(How to Add Value With a Prologue.)

It never got published.

Still, I always liked it, or at least I liked parts of it, and the part I liked best went like this: When the band was at its highest point, they spawned a tribute band. The “original band” was honored, at first. But gradually a terrible, ironic thing happened—the tribute band became more successful than the original band.

Things come to a head on a cold winter’s night, when the original band finally goes to watch their own tribute’s performance, paying the cover charge to see what all the fuss is about. Here’s what they learn, to their horror: Their tribute is better than they are.

Naturally, there’s only one thing for the now-mortified guys in the original band to do about it—make a terrible scene. And in the upside-down world of fiction, a “terrible scene” for the characters is often a very good scene for the reader. For me, the “band-meets-its-own-tribute” scene epitomized the absurdity, heartbreak, and unintentional comedy that goes along with devoting one’s life fully to rock and roll—which happened to have been my own single-minded pursuit for much of my 20s.

I came to believe that the novel was better off not getting published. Still, that one scene always felt true and right. Every once in a while, I’d dust it off for a reading, and it always went over well—especially with musicians. In the years that followed, I rewrote the scene as a standalone short story and, between the years 2004 and 2007, submitted it to a handful of magazines and garnered an equal handful of rejections. The story shouldn’t have gotten published either. It didn’t work. Without the novel’s context, the gravitas was missing. And without the gravitas, the humor didn’t hit the same way. (You can’t have cosmic irony without the cosmos.)

I revised it more, considered sending it out to more magazines, then changed my mind. I even briefly considered revising the long-dormant novel again just so that one scene could finally have a home. Between the years 2002 and 2019, I published three novels and approximately 30 short stories—but not that one scene.

During lockdown in 2020, I got the idea for a new book. During that strange, fear-filled time, I found comfort in the novels of Donald Westlake—particularly his comic heists about a criminal crew run by a man named Dortmunder. Westlake’s novels were sharp, well-written, and the best kind of hilarious: comedy born of character. And amid all this heist-reading, I thought: A down-and-out rock band would make the perfect criminal crew. These are guys who know one another like brothers, guys who are desperate and broke and already used to everything going wrong.

With this in mind, I started writing the novel that would eventually become Fun City Heist, which comes out this December. It’s about a band, Sunshine Apocalypse, that reunites 12 years after their disastrous breakup, for one last gig—to rob the venue on its busiest night of the year.

Naturally, I needed to create the band’s backstory—and not just any backstory. I needed the perfect, awful scene to encapsulate the humiliating, darkly comic slide into musical obscurity.

Bingo.

Of course, it wasn’t simply a matter of plug-and-play. Since its initial rendition in the soundman novel, I had revised the scene countless times over many years, and I revised it more now—not only the details but the voice. My 80s-era hair-band soundman was a very different character from the new novel’s ex-drummer narrator, with different ways of viewing the world and describing what they saw. But the scene’s essence, and many of its key details, hadn’t changed at all.

When my editor at Severn House first accepted the novel, she made a point to mention her favorite scene in the book. Guess which it was?

Yep. The scene when Sunshine Apocalypse finally meets its own tribute, Sunshine Apocalypse Mania.

This is all meant to be encouraging, by the way. I fear it might come across as less-than-optimistic. Publishing that scene took you nearly a quarter of a century! you might say, and you’d be right. But it ended up where it should have, in the right book, at the right time. My “band-faces-its-own-tribute scene” was like a nice sofa that needed to find the right living room. I’ve done this sort of thing before—most writers have—salvaging some good bit from a failed story or novel and finding it a newer, better home. What made this time unique for me was how long it took, and how much I continued to believe in the scene despite all the rejections.

Sometimes a “no” only really means “not yet.” Or “not in that form.”

Sometimes it only means, “Patience, my friend.”

Check out that scene in Michael Kardos’ Fun City Heist here:

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(How to Add Value With a Prologue.)

We all have had the experience of hearing a song from our teen years and having flashes of memory from our high school dance from decades before. Suddenly we see the disco ball shooting shards of light across our friends faces, we smell the perfume or cologne of our dance partner, we feel our feet shuffle on the floor to the rhythm of the music, we taste the flavor of our favorite gum.

Smell is the most effective sense in evoking memories since it has a direct connection to the parts of the brain that affect emotions (amygdala) and memory (hippocampus) unlike the other senses that must first pass through the thalamus for processing. The direct connection to the brain makes those olfactory memories feel more vivid and significant. Scent memories are often from early childhood, a period of significant emotional experiences and intense sensory learning.

I first learned how the power of the senses could evoke detailed memories decades ago in LA in a sense memory Stanislavski Method acting class. Our teacher instructed us to recall a childhood memory to share and after a warmup, I sat in a chair in front of the class and described the memory.

My father had died when I was seven, so I didn’t have many memories of him, but the most vivid memory was of a summer day when I was about four. As he tended to his strawberry patch, I watched as he chose the biggest, reddest, strawberry in the patch, wiped off the dirt and popped it into my mouth. “I see the deep red, ripe strawberry. I see it’s red heart shape, and the green, pointy cap and stem…” I continued to describe in vivid detail the taste of the succulent red juicy sweetness bursting in my mouth and dripping on my chin. My father’s gentle gesture made me feel happy and loved. As we walked to a white lattice arbor heaving with honeysuckle, I described the delectable fragrance that filled my head. My father inhaled deeply as the sun shone on his nose and tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

I intentionally chose what I thought was a happy memory of my dead father but as I continued this exercise, emotions began to roil in my stomach and up into my chest and throat that were unfamiliar to me. When my acting teacher asked me to speak out loud to my father I resisted and hesitated, then I gasped and snuffled. The feelings that bubbled up did not match this deeply touching memory of him. I squirmed in my chair and choked on the words “I’m mad at you.” I was shocked because I had no idea that I was angry at him for dying and leaving me.

When my father died, no one explained anything to me. No one said it was very sad that my father had died but that he was very sick, and his body was too worn out to heal. No one said that I needn’t worry—even though my father had died, my mother was healthy and young and would not die. No one said that we would grieve properly, and missing him would hurt, but we would all be okay.

Of course, then, it was a revelation to me that I had unprocessed grief, sadness, fear, and yes, even anger that my father had died nearly 20 years prior. It was a powerful sense memory acting class that uncovered what needed to be embraced and processed for my healing.

Years later, I used that sense memory exercise to write the scenes in my upcoming book My Pretty Baby. In the first chapter I describe being in a dark voting booth with my mother. Inhaling her luscious Estee Lauder Youth Dew perfume, I gazed at her black shiny high heels, reached out and touched her smooth black nyloned calf, and felt a tingle all over my body as I listened to her quiet yet excited whispers. In contrast, at my father’s funeral I described the details of my dead father’s waxy face as he lay in his white satin lined coffin and the overwhelming nauseousness as I inhaled the stench of carnations.

