on the Train.

Manuscript.
The entirety of a completed story, start to finish, usually only possible to
assemble after much work, critique and revision. Example: "If the agent
likes your first pages, she'll ask for the full manuscript."

Mapping.
See "choreography."

Meta (also metafiction/metafictional).

 A piece or entire story that's conscious about its
storytelling, language or the act of writing, often
thought of as postmodern literature. Most clear when
a narrator speaks about the process of telling the story
or otherwise shows awareness they have an audience,
meaning the reader/s. A metafiction draws attention
to the fact that it's fiction. On the other hand, many
critique groups use meta to signal their general or
summarized thoughts about the submission rather
than their detailed feedback. Examples:

Metafiction: "I know House of Leaves is supposed to be a

modern metafictional classic, but I've never been able to
immerse in the book."
Meta in critique: "My meta comment is I find your
protagonist unlikeable, and let me now expound upon
each and every thing she does that I find annoying."
Meta-Plot.
A story with discernible phases, starting with the anticipation stage with
the call to adventure, followed by the dream stage where the adventure
begins and the character sees some success. Next, the frustration stage,
in which the hero has a confrontation with the enemy/enemy force and
experiences a setback, leading to the nightmare stage, where all hope
seems lost and the climax or final confrontation with evil occurs. Last
comes the resolution, where the hero is victorious. Examples: Harry
Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, The Hobbit, Hunger Games.

Mind fuck.
See "gotcha moment."

Mom read.
 A subjective and surface-level critique, usually by a person who either
loves everything you do or has no vocabulary with which to discuss the
finer points of fiction. People who love you will never be unbiased
readers. Example: "Look, I need more than a mom read if I want to
improve. I want real feedback."

Motherfucker.
Is one word, lest you mistake. Example: My
motherfucking critique group loves to nitpick the
correct spelling of swear words.

-N-

NaNoWriMo (short for National Novel Writing

Month).
An event that takes place every November since
1999, NaNoWriMo is a fiction-writing sprint and
community. Participants set the goal of writing at
least 50,000 words of a novel — a new novel, for the
most part, although many participants preplan and
outline — within a month, and the event has become
the most popular, well-known form of writing sprint.
Online and in-person support groups are plentiful, and
while some contests exist to link up "winning"
participants with agents or other publishing prizes, the
main benefit is motivational. The finished products of
NaNoWriMo are called "wrimos." Example: The
popular novel The Night Circus was first written as
part of NaNoWriMo.
Narrator.
 The character/s who are telling your story, who need not to be either a
protagonist or antagonist in that story, but often are. Most commonly,
the story belongs to the narrator — the plot works upon their lives — but
exceptions are common and often successful. A story needs to have at
least one narrator but can have several, and in fact, the majority of
modern stories have either one or two narrators/points of view.
Example: In The Book Thief, the character of Death narrates the story,
claiming the first time he saw the book thief, was on a train. The next
time he saw her was when he came for a pilot who had crashed his
plane, and the third time was after a bombing. The story is that of the
book thief's life, though, even if she is not the one narrating the tale.

Nitpick.
A specific, small and/or granular piece of critique that
requires very little reworking. Nitpicks often emerge
after a story's foundational issues are solid and the
author is polishing for publication. Examples: "This is
nitpicky, but you need to spell out numerals when
they're used in dialogue."

Normie.
A non-writer. Example: "I have no idea what a
normie might think of my Google search history…"

-O-
Omniscient POV.
A type of third-person perspective in which the narrator exists in the
thoughts of all characters simultaneously and/or without division or
breaks. More distant by design, an omniscient story often feels magical
or fairy-tale in tone due to the wide-ranging lens of the narration.
However, omniscient narration needs to be intentional and consistent
beginning to end, and should not be claimed in order to avoid fixing
point-of-view violations. Example: After four years of marriage, they
 sat across the table as distant as strangers and equally unhappy. Pat
was befuddled by Marilyn's turbulent moods and Marilyn was wounded
by the befuddlement, because love to her was about understanding
without explanation. Pat, on the other hand, needed explanation in every
facet of his life and was even unable to shop at the grocery without
Marilyn's list in hand.

On camera (also known as "in scene").

A shorthand for the events transpiring on the page as opposed to those
that happen outside the narrative. Example: "Have we seen this
character on camera yet? If not, I don't think there's near enough
description of his appearance and personality for a first appearance."

Order of operations.
A mathematical term, in the context of fiction means
the logical, step-by-step choreography of character
actions or movements. Hopefully, a story's order of
operations is so logical it's invisible — and not so in-
depth as to be tedious — but drafts often contain
confusing order of operations that need honing.
Example: He took the shotgun off its hooks over the
mantle, cocked the weapon and lined up his
daughter's boyfriend in its sights. "It's 11:02, son," he
said.
Overcoming the Monster story.
The protagonist must defeat an antagonistic or evil force that threatens
the character, their homeland or their way of life. Examples: James
Bond, Dracula, Harry Potter: The Philosopher's Stone.

