I instinctively understood that subplots added depth to a story. But that was about as far as my understanding went. And some subplots in novels I read seemed superfluous and unrelated to the main plot. They seemed to have been included as filler—and I certainly didn’t want to do that in my novels.

Over the years, I’ve come to see subplots as one of the most useful tools a novelist has. When they’re done well, they can deepen character, reinforce theme, increase tension, create wonderful complications, and make a fictional world feel much more real.

Plot Layers That Mimic Real Life

I developed the concept of plot layers because I wanted a practical way for writers to understand how multiple storylines can coexist within a novel. I’ve written about plot layers before, and if you want to explore that idea more deeply, you can read my earlier post on layers and layers of plot here.

The basic idea is simple. Imagine the story of your own life. You probably have some large, long-term goals that occupy a lot of your thinking. Perhaps you’re trying to earn a degree, build a career, raise a family, find a spouse, start a business, or accomplish something you’ve dreamed about for years.

But you also have shorter-term goals. You need to finish a paper for a class. You need to prepare a presentation for work. You need to repair something around the house. You need to deal with a conflict with a friend.

And then there are the little daily goals that make up ordinary life.

Those goals overlap. They compete for your attention. Sometimes one affects another. Sometimes a problem in one area of your life makes it much harder to accomplish something in another.

That’s exactly what we can do with our fictional characters.

Give them more than one thing going on. But don’t give them more simply for the sake of making their lives busy. Layer in additional goals and problems that will enrich the main story. Real life is full of various layers, and while a Plot B or Plot C element in a story can also greatly enrich it, those “layers” of life don’t necessarily scream for a place in your novel as a subplot.

For example, a minor Plot C might have your character continually dealing with an irritating issue in their life: their car keeps breaking down; their teenager keeps staying out late and refusing to answer her phone; their boss at work keeps pressuring them to finish a particular project.

But here’s an important caveat: you shouldn’t add a subplot simply because you think your novel is supposed to have one. That’s an easy trap to fall into.

Yes, great “real life” added tension that can help exacerbate your character’s stress level. But not the type of story element that needs a fully developed subplot.

You’ll want to differentiate between those plot layers, which have minor bits in your story, as opposed to a subplot, which carries a lot more emotional and thematic weight (takes up more space in your story too).

Subplots Must Serve Your Story

The subplot has to serve the story (the interests of the story). What do I mean?

Every scene needs to ultimately impact your protagonist’s effort to reach his goal. Subplot scenes with parallel themes can help your protagonist make the important choices that affect that effort. And subplots can work beautifully to emphasize the character arc.

For instance, the things your protagonist learns while dealing with the subplot can move them to make a different decision than what they might have had they not dealt with the subplot.

I go into a long discussion of my novel A Thin Film of Lies in my writing craft book Layer Your Novel. Without reproducing all of that here, let me summarize:

My protagonist, Fran Anders, is a detective investigating a hit-and-run death. She believes Mike Jepson is guilty—all evidence points to that. Yet, he protests his innocence, says he’s been set up.

I decided to develop a subplot with Fran’s teenage son using that exact issue: Trevor is accused of hacking the school’s computer system to change grades. All the evidence points to his guilt, but he insists he’s been set up.

You can see how helpful this is. As Fran investigates her’s son’s situation, he challenges her default to believe he’s guilty. That affects the way she treats Jepson’s case, which leads to her helping prove he is actually innocent.

That’s what I mean about all your scenes “serving the interest of your plot.” You don’t want to throw together a clever, interesting subplot that has nothing to do with your protagonist’s goal, that doesn’t impact her in some important way as she pursues her goal.

The goal is everything in a novel! That should be one of the first lessons every aspiring novelist learns!

Okay, But Remember That Ordinary Is Boring

If we want our characters to feel like real people, shouldn’t they have some of the ordinary, everyday concerns that real people have? Of course they should. But if you put every mundane aspect of a character’s life onto the page, your novel is going to become very boring very quickly.

Your protagonist may need groceries. She may need to get her car serviced. She may have laundry piled up. She may have a dentist appointment.

That’s real life. But none of those things are necessarily good fiction. The secret is to take the meaning behind those ordinary layers of life and turn them into story.

Maybe your protagonist’s strained relationship with her son becomes a subplot because it exposes her fear of failure. Maybe a difficult relationship with her sister forces her to confront a secret she’s been hiding. Maybe a problem at work threatens her ability to accomplish her main goal or writing a devastating report on corruption.

The everyday concern becomes interesting when it creates conflict, reveals character, raises stakes, or connects to theme.

You want your subplots to earn their pages. They should make the story richer, deeper, more complicated, or more emotionally satisfying.

Subplots Can Do a Lot of Work

A good subplot can accomplish several things at once.

It can reveal a side of your protagonist that the main plot doesn’t expose. It can create conflict between characters who have different goals or beliefs. It can give a secondary character an arc of his or her own. It can mirror or contrast with the main plot. And it can provide another way to explore the themes of your novel.

Most importantly, a subplot can make your protagonist’s journey harder, and that’s a very good thing.

The more pressure you put on your protagonist, the more difficult her choices become. And when she has to make difficult choices, we get to see who she really is.