Try this exercise to incorporate the five senses into your writing: Close your eyes and recall a childhood memory. Connect to the place. Feel your feet planted on the ground. As you recall the memory, write down one detail for each sense.

1. Smell: What did the place smell like? Can you smell cigarette smoke, bacon cooking, fresh mown lawn, a summer rainstorm? Layer the senses gradually. Sometimes less is more and two vivid senses is enough.
2. Sound: What do you hear? Is it loud, soft, muffled, nearby or faraway? Do you hear the rattle of the pans as your mom cooks in the kitchen. Do you hear the loud “potato-potato” rumble of a Harley motorcycle outside your window?
3. Taste: Can you taste the metallic tang of fear in your mouth as you hear the creak of floorboards in the middle of the night. You can also use contrast: do you taste the sweet chocolate cake while sitting at the kitchen table listening to your parents argue?
4. Sight: What do you see? Colors, light, shadows, movement? Describe in microscopic detail the texture, pattern, or grain of the wood floor or carpet in a room. You may not necessarily use the entire description, but this practice will reveal nuggets of richness that will make your scene vivid.
5. Touch: What is the temperature? Hot, cold, clammy? What bodily sensations do you feel through your skin? soft, scratchy, sharp, smooth?

As psychologist James Pennebaker’s research suggests, writing with your senses in not just a craft tool; it can also be a healing practice. And as Dr. Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, trauma is often stored in the body. By listening to the body’s memories with the senses, we can gain access to emotions and trauma that are hidden in the body. In this way, sensory writing becomes both a creative practice to enliven your writing, but also as a personal path to unearth, heal, and integrate past emotional experiences and traumas.

Sensory details anchor the reader in the experience, not just in the explanation. Engaging the senses can transform flat details that tell what happened into a three-dimensional narrative that creates vivid cinematic scenes that pull readers into the heart of a story and show them not only what happened but how it felt to be there.

Check out Wendy B. Correa’s My Pretty Baby here:

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(How to Build Romantic Tension in a Thriller Scene.)

Because of the nature of the spice itself. Sex is the most personal and intimate way one human being can connect with another. But it can also be messy, complicated, and easy to misconstrue. That’s real life. So, as a writer, the question then becomes, how do we capture all of that and make it integral to character and story?

My approach? Don’t laugh, but I write spicy scenes in the same manner that I approach battle scenes.

I’m serious! To me, these two types of scenes are similarly layered with elements of the physical action, but also with emotional impacts, internal thoughts, specific uses of language, points of connection, and longer lasting impacts leading, ultimately to an HEA (happy ever after) for characters who are the pivotal element in all of it.

With that in mind, here are my top 4 tips for writing spicy scenes that are integral to your story.

TIP #1: START WITH THE BASICS

A spicy scene can and will vary widely in terms of language use, actions being shared, the level of heat described on page, and impact to the story. Think about it…a love scene in a coming-of-age, first-time-for-both-parties upper YA with romantic elements is going to be quite different from a monster-fantasy erotica with consensual BDSM involving multiple partners.

So start by asking yourself, when it comes to spicy scenes, what are the reader expectations for these basics:

Genre/Subgenre

Genre and subgenre will make possibly the biggest difference to a writer’s approach to spicy scenes. Are you writing a romance, or is this a different fictional genre that will include romantic elements?  If you’re writing a romance, what subgenre? There are vast differences in the approach to spice across the romantic subgenres. Author Michelle M. Pillow has a great list of romantic subgenres.

Audience

When thinking about audience, consider reader expectations and demographics: age, gender, sexual orientation, and reading habits. Are you writing for readers who typically read romance, or those who don’t? Do they prefer explicit detail, euphemism, or closed-door scenes? Are you aiming at an upper YA audience, which is more about first experiences, or mid-life which comes with different expectations?

Heat-Level

Heat level ranges from “sweet” with no spice to dark romance and erotica.

It’s shaped first by genre and audience, then by your characters’ journeys and what’s right for them. The heat-level, more than anything else, will also determine your choice language, from the euphemistic to the explicit.

For a good starting place for heat-levels, check out this post by author Maddie James.

TIP #2: KNOW YOUR CHARACTERS

Spicy scenes are deeply personal. No two people want or need sex for the same reasons, enjoy the same intimacies, or react in the same way. Know your characters so each scene fits who they are, where they are in the story, and where they’re headed.

Because you know your characters best, there is no way to list ALL the questions you might ask yourself here, but I have a few to get you started.

Note: Assumes all characters are consenting adults (18+).

• What is the character’s age group? Upper YA vs. new adult vs. adult vs. midlife vs. late in life are different phases in life with different approaches to and expectations of sex. (*This is different, BTW, from your reader’s age group.)
• What is the character’s mental age? Are they naïve or world weary?
• What is the character’s previous sexual experience? Positive, negative, or observed?
• What is the character’s personality? Personality will make a huge difference to actions and reactions within any given scene.
• What is the character’s backstory? What about their past, including their emotional wounds, might inform their needs and reactions?
• What does the character want/need from the spice? What do they want/need in this particular moment in the story and with this partner(s)?
• What is the character’s understanding and consideration of their partner(s) needs? There is nothing more intimate or connection-building than being thoughtful of and providing for someone else’s needs.

PRO TIP: Apply this knowledge to both the POV character and their partner(s), showing it through visible actions and reactions.

TIP #3: KNOW WHERE THE CHARACTERS ARE IN THE STORY

A romantic ARC progresses through stages of intimacy and relationship, culminating in the HEA. The spicy scene will differ depending on where the characters are in that progression.

I have created my own approach that I call the 4 Elements of the Romantic ARC. Ask where the characters are in each element when the spicy scene occurs.

Attraction

Both physical and mental attraction moving from the early stage of awareness (oh he’s so hot; oh she’s so funny; I like how they treat kids), through stages of increasing trust and intimacy, all the way to the end stage of deep desire that is intensified by aspects like trust, connection, and partnership.

Conflict

Romantic conflict and/or overcoming that conflict is the beating heart of a romance. It moves from the awkwardness of just meeting and realizing there is a conflict, to learning to trust and connect despite the conflict, to resolving that conflict allowing the HEA to happen.

Connection

Connection is how we relate to other people. From the first introduction when we are awkwardly feeling each other out to a deep relationship built on trust and an intimate knowledge and acceptance of each other. For me, the stages of this romantic ARC element are:

Building an “Us”

In a romance, the “Us” is the end goal, the HEA. But to get there, characters must work through the stages of building that “us,” starting from there is no “us,” through spending time together and noticing each other, through sharing deeper and deeper parts of themselves building trust and partnership, all the way to a wholehearted relationship at the HEA.

TIP #4: BUILD THE SCENE IN LAYERS

Finally, take everything we’ve been considering in the tips above and weave it into your scene in layers.