-P-
Painting attention.
See "foreshadowing."
Pantser.
Taken from the phrase "by the seat of your pants," a writer who cannot
or feels too intimidated to commit themselves to a storyline in advance.
Pantsers are often inspired by setting or character instead of plot, or
they're not sure what their characters are going to do until they're on the
page. Most successful pantsers use some amount of pre-planning or
outlining, if a more vague, haphazard or fluid version than those who
enjoy plotting in advance. Pantsing is not the total opposite of planning
but exists on a continuum, although literary authors are thought to be
more pantsy in nature. Example: George R.R. Martin originally pitched
the A Song of Ice and Fire series thinking Arya Stark would fall in love
with Jon Snow and that Tyrion Lannister would fall for Arya Stark. He
was obviously not afraid to write against outline once he was on the
page.

Passive voice.
A sentence in which the subject receives the action of the verb, usually
lacking a pronoun like I, we, they, she, he, etc. The passive voice is
considered weaker than the active voice, which conveys more action
and immediacy. The passive is seen as wishy-washy and unwilling to
take a stand. Examples:

Think of former President George W. Bush, who famously hung a banner

reading, "Mission accomplished." Who accomplished the mission. His
administration also infamously said, "Mistakes were made," a passive-voice
non-apology since no pronoun or person is admitting to making those
mistakes.

"Twenty people died in a shooting at the Holocaust Museum" is passive and

also avoids blame, which is a widely used journalistic technique when
details are still sketchy. "A terrorist killed twenty people at the Holocaust
Museum" is instantly more active — and frightening, which we want in
fiction more so than on the evening news.

Past-perfect tense (also known as "the hads").

The tense necessary when a story told in the past
tense then has a flashback to an earlier time. A
 difficult but necessary tense in most fiction, the main
obstacle of which is inserting enough hads to be
correct without overloading the reader with repetitive
hads. Hads, however, can often be used in
contraction: I'd, he'd, she'd, they'd, etc. Example: As
she stabbed her current husband in the chest, Brenda
remembered how her other husbands had the decency
not to scream like little girls. Those had been real
men.
Perspective (also known as "point of view" or POV).
The direction from which a story is being told, a story's point of view is
that of its narrator or storyteller, who may or may not be a character in
the story being told. This person or presence is who readers imagine
putting the words on the page. Examples: Moby Dick is told from the
point of view of Ishmael, the only surviving crew member of the Pequod.
Hence the famous first line, "Call me Ishmael."

Piggy back.
An interruption during critique to agree with or add to another person's
feedback. Non-verbally, can be a simple thumbs up or thumbs down, but
also can be verbal depending on the conventions of your particular
critique group. Interruptions are common in moderation. Example: "I'm
going to piggy back here to add this 'humor' Ronnie mention makes the
character verge on unlikeable."

Plausibility (also known as "suspension of disbelief").

The maintenance of internal consistency, which makes the reader
believe your story is, at best, believable, and at worst, possible. In
fiction, plausibility fails when the story has become too strange, risky,
out of character or otherwise off the rails for the reader to maintain
immersion. What's not plausible in the real world can often be made
plausible in fiction through proper world- and character-building.
Example: The finale of the popular show Lost was so implausible,
obviously unplanned and slapped together, the entire series lost
credibility — and a lot of fans.
Plot arc.
The standard rise and fall of story, from beginning through rising action
to the climax and through falling action to the resolution. The most
popular specific conception of an archetypical plot arc is the Hero's
Journey, created by Joseph Campbell. He divides questing stories into
three parts — departure, initiation and return — then further divides
those sections into common milestones or actions. In contrast, Kurt
Vonnegut's conception of story shapes lays out the plot of eight common
storylines, including Boy Meets Girl, Cinderella and Bad to Worse. Plot
arc most often comes up in fiction critique when discussing where a
story is going and how the author chooses to get there. Example: "We're
on page forty of your novel now, so shouldn't we have some rising action
at this point? Where is this scene in your plot arc?"

Plot-driven fiction.
A story in which the main plot is driven by mostly outside events, drama
and spectacle. These outside events could be a wizard dropping by your
hobbit hole with a ring and a quest; a natural disaster like a disease
outbreak or volcano eruption; a missing person, murder or crime; a
wedding or divorce; a job or project; or a the outbreak of interstellar war
with a new species of alien bent on galactic conquest. Plot-driven stories
are often fast-paced and exciting, and are usually considered more genre
fiction than literary fiction, though most good examples are partially
character-driven, as well. Example: Afraid for his throne, Robert
called Eddard Stark to the capital to act as Hand of the King, thereby
sucking the entire Stark clan into the larger, bloody fight for power over
Westeros.

Plotter.
A writer who prefers or needs to lay out the plot of their story or series
before they write, usually with some level of detail. Plotting can avoid
time spent re-writing to correct plot holes and other problems, and is
especially helpful in wide-ranging stories or those with large casts, such
as journey stories, historical epics and space operas. Plotting is
socially seen as more genre fiction's territory versus that of literary
fiction, but all writers exist on a continuum between all plans and no
plans, and some writers use different techniques for different projects or
over time. Example: J.K. Rowling is known for her extensive
spreadsheet planning and note-card organization for both her Harry
 Potter and Cormoron Strike series.

Poetic license.
See "creative license."

Point of view (or POV).

See "perspective."

Portal story.
A plot line in which characters go back and forth
between their real world and another place. This
portal is usually a literal door or passage. However,
any story in which characters pass back and forth
between settings qualifies, including in time travel
(Connie Willis's Oxford Time-Travel series) or other
speculative/magical devices (dream worlds, psychotic
breaks). Examples: The movie and TV series Stargate,
in which a group of earthlings finds a gate that
travels to other alien-settled worlds. The Lion, the
Witch and the Wardrobe is another great portal
example.
POV violation (also known as "head hopping").
The act of breaking the established first-, second- or third-person point
of view of a story. Most commonly, a violation will dive into a non-
narrator's perspective, which leads the narrator to appear as if they can
read other character's minds. Note: A narrator can observe other
characters and assume or deduct their motivations or emotional state —
that character can "appear to be" sad or be "obviously distressed" — but
the appearance of surety or direct knowledge is a violation, unless the
narrator is actually telepathic. Example: Angela was impatient, kicking
her feet against the park grass as she waited, when Marci first caught
sight of her from the path.
Pronoun confusion (also he confusion or she confusion).
A use of I, he, she or they in which the average reader is not sure which
character/s the author is referring to. Most often occurs with he and she
in scenes where more than one character of a gender is present, and most
easily corrected by using a character's nickname, title or other moniker
instead of the pronoun. Example: Dolly and Joann tumbled outside the
party in a flurry of slapping and hair-pulling. "Bitch!" she screamed,
reaching for the switchblade in her boot.

Protagonist/s.
The sympathetic main character/s for which the reader is rooting. This
character is often — but does not have to be — a narrator, and is often
— but does not have to be — the good guy or white hat in the story's
main conflict against the forces for evil. A protagonist need not be the
perfect personification of virtue but needs to be sympathetic enough for
the reader to emotionally connect, maintain immersion and root for
their mission. Examples: Luke, Leah and Han all qualify as protagonists
in Star Wars.

Purple prose.
An overly descriptive writing style which is overwritten or pompous
enough to be distracting. When a piece edges over to purple prose varies
by reader, and some have a higher tolerance for stylistic writing than
others, but a writer should not be simply drizzling pretty words on a
page because they're pretty. A writer should tell a story, and if too
much/unrelated/meandering descriptions gets in the story's way, it's
likely too purple to print. Example, from the blog Now Novel: "Her
voluminous follicles cascaded down her blushing epidermis of the neck,
catching his desirous eye" is a very purple way of saying, "The way her
hair hung across her bare neck caught his eye."

-Q-
Quest story.
The protagonist, usually with a group of companions, sets out on a quest
to reach a location or object, facing many obstacles and challenges along
the way. Examples: Lord of the Rings, Goonies, The Avengers.
 -R-
Rags to Riches story.
The protagonist begins either poor or in otherwise wretched
circumstances but acquires good fortune and/or material goods. They
then lose everything, often due to their character faults or mistakes, and
then gain it back and transform as a person. Examples: Aladdin,
Cinderella, A Little Princess.

Reaction.
What a character — most often a narrator — should have at a turn of
events, usually an event, clue or piece of dialogue that's important,
unexpected, interesting, or impacts the character's life or plans. A
narrator's reactions are a vital way to create the lens of the POV. Note:
Characters do not necessarily notice everything a reader does, and
therefore their lack of reaction/failure to notice a clue or telling detail
can also be important. That failure to react, however, should be
intentional. Example: "Wait, that Mr. Hyde is his real father should give
Stephen pause. Where's his reaction?"

Reader trust.
The implied expectations a reader demands an author meet. More
established writers have pre-built reader trust, meaning they are able to
string along, mislead or disappoint a reader and yet that reader will
continue reading. First-time or unknown authors' work must be cleaner,
sharper and overall better in order to build reader trust. However, any
violation of reader trust — via plot holes, unanswered questions,
implausibilities, etc. — will break immersion, no matter who the author
is. Example: "A giant spider?! Are you fucking serious? I'm never
reading Stephen King again."