The mistake I see many new writers make is focusing solely on the physical element. And, while that is very important in spicy scenes, don’t neglect the other layers. By adding the emotional and connection elements, you can create a scene that really grabs your reader at a deeper emotional level but also moves the characters forward both romantically and individually.

Layer #1: Physical

The logistics of the scene. The physical actions being taken and built to a climax. I like to get the physical on the page first because it informs all the other layers which I then paint on over it.

One of my favorite tools for the physical layer is the 12 Stages of Intimacy listed below. (Check out this article on Storytelling DB for more details.) Build through these stages for a natural progression of intimacy. The speed that you jump from stage to stage may differ based on the heat-level and purpose of the spicy scene itself.

1. Eye to body
2. Eye to eye
3. Voice to voice
4. Hand to hand (or arm)
5. Arm to shoulder
6. Arm to waist, or back
7. Mouth to mouth
8. Hand to head
9. Hand to body
10. Mouth to breast
11. Hand to genitals
12. Genitals to genitals

PRO TIP: Author Denise Williams shares in this Writer’s Digest article several tips, one of which is “don’t detail every movement. It can disrupt the reader’s connection to the character and the scene.”

Layer #2: Emotional

As the characters are moving through the physical, how are they reacting to or feeling about what’s happening between them? Think through what this means to them, what their goals were going into it, how their partner’s actions/reactions are impacting them, how this act might be impacting their romance, them as characters, or the story moving forward?

Layer #3: Sensory

Spicy scenes rely heavily on sensory experience—sight, touch, taste, sound, and smell—so use them to amplify emotion. Even better, tie it to the character’s emotions.

Layer #4: Internal Thoughts

For me, the internal thoughts might be the most fun part of the spicy scenes. This is a great way to capture how the spice itself is changing or growing their romance or the characters themselves. Tie internal thoughts to both physical and emotion reactions.

Layer #5: Dialogue

What they say (or don’t say) can shift the entire dynamic. Are they joking through the awkwardness? Sharing tenderness? Silence itself can be powerful. How do any spoken words fit or impact their romance, them as characters, or where the story goes next?

Layer #6: Connection

Because sex is intimate, it inevitably changes something—trust, emotion, or direction. Ask what this scene alters between the characters afterward: trust gained or lost, deeper understanding, solidified love, or new uncertainty.

BONUS TIP: AVOID THE CLICHE

Never as easy as it sounds, but always the goal.

I hope these tips help you refine your approach to writing spicy scenes. Now go create the moments that move your characters—and readers—toward that satisfying HEA.

Check out Abigail Owen’s The Things Gods Break here:

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(The Keys to Conflict in Romance.)

In my debut novel, The Best Worst Thing, Nicole and her love interest, Logan, are former colleagues. While their relationship as co-workers ended years before the novel’s inciting incident brings them back together, the book features a dual timeline, offering a retrospective glimpse at Nicole and Logan’s love story from the very beginning, when it was little more than a bit of workplace banter.

Here are four tips and tricks I used to strengthen my main characters’ workplace tension that you can implement in your work, too.

Set the stage—but don’t overdo it

There’s a reason that offices are breeding grounds for harmless little crushes: forced proximity. For 40-plus hours a week, two unsuspecting employees are just… near each other. All the time. If your characters have a good rapport, there’s no need to overdo it. After all, they’re at an office—not a bar.

With that in mind, give us an early look at a regular day at the workplace. Who’s serious? Who’s cracking jokes? Who’s distracting whom? Perhaps your story requires longing stares or intense yearning right off the bat, but even then, these moments must be earned. Wherever your characters are at, consider offering a quick, establishing scene that shows us who these people are and how they interact.

In The Best Worst Thing, for example, we meet Logan for the first time in a flashback that’s less than a page long. Nicole is trying to get information from Logan to complete a time-sensitive task, and Logan is… showing her a ridiculous computer game he’s been playing all day on his monitor screen.

She teases him, he teases her back, and then we’re out of the scene. It’s zingy, it’s charming, it’s character-forward, and then it’s over.

But the reader knows, for sure, that we’ll definitely be coming back.

Make the mundane sacred

Here’s another thing about workplace crushes: They are, by design, not hot. Bodies are obscured by Banana Republic garb. People sit in cubicles. Somebody from accounting microwaves leftover sea bass for lunch and makes it the rest of the office’s problem for the next three months.

But you can use these banalities to your advantage. You can make the mundane sacred by creating workplace intimacy rituals for your characters. Does he throw a packet of Oreos at her desk every afternoon at 3 pm? Do they have a shared enemy in procurement? The Office is famous for this tactic. For turning universal nine-to-five minutiae into moments that make sparks fly.

Another fantastic example: Natalie Sue’s 2024 debut, I Hope This Finds You Well, in which the hot-mess protagonist, Jolene, falls for Cliff, the HR representative sent from corporate to rectify her (fantastically) bad attitude.

Most scenes between Jim and Pam and Cliff and Jolene aren’t actually hot. Everyone’s wearing chinos and cardigans… and yet: Banter. Butterflies. The unmistakable signs of soulmate-level chemistry, which, when properly dispatched, can pop more in a copy room than on a fancy first date.

You’ve just got to leverage the boring stuff to make the real story stand out.

Play with the setting to propel the narrative forward

You’ve established rapport. You’ve shown sparks. You’ve made the boring spectacular. Now, the story must escalate. Flirting is cute, yes, but forward motion is essential to maintaining that exquisite will-they-or-won’t-they tension. Feelings can’t stay bottled up forever—or, if they do, there should be consequences for that. These are humans you’ve built, and if they’re not together, it should be driving them crazy.

So, once you’ve earned it, put your characters in a pressure cooker. In The Best Worst Thing, we see emotional escalations at a holiday party, during a late-night paper jam, and on a freezing-cold work trip. The chief trick here, in my opinion, is to continue to leverage the “workplace” while actually shifting the setting. This can signal to the reader—and to your characters—increased opportunity for intimacy, understanding, and connection.

It’s simple, too. At a holiday party, for example, characters are dressed up. Their appearances are, suddenly, up for discussion. People are drinking. Spouses and partners might show up. It’s dark out! The event flips the standard setting on its head and offers all sorts of opportunities for interiority, reflection, discomfort, and longing. Little moments in which the characters realize they only know each other in one context, but are perhaps starving for more. For a drink, a brush of the hand, a night out in the real world, a conversation that doesn’t end.

Bonus points, of course, if they can’t have it.

Don’t be afraid to go nuclear

Remember when, in The Office, Jim literally transferred to a branch in another city to avoid Pam? Yeah. Gut punch. And yet, it made perfect sense. You’ve built humans who are falling for each other at work, sure. But they are full-bodied, complex characters, and that means that, when the workday ends, if they don’t get to have each other, they’re in pain. (Or, they’re in denial.)