Realistic fiction.
A story that takes place in the real world, current or historical, with all
the rules of physics and limitations of this world. Dramatic and
statistically uncommon events can occur — gunshots might always miss
the hero or hackers can easily break into fool-proof networks — but
magic in any form is disallowed. Examples: Historical fiction, modern
romances, most detective mysteries.
Reality violation.
When the author breaks a law of the world, whether of the real world in
the case of realistic fiction or the created world in the case of
speculative fiction. Example: By mistake, a character is said to be in
two places at once, or clothing described as red in one scene becomes
green in another with no change of attire.

Rebirth story.
An important event or large force acts on the protagonist to change their
ways, making them a better person. Examples: A Christmas Carol,
Despicable Me, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Recasting the spell.

A technique of teaching or reminding the reader about the perspective,
unique voice or sensory experiences of the narrator or about the story's
surroundings, positioning and/or choreography. A writer juggles all
these world elements simultaneously and must keep the balls in the air
lest the reader notice their absence. Every writer has a different style and
timing when it comes to spell-casting, but a reader should never feel the
world or the voice revert back to a blank slate. Related: underpainting.
Example: "Wait, they're still in the prison cell? I've forgotten how big
the cell is and if there's a window. Is there even light to read that note?
Actually, is Lareth literate? I'd love to have answers before I have the
opportunity to form the questions."

Repetitive.
Repetition of a word or phrase that's distracting to the eye or ear upon
reading, often only caught from a reader perspective due to close author
proximity to the text. Repetition is common in sentence and paragraph
starts, where it's easy to overuse names or pronouns. Example: He stood
behind the shed, his body tingling with excitement. He could feel his
body touching the ground and smell the nearby raspberry bushes with
almost detached clarity. He felt strong now, powerful.

Red herring.
A piece of false foreshadowing. A plot element that deliberately
misleads the reader, most commonly used in mysteries and thrillers to
keep the solution to the mystery or crisis a surprise/delight. Can be
unintentional, but is most successful if intentionally placed — and
 eventually explained or dismissed to prevent becoming a Chekhovian
gun. Example: '"While he certainly had the best motive," said the
detective, using the stem of her reading glasses to point for emphasis,
"the butler could not have committed the murder. Could you, Jeeves?
You were too busy shagging Lady Greyson on the evening in question."'

Rhetorical (short for rhetorical question).

A question asked, usually by the narrator, that (supposedly) does not
require and/or expect an answer, often used in internal dialogue —
supposedly because in essence, the writer is asking the reader to answer
the question so they don't have to. Hence, rhetoricals can be a writer's
crutch, a way of avoiding specificity and truly engaging with their work.
Examples:

"Who should she choose as her next victim?" could be "She weighed her
options for her next victim" or "She rifled through her mental list of
potential victims."

"Should he stay or should he go?" is in effect telling the reader the

character is unsure what he should do. The character actually engaging
with that thought process is far more interesting and informative, such as,
"He still loved her, but she'd crossed a line that he couldn't forgive. Her
choices had forced his heart to battle his mind. Right now, even he wasn't
sure which would win."

Round character.
A fully developed character who seems plausibly real to a reader,
thereby promoting bonding. These characters may begin as stereotypes
but have a unique point of view, idiosyncrasies or surprising traits that
add depth to their personalities. Character research and character-based
writing exercises are great ways to create rounder characters. Example:
Firefly's Jayne Cobb is a stereotypical dumb strongman, but he gains
depth through several save-the-cat good deeds, an amusing attachment
to his weapons, a keen sense of upcoming danger and a ridiculous
homemade hat, all of which combined to make him unlike any dumb
strongman created.

-S-
Save-the-cat moment.
A literary device in which an antagonist or unlikeable main character is
given a trait to garner reader sympathy. With antagonists, this device
often adds depth and prevents the character from feeling flat. In the case
of unlikeable non-antagonists, the device helps keep the character
sympathetic. However, the device can be used even with heroic
characters to immediately inform the reader of their heroic status. The
name of the device stems from the old canard about cats getting stuck in
trees and the heroic efforts of good Samaritans or firefighters to rescue
the poor, stupid cat. Example: "There is good in him. I feel it." Darth
Vader's save-the-cat moment is his last-minute turn from the dark side
when he murders the emperor to save the life of his son.

Second-person perspective.
A narrator that purports to be the reader. Uses the pronouns: You, your,
yours. Second-person is the closest of possible perspectives and creates
an intense bond with the reader that can be difficult to maintain. When
handled well, however, immersion into second-person fiction is deep,
personal and memorable, because the reader sees themselves inside of
the action. Example: You shot the sheriff, but you did not shoot the
deputy.

Seeding.
Going back into a story to insert a detail that will become important later
or that needs better foreshadowing. Seeding a story with this important
detail allows you to create a call back to the information later. Seeding is
often necessary as a plot evolves in order to make new developments
possible and plausible. Example: "Rylan has a brother?! Rylan running
away from the family home was a large part of his backstory and a
sibling was never mentioned. Go back and seed the brother in."

Senses.
As a critique note, indicates the failure to use details from the character's
five senses. Vision and hearing are the most often used senses in writing,
but smell, taste and touch can — in moderation — add depth, create
reader connection and bring a fictional world to life. Example: The smell
of fresh cigarette smoke in the entryway made Ingrid's face light. Her
grandfather had arrived and was likely already in the kitchen with Mom,
drinking coffee so sweet a spoon could stand in it. At least, so Dad had
 said, but Ingrid hadn't yet seen the spoon trick work.

Shaggy-dog story.
A long and often complicated story or anecdote — a yarn — which
winds up being irrelevant to its supposed point and/or ends
anticlimactically. While characters inside fiction may employ this device
to distract other characters or reveal their own personality/humor, an
irrelevant and shaggy-dog plot line is unsuccessful story-telling.
Examples: "The Aristocrats" joke, the song "Alice's Restaurant," your
drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

Show don't tell (also SDT or "tell-y").

Based on the common writing advice to "show, don't tell," points out a
passage or phrase which blatantly tells the reader what is going on or
what to think. Readers prefer to be shown the story and get the mental
thrill of putting together the pieces for themselves. Examples:

"The road was dangerous" is tell-y versus "The road was steep and
serpentine, and the guard rails at the many hairpin turns were scraped and
bent by previous distracted drivers."

"The woman ahead of me in the coffee line was frustratingly indecisive"

does not show the scene as much as "The woman ahead of me in the coffee
line asked first about the difference between cappuccino and lattes, then
about the specials and muttered, 'I don't know. I don't know,' while I
seethed in decaffeinated anguish behind her."

Sock drawer/sock drawering.

See "cooling-off period."

Space opera.
A science fiction story with a wide field of action and
an outer-space setting. Considered a very classic form
of sci-fi, these stories often feature wars, adventures,
physical risks, advanced technology and multiple
POV characters. Examples: Asimov's Foundation
 series, the Ender's Game series, Star Trek.
Speculative fiction.
A story that takes place in a setting where the unreal occurs, be that
magic, advanced technology, talking animals, aliens or time travel.
These stories might be for adults or children, literary or genre fiction,
but are for whatever reason impossible in the world we live in.
Examples: Alternate histories, vampires, werewolves, dark futures, sci-
fi, fantasy.

Speech tag (or speech ID, also known as "dialogue tag").

The identification of who is speaking a line of dialogue or is responsible
for an internal thought, usually a pronoun or name accompanied by said
or another speech verb. Example: "This is a ridiculous but nonetheless
correct example of a speech tag," she said. He replied, "You are right
on both counts."

Sprint.
A sustained burst of writing, usually measured in
word count or pages, and often performed as part of a
motivational project like NaNoWriMo. Many writers
find sprints helpful as a way of fleshing an outline out
into rough draft form, because you can't edit an empty
page. Example: Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers hosts
NovelRama every spring, a sprint event in which
participants aim to write 25,000 in only 4 days.
Stakes.
The consequences attached to a conflict within a story should the
character/s succeed or fail, and a near necessity for the building of
tension. Readers bond with characters when they feel the urgency of
their mission and the consequences attached. Example: "If I can't win
the $10,000 tournament prize to replace the money I borrowed from
Johnny," she lamented, pacing the casino parking lot, "I'll not only lose
my apartment. I'll also lose custody of my children. Everything rides on
 my luck tonight."

Standard manuscript formatting (or SMF).

While specifics vary from critique group to critique group, this is the list
of requirements for submission formatting. These usually include
pagination (page numbers), double spacing, 1-inch margins and 12-point
font of a standard type (Courier, Helvetica or Times New Roman).
Groups may also lay out which file types are preferred for submissions,
such as .doc or PDF. Example: "If you'd followed standard manuscript
formatting, we could literally be on the same page right now, Jennifer."

Submission.
The portion of work offered to another person or group for critique,
usually within that person or group's stated limit on length (in pages,
words or chapters). Some groups, typically smaller, allow everyone to
submit every meeting perhaps with shorter submission lengths. Other
groups, especially those with larger numbers, might allow a limited
number of submissions per meeting, rotating through members. You do
you. Example: "Both people up for critique next week have posted their
submissions on the website, so download, print and read them before
meeting."

Subplot.
A storyline that takes place simultaneously and subordinately to the
main plot line. Example: Star Wars is a metamyth as well as an
Overcoming the Monster tale, but Han and Leah's love story is a
subplot within.