It can’t be fun and games forever. Eventually, somebody’s going to have to do something big. Yearning and pining and those I-think-you-might-be-my-person moments have to lead somewhere. Does somebody shout a love confession? Try to stop a wedding? Attempt a kiss, then get rebuked?

The bottom line is, after a while, if your characters aren’t getting closer together, they need to be drifting farther apart.

So, if the story requires it, don’t be afraid to slam the office door shut. After all, if you’re writing a romance, your characters will get their chance to open it eventually.

They just might have to wait a while. That’s all.

Check out Lauren Okie’s The Best Worst Thing here:

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(9 Dos & Don’ts of Writing What You Know.)

I’ve written dozens of sex scenes, alone and with my writing partner, Jacqueline Silvester (under our pen name, Caedis Knight) and the number one thing readers and other authors ask me is: ‘How do you not get embarrassed?’

The truth is, no one is scrutinizing these scenes the way you think they are. If you do it well enough your readers will be so deeply invested in the story and characters they won’t be imagining the author behind the words. Writing sex, like any scene that involves tension, physicality, and risk, is about truth, not titillation. So to get past the ‘Oh god, what if my mother reads this’ fear, simply treat intimate scenes the way you’d treat writing a battle, confrontation, or any other action scene that moves the plot forward: with attention to pacing, emotion, character development, and consequences.

Do you need sex in your book? If so…how much?

Not every story requires sex, and not every romance needs to be physical. When planning your book your first step is asking yourself whether intimacy belongs there in the first place. When used well, sex deepens plot and character, introducing complications, shifts in power dynamics, as well as strengthening or fracturing emotional bonds. The one thing it should never be is filler. If your intimate scene doesn’t add something essential to the story, it’s better left unwritten.

But, if you do decide to include sex, how much should you show? That depends entirely on your genre, tone, and audience. When writing erotic fiction, sex is the story, explicit and central. In romance, it may be graphic or gently suggestive, but it always prioritizes emotional connection. Other stories may require a slow fade to black. Regardless of heat level, a scene must feel inevitable, earned, and emotionally truthful.

It’s not just what you write that matters, but how.

Every genre differs, as does the demographic of your readership, so understand what your audience wants and needs from your story and deliver accordingly. Globally, women account for roughly two-thirds of fiction sales, therefore you must ensure the emotional arc and the female gaze take precedence. If you want your female readers to connect with the romance, then the pleasure should be female-centric, and to do this it’s vital that you really understand what women enjoy, crave, yearn for, need, and expect.

Age and circumstances matter too. Readers of young adult fiction, for instance, are invested in coming of age stories, including characters and situations they can empathize with. Consent, emotional readiness, and respect are vital in this genre. Likewise, a queer audience requires authenticity, which means writing beyond your own lived experience demands research, sensitivity, and listening to your audience (or avoid it to stick to what you know).

Characters, pacing, and dialogue.

At the center of any compelling intimacy is character. Two people reaching toward each other (emotionally, physically, or both) must do so in a way that’s true to who they are. When it comes to characters, a timid virgin and a magical, confident immortal won’t experience intimacy the same way, and your writing should reflect that. Some characters soften during sex. Others reveal hidden sides; dominance, vulnerability, even fear. The bedroom is a stage for emotion, power, and motive. What do your characters want? Is this moment about love, revenge, affirmation, escape? What happens after matters just as much as what happens during.

When it comes to romance, pacing is everything. A rushed relationship feels hollow and one dragged out too long can frustrate the reader. The most satisfying intimacy is the culmination of longing, hesitation, tension, and risk. Small gestures matter—brushed fingers, loaded glances, silences charged with meaning. Readers crave the slow build as much as the release. Let anticipation do the heavy lifting. When the moment arrives, it should feel like the only possible outcome for those two characters.

Dialogue, too, carries immense weight. The wrong words can pull readers out of the moment; the right ones can take their breath away. Know your characters. Know how they speak (not just in public, but in vulnerability). Are they poetic, clumsy, raw? Do they speak at all? A whispered confession can carry more weight than paragraphs of exposition. Let the tone of the scene dictate how much your characters say, and remember that silence is often more revealing than speech.

It’s easy to get it wrong.

Even with careful crafting, it’s easy to get intimacy wrong. Many authors have veered into the absurd or grotesque, unintentionally drawing laughter or discomfort instead of connection (look up the now-defunct Bad Sex in Fiction awards to see how not to do it).

Less is often more. For instance, avoid metaphors that obscure rather than clarify. There’s no need to describe genitals with elaborate similes or euphemisms, and you don’t have to spell everything out. Trust your reader’s imagination; suggest, evoke, let them feel their way into the scene.

Above all, remember that your goal isn’t to shock or satisfy some arbitrary requirement, it’s to make your readers feel. Desire, tenderness, heartbreak, or catharsis, whatever you hope your readers get from your story ensure you root your romance in emotion, not anatomy. Don’t reduce your characters to physical responses. Show us their humanity, their hesitations, their hunger, and their fears. Let the physical act reflect an emotional truth.

Don’t forget this isn’t about you.

And finally, although writing intimacy may feel very personal, remember that the story belongs to your characters. If a scene exists only to fulfill the fantasy of the writer, readers will feel it. And yes, it’s OK to feel a little…ignited…by your own writing. If you’re not reacting to your scene, then your readers won’t!

Writing intimacy takes courage. But done well, it can transform a story and leave your readers moved, breathless, and longing for more. Strip away the shame, lean into authenticity, and write with the same vulnerability you’re asking of your characters.

Check out Natali Simmonds’ The Ex I Buried here:

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(4 Ways to Add Spice but Not Smut in Fiction.)

Why should we write about sex? Reason 1

Sex is part of the common human experience, and we should write about those, shouldn’t we? I’m always struck by how authors are blithely happy to write shocking scenes of violence or murder (which rarely happens to most of us), yet hesitate when it comes to writing about sex.

Why should we write about sex? Reason 2

Sex can reveal so much about your characters. Being intimate with someone can make a character very vulnerable, and show a real, perhaps even different side to their personality. If your main character is precise and orderly, for example, are they the same when it comes to sex? Or do they see that as a rare chance to be wild and messy? Who are they, both as a character and as a sexual being?

8 Dos and Don’ts of Writing Sex Scenes in Fiction

Do: Make sure the scene has a purpose

Does the sex scene tell us more about the characters and/or move the story on? Does it deepen the stakes? Will the story be as enjoyable without it? If not, then it’s gratuitous. Unnecessary sex scenes are like any other pointless scene—a waste of words. 

Don’t: Feel that all sex scenes have to be sexy

Sometimes we want a sex scene to be so sexy that our reader needs a cold shower. But other times we might want the scene to be romantic, or funny, or show how awkward our characters are together. What will the audience feel reading the scene? And is that what you want them to feel? (Sometimes I write a sex scene I think is very hot, only for readers to tell me it made them laugh.)

Don’t: Think it has to be wildly explicit

(Though it can be!) A sex scene can be very explicit, but leave a lot to the imagination; or, it can be subtle in terms of vocabulary, but very descriptive. It can tell us exactly who’s doing what to whom, or it can be more about sensations and feelings. Alternatively, if you feel that fading to black would be more natural for your voice or story, you can write a sex scene without writing any actual sex, by focusing on all the elements surrounding sex: the sultry looks beforehand, the clothes on the floor, the dreamy haze afterward. The reader will eagerly fill in any gaps.

Do: Consider your genre

Each genre has different, usually unwritten, conventions when it comes to sex. Reading round your genre will give you a good idea of how much sex is usual in similar books, what sort of language is used, and how explicit the scenes are.

Click to continue.

Don’t: Let embarrassment win

Dance like no-one’s watching, and write your sex scene as if no-one is going to read it.

Yes, eventually your mother, aunt, and dentist might all read your book. If you’ve done a good job of writing it, they’ll be lost in the story and won’t even remember that you wrote it while reading. However, don’t write a scene that makes you uncomfortable. You need to be true to your style, voice, and story.

Do: Try to avoid being nominated for the Bad Sex Award

Even award-winning authors can lose their minds when writing sex scenes. The much-missed annual ‘Bad Sex Award’ that celebrated bad writing in published novels is testament to this. The awards generally go to terrible metaphors (such as comparing nipples to cherries/raspberries/choose your own fruit); corny old clichés (throbbing manhoods, snowy-white virginal breasts); and a sudden outburst of thesaurus-sourced words large enough for the writer to hide their embarrassment behind.

It’s not that hard to avoid bad sex writing: Try to use a similar style and vocabulary as the rest of your book. To avoid cliché, reflect on how the sensations feel, what the emotions are like. Just think—as for any scene—what the experience is like for your characters.

Do: Put other things into the scene

Sex isn’t usually silent. Well, it can be. But it can also include other interesting things. Characters talk during sex, and they also think—sometimes about quite surprising things.

Do: Remember that it’s a scene like any other

A sex scene is just the same as any other scene. It has a rise and a fall, it shares the same tone and tension of the story, it’s about character and not plot, and yet something must also happen. Writing a good sex scene requires thought about plot, dialogue, pacing, description, and characterization: the same elements that are needed for any scene.

Check out Beth Miller’s The Friendship List here:

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Prologues were a key feature of ancient Greek drama. Shakespeare used the technique, as did Chaucer, to walk their audiences through who and what they could expect to meet in the tale that was about to unfold. And yet go down any Reddit or Facebook rabbit hole about favorite/least favorite novels or authors and you’ll quickly find readers foaming at the mouth on the subject of prologues.  

So perhaps the question we should be asking is, what’s disappointing them? And what can we do as writers—and I include myself here as somebody who regularly writes them—to convince reluctant readers that a well-used prologue merits its place? 

Before I get into that, I do think it’s important to acknowledge that constructing a prologue—like any what is essentially short-form writing—is not an easy thing to do. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that my first tip is to read as many examples as possible, deconstructing the factors that either draw you into the main text, or push you away from it.  

4 Prologue Pitfalls 

What is writing based on after all, if not extensive reading? You’ll make your own checklist of what works and what doesn’t, but the following are some of my red flags. 

1. It’s too slow. This could be because the author has used the prologue as a means to throw in a whole pile of backstory about a character the reader doesn’t know and hasn’t yet invested in. Or because it’s building a world in too many complicated stages. Or dumping research about a key event that’s going to matter later in the story but is far too dry to take up time now. Whatever the reason, the outcome is the same: The first few pages are so dull, the reader isn’t inspired to tackle the rest. Especially, or so it seems, if they’re reading on Kindle Unlimited and have many other choices at their fingertips to turn to. 

2. It’s too much. In this instance, the reader is thrown at top speed into a piece of dramatic action that roars along at a possibly confusing pace, and then… Everything drops off in chapter one and the novel feels like a different book. 

3. It doesn’t make sense. Admittedly the reader might be a little further in than the first chapter or so before they realize that the prologue is completely disconnected from the main story, but that won’t make them forgive the writer any more than a dull prologue will.  

4. It never ends. It’s not a tempting snack, it’s a whole meal with far too many elements. Somewhere between 1,000 to 2,000 words is the recommended length. I personally aim for the lower end of that. Which leads me nicely into… 

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3 Prologue Opportunities 

If those are the pitfalls, what are the opportunities? Why write one at all? In my case, I do it to give my reader a glimpse into the world that’s coming, usually by establishing a key voice in the story and raising questions about that character and/or the situation they’re caught up in. What I’m trying to achieve is a sense of high stakes which will encourage the reader to quickly invest in the story.  

There might be a sense of danger, or immediacy, or a task whose success/failure could have serious consequences. There could be a moral dilemma, or a hint that the reader has just met somebody they really shouldn’t trust. Whichever I choose, I’m aiming to be sticky and concise in the delivery. That should remain the case however you approach a prologue, but there are, of course, other ways than character to do it. 

1. Use the classic attention-grabbing opener. In many ways, a prologue is a short story that’s going to be picked up in the rest of the narrative, so why not let the opening line sing? Perhaps through an offbeat sentence (e.g., the opening line of Orwell’s 1984 or Ian Banks’s The Crow Road). Or one that poses multiple questions (e.g., Plath’s, The Bell Jar). Or one that instantly establishes a character’s quirks (e.g., Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle). Just remember that whichever way you go, you’ve now set the tone for the rest of the book. 

2. Pull your reader onto the edge of their seat. Create a vivid setting they can’t help but step further into, or a conflict they can’t look away from. Create tension or uncertainty. And then deliver what you’ve signposted. 

3. Drop them into an event which will twist. Put your reader onto a path they don’t want to get off, with a promise that what’s happening is going to lead somewhere they think they can guess. And then push them out of that comfort zone in the main story. 

However you do it, stay precise—again, like a short story, every word has to earn its place—and don’t forget to pick up the thread you’ve dangled in the prologue later on. 

We live in an era where we’re constantly being told people have less and less time and shorter attention spans. Against this backdrop, a prologue that adds value could be one of the sharpest tools in your writing tool kit. I like to think of it as the introduction at a party that stops you looking for someone more interesting to talk to. Hopefully my readers think the same way! 

The post How to Add Value With a Prologue appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(What Your Character’s Body Language Is Saying.)

Writing action sequences is like most parts of writing a book—a harmony of movement, sensations, setting, and plot. But when things get exciting, it’s easy to lose sight of one of these important components and lose a reader along the way. Here are tips for writing compelling, dynamic, and clear action sequences.

Navigate a clear path.