Successful.
A story or other piece of fiction that functions as planned and/or meets
the expectations of genre or plot. Success means the expected reader
would be able to follow the piece without excess difficulty and,
hopefully, find the piece satisfying. This does not imply — and often
explicitly ignores — personal taste or opinion. Example: "I'm not
usually a fan of gore, but the combat scene was successful, and the
detail about the color and texture of alien blood was striking and
memorable."

Suspension of disbelief.
 See "plausibility."

-T-
Talking heads (also known as "angels on clouds").
A lack of detail, especially physical and/or emotional detail, which
makes a piece of writing read like a dry script. Talking heads is usually
caused by too much focus on only physical movement, speech tags and
dialogue, traded back and forth without interruption. When called angels
on clouds, the term also connotes the setting has either not been
established or has been forgotten, leaving the reader picturing a pure
white background of clouds. Example: "I think the conversation has
gone on too long uninterrupted, because at this point, they might as well
being talking heads on a holodeck for all I remember about the scene
around them."

Tell-y (or telling).

See "show don't tell."

Ten-page syndrome (or TPS).

The inability to consider one submission in the context of a larger work,
either because the rest of the work has never been shared or memory of
that work is hazy. Because critique groups sometimes read in chunks of
10 pages at a time, TPS is an intrinsic and unavoidable due to size of
group and/or length and frequency of contribution. You cannot expect
critique partners to see the larger picture when they've been presented
with only pieces. Example: "Wait, how does your protag know how to
hack an ATM machine? Did you explain these skills earlier and I have
TPS?"

Tension.
Reader connection to the urgency or import of a story, created by the
successful illustration of conflict and stakes. Tension is what causes a
story to be impossible to put down and keeps a reader turning the page.
Predictability, breaks of immersion and sudden shifts of tone/action are
the main culprits of tension dissolution. The hooks at the end of chapters
are often great examples of successful tension building. Related to
action, in that both terms imply a feeling of momentum and the creation
 of dramatic stakes. Example: "I love the build up of tension between the
two boys and how you leave us wondering at the end of the chapter if
they'll finally fight."

Thick skin.
The ability to disassociate from your emotions about and connection to
your submission during the process of critique. Skin thickening usually
requires avoiding voicing justifications and explanations in favor of
hearing out other's opinions, regardless of whether you agree. Skin
thickening also works to make critique meetings efficient and on time,
since the critiqued saves their processing of the feedback for their own
time. Note: Try on "I'll have to think about that," which is an adequate
and honest answer for all feedback. Example: "Sorry I flipped out when
Paul said my timeline didn't make sense. I suppose I could use thicker
skin."

Thinking on camera.
When a character's main action in a scene is all their in head, most
egregious when the word thought is used on the page. A POV character's
thoughts are the narrative, for the most part, so use of thought is often
redundant. Its use can impede flow, break immersion or cause character
disconnect. In this context, other words similar to thought include
decided, hoped and imagined. Example: "Joan thought the gentleman
was attractive and hoped he was the blind date she was at the bistro to
meet" versus "The gentleman was attractive, and Joan would not at all
be displeased if he was the blind date she was at the bistro to meet."

Third-person perspective.
A narrator describing the experience of a character or multiple
characters. Most often uses the pronouns: he/him/his or she/her/hers. But
also possible with they/their/theirs and other less common gender-
neutral pronouns like zie/zir/zirs, hen/hens/hens. The connection
between reader and narrator is not as strong as first-person narration,
but third-person is the easiest and most common choice for stories with
more than one narrator. Example: She shot the sheriff, but she did not
shoot the deputy.

To-be's.
Overuse of to-be conjugations — am, was, are, were, is, had been, etc.
 — and often a sign of passive voice. While some uses of to-be words
are absolutely necessary, many instances can be avoided through the use
of a stronger verb or rephrasing. Examples:

"It is believed by some the pyramids were built by aliens" is not as

interesting or as active as "Some nutters believe aliens built the pyramids."

"The pirate map was found in the attic" does not have the interest or the
reader connection of "Jimmy stumbled across the pirate map in the attic."

"He was an unusual fellow" is not technically passive, but is tell-y. How
and why is he unusual can be revealed and the to-be's avoided with
something like, "The man's suspenders and flamboyant pocket square stood
out in the crowd of business suits and instantly marked him as the odd duck
in the office."

Tragedy.
Usually sad and pitiable, the protagonist has a major character flaw or
makes a mistake that results in their undoing. Examples: Macbeth, Anna
Karenina, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Atonement.