Action almost always has a degree of chaos. And who doesn’t love a little chaos? The more you throw at your character, the more the reader gets to cheer (or at least breathe a sigh of relief) when they overcome it. But whether it’s a sword fight, a rickety rope bridge, a sports competition, or a crumbling luxury starliner days from Mars that stands between them and their goal, characters must observe the obstacles and find a way through without leaving the reader behind.

Readers need to know who they are following and where they are going from the beginning to the end of your action sequence. Like studying a course map before a race, mental mapping or sketching out the sequence can keep you, your character, and, ultimately, the reader on course.

Remember the stakes while navigating the chaos.

No matter what’s on the line: their life, someone they love, horrific embarrassment, life-changing prize money, or maybe even humanity at large, the “goal” or “objective” remains a character’s main focus—even when action rises and things get tense, chaotic, or deadly.

Back on the course, an upbeat ballad plays in time with my pumping arms. My strides are short. The hill is grueling. My leg muscles burn. My heart beats against my ribs. That little voice in the back of my head who tries to keep me alive, begs me to quit. But I push on. The hill crests and I open up my stride, scanning the downward sloped trail ahead as I descend. At the back of my mind, I know this is where I can make up the most time. And that’s my end goal: Finish this race 15 minutes faster than last year.

Know when to take a breath and when to sprint.

Short sentences equal faster reading. Use the build. Keep them going. Drive the tension. It’s not far. Keep going. Until BOOM! An insurmountable obstacle slams onto their path. Something that could end it all. Their biggest fear or their mortal enemy. Your character has no choice but to pause, assess, reflect, find the will and drive to keep going. After all, the stakes are still there. Waiting. Will the character succeed or accept failure?

The only thing that stands between me and achieving my time goal is… well, a panic attack. I shake out my trembling hands for the fifth time. The camera focuses on the seconds ticking by on my watch. Minutes left before I miss my time. I just have to dunk under this ridiculous inflatable wall, inches from the surface of the icy, murky pool. I’m a strong swimmer, but the fear of getting stuck, being confined, running out of oxygen already has me hyperventilating. I reach a hand underneath to feel for the other side. Less than two feet. I can make it. I suck in a breath and duck under the water’s surface. The score goes silent, replaced by the soft whooshing of moving water. In slow motion, I re-emerge on the other side. Racing out of the freezing water, I sprint for the finish line.

Stay true to your character.

When you’re juggling character, movement, and, potentially, a changing setting, it’s easy to forget the building blocks of your characters, but people are complex—even amid action. If they’re afraid of heights when they’re visiting a friend who lives on the 42nd floor of a high rise in the setup, they’re still afraid of heights at the “height” of action. When will your character hit a breaking point? Can they grab hold of that ledge before the floor drops out from under them or can they not reach? How does this character react to stressful situations?

My love of film has built my cinematic mind. But imaginations are as unique as people. My experiences in obstacle course racing have become a stockpile for action writing. But I keep in mind that it’s a privilege to use my body in this way, and I don’t take that for granted. There are plenty of others who approach these events differently or not at all. We all find what feeds our soul and inspires us. 

Writing action sequences is about more than just movement. It’s specific characters (people) with specific personalities, strengths, and weaknesses navigating a challenging setting or situation with clear stakes on the other side of their own set of obstacles.

All of writing is about using your own personal arsenal of imagination, knowledge, and experiences. And for the rest, there is research.

Check out E.L. Starling’s Bound By Stars here:

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Then, whenever I was watching a show that wasn’t quite to my liking, I’d start thinking of that same word.

Then, whenever I sat down to work on something of my own—yup, here came that word again.

The word was “SHARP,” but it doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Lemme back up.

It might be helpful to know that, back in those playwriting days, I was specifically a horror playwright. I point this out because the mechanics of a horror play are a little different than your garden variety stage drama or comedy. Sure, the principles are the same—you’re trying to tell a good, satisfying story just like any other playwright—but there are a few additional expectations that make writing a horror play just a little bit harder. After all, you’re also looking to conjure up suspense, dread, and fear in your audience, and those are really challenging emotions to evoke without the benefit of a forced camera perspective or a narrow frame or post-production special effects or one of those soundtracks where everything gets really quiet AND THEN GETS REALLY LOUD.

When writing suspenseful, speculative stories for the stage, where you mostly only have the benefit of some props, a set, and whatever the human body and/or voice can do, you have to learn a few additional tricks. You have to learn how to fashion suspense and instill dread and fear using only your two dramatic fundamentals: characters and circumstances.

That’s where “SHARP” came in. Not only was it a short and pithy descriptor for that feeling a good, dynamic story gives you, it was also a handy acronym for a few key ingredients to keep in mind. Things that were present in the plays I was enjoying. Things that were absent in the ones I was not. Things I wanted to make sure my own work contained.

Lemme back up again, though.

What About the Nonsense Word?

I can hear you asking, “Wait, but the title of this article says it’s a ‘nonsense’ word! WE WERE PROMISED A NONSENSE WORD!”

The thing is, I’ve always been bad at leaving well enough alone; it wasn’t long before I started thinking of other letters to add to my pithy catchall. “SHARP” quickly expanded into the far more unwieldy “SHARPAWIDUS,” which I’ll admit, isn’t quite as snappy and sounds more like either an obscure dinosaur or a dubstep DJ (but perhaps I repeat myself).

Still. It gets the job done for me. “SHARP”—later “SHARPAWIDUS”—became a sort of checklist. Not a prescriptive formula or anything so crass; more like, an Aristotelian collation of elements I’ve observed are particularly satisfying, and which I can consult whenever I feel like I’m stuck in the writing or revising trenches.

I’m not a playwright anymore (at least in any dedicated way; you can’t ever truly leave the theater behind). Now I spend my energy and time writing books, my first and truest love. And despite the fact that every novelist has an unlimited budget when it comes to elaborate set pieces and special effects, as well as an ability to direct the audience’s eye to specific things no matter how small, I find I still constantly refer back to the lessons I learned as a playwright to help craft a style of suspense that’s necessarily rooted in character and circumstance.

In fact, my newest book, When the Wolf Comes Home (wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025), was written in an explicit attempt to marry both approaches. I wanted to embrace the novel’s ability to create elaborate set pieces of action and chaos and external threat, but also ensure that as much of the breathless, seat-gripping, palm-besweattening suspense came as much from the characters and their circumstances as any no-budget play I’ve ever written. (So far, early response seems to indicate that I did my job—Stephen King even called it “a classic”—for which I’m exceedingly grateful and gratified.)

When Writer’s Digest asked me to write a little about creating suspense, then, I figured I could trot out the old classic tricks like “short sentences,” “onomatopoeia,” “escalating action,” “show the bomb under the table” (all of which are classics for a reason; they are definitely effective tricks you should use) . . . or I could introduce you to my friend, SHARPAWIDUS, in the hopes that, at the very least, it’s ridiculous enough to help you unlock your own nonsense word to describe the things you think should be in a good, suspenseful story.