Transition.
A link between thoughts, actions or scenes that makes
the change less abrupt and/or explains why the shift is
taking place. Lack of transition can break immersion.
Example: Garrison had a crush on him! Milton
rocked under the weight of that revelation. The next
morning, he ate his toast dry.
Treed.
Taken from the inability "to see the forest for the trees," the quality of
being caught up in details and specifics instead of looking at the big
picture. An individual writer can easily get too connected to their work
and can benefit from stepping back to look at the scene or story as a
whole. However, critique groups as a whole can also get treed when they
get too bogged down in details of formatting, punctuation or grammar.
 Finally deciding the serial-comma debate doesn't finish manuscripts.
Examples:

"Perhaps you're too treed in making the science work that you don't see
how the characters have become wooden."

"We covered the continuity mistake during the spell tournament. Let's not
get treed on that detail and instead move on to how the tournament's finale
is such a disappointment."

Tuning.
See "dowsing."

-U-
Underpainting.
Setting the tone, setting and meaning of a scene with subtlety and skill,
sometimes to the point the reader is un- or half-aware. Coined (as far as
I know) by Outlander author Diana Gabaldon, underpainting is an all-
encompassing term for an author's skill at keeping the reader immersed
without losing setting, character connection), choreography confusion
or other forms of broken spells. When done correctly, underpainting
creates a story with momentum but also unbroken immersion. Example,
quote from Diana Gabaldon: Underpainting "is done for the same effect,
and is just as tedious to do, as the sort of work done when constructing
an oil painting—the laying of sub-layers, half-transparent glazes, bits
that aren’t seen directly, but add to the depth of the final painting. In
literary terms, the technique involves a good deal of body language and
inconsequential small actions. The reader is conscious of the main
thrust of a paragraph, page or scene; the spoken dialogue, the main
actions. Subconsciously, underpainting brings the scene alive in the
mind’s eye."

Uneven list.
A list in which the items are not of the same class,
tense, type or style, causing confusion and breaking
immersion. Examples:
"The city unfolded before the trio of adventurers, its
streets bustling with noisy carts, shouting vendors and
strange, spicy odors" is uneven, because a street cannot
bustle with a smell.
"The city unfolded before the trio of adventurers, its
streets bustling with noisy carts and shouting vendors, its
air full of strange, spicy odors" is an even list.
Unlikeable.
A character who has distasteful traits the reader might not embrace as
moral or tasteful. Most antagonists are supposed to turn away reader's
support in favor of the hero, but unlikeable characters usually have
enough redeeming qualities to gain reader affection. Some readers even
prefer unlikeable characters because they're more round and true to life,
and perhaps have more unique experiences to impart than more
traditional, predictable heroes. Unlikeable, however, does not
necessarily cross the line into unsympathetic. Examples: TV serial
killer Dexter Morgan and drug kingpin Walter White; Ignatius J. Reilly
from Confederacy of Dunces, Javert in Les Miserables, Gollum from
The Lord of the Rings.

Unreliable narrator.
A narrator that for reasons of character, circumstance, ability or age is
unable to convey a full and/or accurate account of events for the reader
— in a way that the reader immediately or eventually notices. This
character might be untrustworthy (a thief, an admitted liar), mentally
unfit (faulty memory or sensory input, mental illness) or too young to
understand the true meaning or import of events despite the fact that
they can describe those events for the reader. A complicated concept to
execute but one which creates a mystery or gives the reader a secret
and/or a feeling of figuring things out for themselves that often bonds
them to the story. Example: In The Girl on the Train, the narrator
Rachel is an active alcoholic who is often drunk in scene. Her judgement
about right and wrong, or even objective reality, can therefore not be
trusted.
Unsympathetic.
A character who is not only distasteful and unlikeable but to whom the
reader cannot bond. Readers should be able to have sympathy even for a
story's villains, usually through understanding some small part of a
character's personality or past. Rounder characters are less likely to be
unsympathetic, therefore adding depth can be a good solution. Note: The
line between unlikeable and unsympathetic varies by reader and is
subjective. Examples: For many readers, Patrick Bateman of American
Psycho is completely unsympathetic. For others, the heroes of Ayn
Rand's philosophical works are too selfish to ever be sympathetic. Both
are matters to taste, but truly unsympathetic characters rarely make it to
publication.

-V-
Vague.
Unspecific word choice or language that makes meaning unclear,
weakens the writing or story, or needs a modifier for more specificity.
Commonly used vague words include: they, it, this, that, some (and
related phrases including somewhere, somewhat or something), thing
(and related phrases like everything, nothing or something), and
here/there. Examples:

"He couldn't do a thing about it." Perhaps he's instead helpless to resist or
has no more feasible options.

"He didn't know who they were" versus "The people hiking up the path were
strangers to him."

"How did you get here?" versus "How did you find our secret hideout?"

Added modifiers: "What is that?" versus "What is that noise?"

Voyage and Return story.

The protagonist adventures to a strange land or dimension, overcomes
conflict and returns home transformed. Examples: Labyrinth (movie),
Wizard of Oz, Robinson Crusoe, Life of Pi.
 -W-

Washing dishes.
The authorial trick of giving characters a task to busy
their hands or bodies while they have an important
conversation, thereby recasting the spell of setting
and avoiding talking heads. Obviously, washing
dishes can be literal or instead another task, whether
that's walking, driving, exercising, drinking or any
other physical activity. Ideally, the characters will
also reveal small amounts about themselves or their
personalities in the way in which they "wash dishes."
Example: Rachel's job at Central Perk on the show
Friends was a form of dish washing. The coffee shop
provided the characters a change of setting and
minor amount of physicality while they, essentially,
talked about themselves.
Which Way Is Up? story
An absurdist and satirical staple, this story's twists and turns don't allow
the audience to see what's good or bad until the whole picture is
revealed. Related: Gotcha moment and mind fuck. Examples: Black
Mirror, Memento, Fight Club, A Confederacy of Dunces.

Wooden.
Dialogue that does not ring true to life because it's awkward, overly
formal or otherwise implausible. Wooden dialogue can be avoided when
a writer listens to real-world conversations with an eye toward rhythm,
slang/colloquialisms, filler words and other details to give your dialogue
life. Common pitfalls include overuse of character names, repetition of
known information, failure to use contractions in dialogue, every
character sounding the same and overuse of dialect. Example:
 "What are your plans for the season this year?"
"Our plans for this year's season is to win as much as possible."
"That will be a nice change."
"Yes. That will be a nice change."

Word choice (or WC).

Calling into question a word that's awkward, incorrect, vague or
passive, sometimes but not always suggesting an alternate word.
Example: Her legs showed (WC) multiple bruises. Alternate word
choices are that bruises marred her legs, bruises blossomed on her legs
or bruises covered her legs.

Work in progress (or WIP).

A piece or entirety of a story that's in draft form, meaning not yet
complete or fully edited. While a writer may have several works in
progress, for the purpose of the group, it's usually the story currently
under consideration. A WIP is usually shared only with other writers,
editors and/or beta readers and should not to be submitted to agents or
publishers. You don't want a WIP to make your first and only
impression. Example: "Bring ten pages of your work in progress to
share at the open meeting next week."

World building.
The creation of the fictional world of your characters, focusing a lot on
setting — the physical landscape and/or surroundings but also any other
part of the cultural landscape, including social norms, technology, magic
systems, economics, taboos, cuisine, etc. World building is spoken of
most in the realms of speculative fiction, in which the time period,
setting or possibilities are far different than our own. However, even
realistic fiction requires some world-building in order to establish the
status quo of the world and the characters before unfamiliar and exciting
developments move the plot forward. Example: "Look, you have magic
in this world, so I don't know if this is a bear meaning a tubby but sexy
gay partner or a literal bear with fur and claws. More world-building is
going to be vital, especially as new characters and concepts are
introduced."

-Y-
Your research is showing.
A passage or story in which it's obvious to the reader the author is
enjoying sharing the fruits of their research because the shared details
are irrelevant to the story, long-winded, overkill, repetitive or otherwise
distracting. Example: Her dress was composed of multiple animal pelts,
which had been scraped and dried, then sewn together with sinew using
a bone needle. These needles were often created from elk bone using
rudimentary tools called hand axes, which weighed about a pound.
 Acknowledgments
I owe a depth of gratitude to everyone who's played a part in teaching me
how to write, how to read like a writer and how to critique. The process started
with my high-school newspaper teacher Debbie Kuhn and was continued at the
University of Denver under Brian Kiteley, author of the amazing The 3 A.M.
Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises that Transform Your Fiction and 4
A.M. Breakthrough: Unconventional Writing Exercises That Transform Your
Fiction as well as three beautiful novels.
I'd like to thank my critique groups, including my Alfalfa's crew Phebe
DeHaan, Jane Imber and Marc Sobel, as well as past members. Also thanks to
30th Street Fiction, especially co-leaders Richard M. Hamp and Ian K. Long but
also JvL Bell, Caitlin Berve, Maggie Brydon, Lezly Harrison, Jessica Lavé,
Evan McCalmon and all past members.
Specifically I owe thanks to Lezly Harrison for repeated beta reads and
suggestions, and to Caitlin Berve, founder and editor at Ignited Ink Writing
(www.ignitedinkwriting.com), for a thorough line edit — of everything but these
acknowledgments, so any errors here are all mine.
To all my other writing communities — Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers,
RMFW's Independently Published Authors League, Boulder County Indie
Authors and Boulder Media Women — know that I am grateful beyond measure
for your existence and acceptance.
Did you find an error in this first edition of The Dictionary of Fiction
Critique? Have a suggestion for addition or improvement? I'd love to hear from
you. Please contact me at through www.katejonuska.com. And please, always
keep writing, do the work and be excellent to each other.