I should probably tell you what the hell this all means, though, so lemme back up a bit more.

SHARPAWIDUS

Stands for:

Stakes
Humor
Anticipation
Resistance
Plots
Animosity
Withholding
Interruptions
Decisions
Unsustainability
Stichomythia

Some of these might need some elaboration, so, you know the drill by now. Lemme back up one more time.

Stakes

This one’s obvious, I know, but it’s amazing how often remembering stakes is the key to everything. Think they’re high enough? Raise ’em. Is it the next chapter? Raise ’em again. But what does it mean to raise the stakes?

It means you’ve gotta give your character(s) something they clearly don’t want to lose, and then make it more and more likely they’ll lose it. Better yet, make them lose it and see what else they stand to lose now. Whether it’s their safety or their innocence or their understanding of the world—or whether it’s an arm or a head or a loved one.

As soon as we really feel what matters to your character(s), the more we’ll begin dreading the idea that we might have to get it taken away. That’s where the suspense comes in . . . and then rises as we watch the character(s) try to deal with / prevent their losses in hopefully unpredictable ways.

Humor

This one might be the hardest to calibrate. Too much humor and your suspense deflates. Not enough humor and the experience becomes a slog. The trick, I find, is to make sure the humor is grounded—or, to put it another way, that it’s coming from the inside, not the outside.

One way I like to think of it is to remember that no character wants to be in tension . . . but you as the author don’t have to give your characters what they want. If the tension is still there after the joke fails to dispel it? Oooh, that can make for some exquisite suspense.

Anticipation

Another obvious one, almost to the point of redundancy, but it can be helpful to remember that when we talk about “suspense,” we really mean a feeling of anticipation. When we know something is going to happen next and we want to know how it plays out.

You can help facilitate this feeling by putting approaching landmarks on the story timeline. Give the characters things to anticipate, whether they’re big events (the prom is next week!) or tiny reactions (she’s going to be so mad at me!). Mix this ingredient with a little bit of Interruptions (see below) and you’ve got some combustible suspense fuel.

Resistance

Not in the Star Wars Rebel Alliance sense, but rather something more internal. In fact, this idea actually comes from acting training. Some of the best notes I’ve ever received as an actor were reminders to resist the story you’re trying to perform.

A few examples: The most compelling way to play drunk is to try to act as sober as possible; the most realistic-looking way to perform a fall is to try to remain standing while your body goes down; the most effective way to elicit sobs from the audience is have your character desperately try not to sob.

Taking the premise of this idea into the writing realm, then: If there’s an emotional state you hope to create, or a payoff you hope to reach, the more your characters can actively resist it—until the absolute breaking point—the more engaged and invested your reader will become. Note that this doesn’t mean avoiding or ignoring the situation; I like the word Resistance because it very much implies an active fight against what may or may not be inevitable.

Plots

Note that it’s “plots,” not “plot” (nor “plotz,” bubbeleh). I don’t mean this in a “Good books have a story” way. You already have a story; why else would you be writing? Rather, to activate that story, make sure your characters are plotting things. It doesn’t have to be George R. R. Martin-level schemery, but it’s often not enough to say every character needs a “want”—try giving them each a private plan they’re actively following, too.

The suspense comes from wondering which plots, if any, will succeed, and watching them ricochet in unexpected ways. To quote William Shakespeare (another playwright of some note): “O, ’tis most sweet, when in one line two crafts directly meet.”

Animosity

It’s great when someone central to your story dislikes something—or someone—so much that it propels them. The thing I like about this word is it implies an activating, animating force. It feels more dynamic than just plain old hate.

Also, hate is hard to hide; animosity can be tucked away for later. It can create false pretenses, betrayals, uncomfortable alliances, etc. All the stuff of good, suspenseful drama—particularly if the reader knows about this animosity but other characters don’t. (I find this is a particularly useful element to keep in mind when juggling an ensemble.)

Withholding

Here’s a technical one. Whether it’s depicting a character’s reaction before revealing what they’re reacting to, or ending a chapter on a cliffhanger, or having someone remember something important but not revealing the memory until a choicer moment, withholding bits of information from the reader is a great way to keep them on the hook for more.

The tricky part is to not overdo it, because then it can start to feel like a cheat. Or worse, we can forget what we were supposed to be waiting for in the first place.

Click to continue.

Interruptions

This is a big one, and it’s kind of like the external version of Resistance. If you want to keep people on their toes, don’t let your scenes end the way they’re supposed to. There’s probably an ending or a button that feels *correct* to you, which means chances are the reader feels that way, too.

That’s a great opportunity to knock people off balance a little. Interrupt that *correct* ending with something that forces the characters to make another, messier decision, big or small (We love Decisions!). I like to use Interruptions as a rule for dialogue, too.

In life, the opportunities to monologue are few and far between. One of the best acting observations I ever got (from director Anne Bogart) is something I’ve carried over into my writing: Almost always, the person you’re talking to knows what you’re saying before you finish your sentence. Choose the moments where a character can speak uninterrupted very, very wisely. (See also “Stichomythia” below.)

Decisions

If I can be grossly reductive for a moment, I think the main reason we love stories is because we’re creatures who learn by example. We’re fundamentally compelled to see how hypothetical situations and/or conundrums might play out. (That’s why stories where the reactions seem arbitrary or ungrounded can feel almost like a betrayal.)

As such, the more Decisions you can force your character(s) to make, the better. As long as those Decisions feel believable, or at least intriguing, we’ll keep leaning in to see what happens next. There’s such delicious suspense to be found in waiting to see what a character will do . . . and also then whether or not they did the right thing.

Unsustainability

The worst things in life are the best things for stories, aren’t they? If there’s a situational element or a relationship or a character trait in your story that we just know is going to fall apart, we’re gonna be watching with glee and/or horror for the moment we’re proven right.

Stichomythia

One more technical one. This is a dramaturgical term describing when two characters trade alternating lines of dialogue in what would otherwise be a single verse speech. What it really means, though, is that great, tennis-match-feeling of characters trading short, snappy reports until the exchange builds to a climax. This is a wonderful technique for dialogue writing (see Interruptions) above, but the concept of stichomythia can carry into the structure of a good suspense scene, as well.

Rather than play a rising event through one character’s POV, try breaking it up into alternating character perspectives, so we get a more panoramic sense of a situation that’s bigger than one person can take in. This helps things move faster and also allows you for all sorts of mini-cliffhangers that ratchet up the tension even further.

(I think, as far as text layout goes, Stichomythia might also be another word for “skimmability,” too. This might be controversial, or even heretical, to say but in a good action scene, skimmability can be an asset. You want your reader to feel a certain rush trying to find out what happens next, and short lines that alternate information make for a great way to build a breathless momentum.)

***

And there you have it! “SHARPAWIDUS.” What do you think? Too unwieldy? Too general? Too obvious? Hopefully I backed up enough to give you enough runway to—

Oh wait! I totally forgot one more letter! One more essential ingredient to suspense. Maybe even the most important one. Namely:

WEREWOLVES

I mean, what is a werewolf but a ticking time bomb? A character who knows a bad thing is going to happen at a predictable, but unstoppable, time—and also a character who can’t always be themselves. A shapeshifter. Every good suspense story needs a shapeshifter, right? 

Take, for instance, When the Wolf Comes Home. It’s a story of a young woman named Jess, who’s a frustrated actress living out in LA, working the graveyard shift at a depressing 24-hour diner. One night, after a particularly dreadful shift, she stumbles home, only to find a scared little boy hiding in the bushes. Before she can figure out what to do with him, a horrifying wolf-like monster attacks her apartment complex, and Jess winds up running for her life with the little boy in tow. She quickly realizes this monster is the boy’s father and, unfortunately for her, he’ll stop at nothing to get his son back. Jess is about to learn that when the wolf comes home . . . no one will be spared . . .

Did I mention it’s available wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025?

Thanks for reading.

Check out Nat Cassidy’s When the Wolf Comes Home here:

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(5 Tips for Writing Action and Fight Scenes.)

This is no coincidence. Courtrooms are where families are put together or torn apart. Where fortunes are won and lost. Where justice is served.[2] They are the places where conflict is resolved—and resolving a core conflict is the goal of most novels. So, it’s only natural you’d want to use that setting to resolve your conflict.

I have been practicing law since 1994 as a prosecutor, a defense attorney, a civil attorney, and a judge. I have a home court[3] advantage in writing courtroom scenes, since I’ve spent most of my adult life inside one. But what if you haven’t? How can you write an effective courtroom scene?

Write What You Know—and If You Don’t Know, Learn It.

The old saw “write what you know” is an old saw for a reason. When you write what you know, you are more likely to write authentically. If you haven’t had a career in a courtroom or experienced litigation yourself, that doesn’t mean you can’t get to know what happens inside a courtroom. In the U.S., courtrooms are generally open to the public. Just show up and watch. Go to your county courthouse and take a peek at what’s going on. Even if you’re not a participant, you can be an eyewitness.

While you’re there, take notes. It won’t take long before you see which lawyers are effective. Make note of their speech patterns and how they move about the courtroom.

Lawyers are regular people[4] and may be more moved by flattery than most. I don’t have data, but anecdotal evidence tells me that a good 75% of us have an unfinished novel in a desk drawer somewhere. Approach someone who has impressed you, fawn over their performance for a few sentences, then explain you’re a writer who is trying to get a courtroom scene correct. Then offer to take them out for coffee. I promise they’ll likely answer your questions.

Likewise, judges may very well be willing to provide insight. It’s lonely being a judge: You have to hide in your chambers and not talk to anyone for fear that you’ll be accused of playing favorites. If someone interesting comes along that wants to tell them what a good job they did and ask questions about how they did it, they’re likely to go along with it, just to have an audience if for no other reason.

If you can’t find a lawyer or a judge to help you, wander into the nearest law school common area and find a law student or professor.

Of course, knowing what questions to ask is another question altogether. Hopefully, this article can help serve as a basic guide.

Learn the Vocabulary

What most writers get wrong is the technical points. Court is one of the most rigid, rule-based places I’ve ever experienced. It’s a place where deadlines are truly do-or-die. Legalese is a language that looks like English, may even use some of the same vocabulary as English does, but it isn’t the same. The definitions of words are all very precise.

Take, for example, the word “guardian.” Most of us use that word to mean any caretaker of someone in need of caretaking. In the law, however, it only refers to a specific person who has been court approved and ordered to be in charge of the legal (not financial) interests of another. A step-parent, then, would not be a guardian. Lay characters may use the word “guardian” as normal humans would; your lawyer characters would not.

“Court” is also an umbrella term. There are Superior Courts, Supreme Courts, Probate Courts, Municipal Courts, Family Courts, Appellate Courts, etc. They all have their own function and jurisdiction, and each state has a variation on what that court is called. For example, if you were fighting about someone’s will in Georgia, you’d do it in Probate Court; in New York, you’d do it in Surrogate’s Court. If you’re going to set a scene in a courtroom, make sure it’s the right one.

Certain otherwise antiquated Latin phrases are in common use. Voir dire, for example, means to question someone to determine their fitness for a particular person. You voir dire a juror. You voir dire an expert. Prosecutors never dismiss charges—they nolle pros them. Nolle pros is short for nolle prosequi, which means to nullify the prosecution.

Check out Lori B. Duff’s Devil’s Defense here:

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Learn the Procedure

Civil procedure is difficult—it was by far my lowest grade in law school. No one expects you to be an expert, but if you’re going to write about civil law,[5] you need to know the basics about courtroom procedure. You need to know who sits where and who goes first. 

Nothing will rip a courtroom scene out of the land of authenticity like surprise witnesses and out of turn testimony. Yet nothing is more common in fiction. Once you’ve written a scene, have one of those lawyers and/or judges and/or law students you’ve met read it over. They’ll point out how to fix what you’ve got wrong.

Rules of evidence are even trickier. If a lawyer is going to stand up and shout “objection,” you need to know what they are objecting to. Which isn’t the same as the testimony being objectionable in a lay sense. 

For example, “hearsay” isn’t just something someone said outside of a courtroom. It has to be offered for “the truth of the matter asserted” and not one of about a billion exceptions. Also, only qualified experts[6] can give opinions.

Edit What You Hear

If you’ve spent any time in a courtroom, you’ll learn that a good 90% of what goes on is boring. Yet the boring part is often the most important. Rather than spell out all that procedural hash, that’s a great opportunity to get into the heads of your characters and see how they are reacting to it. Are they nervous? Bored? Thinking about lunch?

Closing Argument

Law school is three years for a reason. There’s a lot of stuff to learn. After you get out of law school and pass the bar, it usually takes about two years before you gain competence at being a lawyer. So, if you don’t find yourself an expert after watching courtroom procedures for a few afternoons, don’t worry about it. No one is expecting you to write a transcript, and transcripts are generally dull. You can paint in broad strokes here. Just make sure you’re using the proper pallet.

_______________________

[1] Please don’t throw rocks in bookstores. Books—and bookstores—are precious things.
[2] Or not.
[3] No pun intended.
[4] Despite their unironic use of words like “whereunto”.
[5] Civil law is everything that isn’t criminal law. If it isn’t a crime, and it is in a courtroom, it’s civil law.
[6] Like Mona Lisa Vito in My Cousin Vinny—one of the few lawyer movies that gets it right.

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