Don’t Throw in Random Subplots

Even if the subplot itself is well written, it can feel like a distraction.

And when that happens, readers may skim those pages because they want to get back to the story they actually care about.

That’s the last thing you want.

So before you add a subplot, ask yourself what purpose it serves. Does it put pressure on your protagonist? Does it reveal something important about her? Does it create character clash? Does it reinforce a theme? Does it eventually affect the main plot? Does it give you scenes that deepen the emotional journey?

If your subplot idea serves your plot well, by all means, add it in!

If you need help to understand how to structure a subplot, read the chapters on the topic in Layer Your Novel!

Featured Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash.

The post What Is a Subplot—and Why Do You Need One? appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

If you’ve read the archetype series on this blog, you’ll know just how much of an impact a good archetype can have. Susanne has already dealt with eight male archetypes and eight female archetypes, together with the mentors, rivals, and friends who accompany the hero. Those articles explain the roles a cast member plays in a story. This one introduces a different sort of set to your toolkit: the twelve archetypes most commonly referred to as Jungian. These describe something different, something a novelist needs on every page. They show what a character wants and what a character fears.

Where the Twelve Actually Come From

A little correction to save you from the know-it-alls in your comments. Carl Jung never produced a list of twelve archetypes; he spoke of archetypes as patterns we all possess, and the ones he identified sound rather odd next to the neat lists you come across online: the Persona, the Shadow, the Anima and the Animus, the Wise Old Man, the Great Mother, and the Trickster. The twelve that fill most articles nowadays, the Hero, the Sage, the Rebel and their nine counterparts, came much later, from Carol Pearson’s books on heroic archetypes, and in 2001 she and Margaret Mark formalized the group in The Hero and the Outlaw, a book written for brand marketers.

It may seem like merely a matter of trivia, but it’s good news for novelists. Mark and Pearson devised a system for describing motivation since a brand has to understand what its customers long for. Each of the twelve is built on two things fiction depends on: a basic desire and a basic fear.

Desire Plus Fear Is a Plot Engine

Role archetypes answer the question of what this character does in my story; the twelve instead answer two questions: what does this character want and what would they crawl over broken glass to avoid? Desire causes a character to take action, while fear leads them to avoidance, denial, and bad decisions. Combine both forces in a single person and the scenes begin to write themselves, since now every choice involves a cost.

The Twelve at a Glance

Read the list with one of your characters in mind.

The Innocent craves safety and a world where things are done properly, and is afraid of doing anything wrong or being punished. Dorothy Gale’s only wish is to get home.

The Everyman wants to fit in and is afraid of being picked out and left out. When Bilbo Baggins starts The Hobbit, he is sure that adventures will make him late for dinner.

The Hero is determined to demonstrate their bravery and fears showing weakness more than anything else; Katniss Everdeen volunteers since it would be unimaginable to fail her sister.

The Caregiver wants to protect other people, and is afraid of their own selfishness, or of a loved one suffering while they watch. Samwise Gamgee carries the carrier.

The Explorer desires the freedom to discover who they are and is afraid of the trap of conforming. Huck Finn sets off for the Territory.

The Rebel aims at overturning what is currently wrong and is afraid of being powerless. Lisbeth Salander destroys corrupt men.

The Lover craves closeness and is afraid of being left behind; Romeo would rather die than be separated, and he does.

The Creator wishes to make something that will last and is afraid of mediocrity. Jo March writes her way out of an ordinary life.

The Jester craves joy and the next laugh and is afraid of the quiet after a joke has been told. Falstaff plays the clown to keep the dark away.

The Sage is seeking the truth and is afraid of being wrong or fooled. Hermione Granger goes to the library just as other people go to church.

The Magician wishes to turn their visions into reality and is afraid of the consequences they did not intend. Prospero causes a storm and will have to account for it.

The Ruler craves order and control and is afraid of chaos and losing their position. Instead of receiving love as a tribute, King Lear suffers the storm.

Split the Desire and the Fear

The most useful lesson I have picked up from working with these twelve every day is to avoid giving your protagonist both the desire and the fear of the same archetype; paired desires and fears result in consistent characters, and consistent characters are boring. Give them the desire of one archetype and the fear of a different one and you create contradiction, and contradiction is where behavior comes from.

Fitzgerald did exactly this with Gatsby: Gatsby embodies the Lover’s desire, since everything is aimed at Daisy, but his fear belongs to the Creator, the terror of being an ordinary James Gatz. The desire tells him to knock on her door, while the fear tells him first to become someone else entirely; five years of parties later, that contradiction has built the entire novel.

One note from the quiz side of my job: when we score people on all twelve archetypes at once, very few turn out to be a single, clear type; the two highest scores are generally close, and the interesting tension lies between them. Fictional people are constructed the same way.

Grow the Flaw from the Same Root as the Strength

A flaw seems to be bolted on whenever it has nothing to do with the character’s underlying nature. The twelve overcome this since each one fails in its own typical way. The Caregiver’s helpfulness turns into control. The Hero begins to need enemies. The Sage knows so much that deciding becomes impossible, and contempt creeps in for people who know less. The Ruler regards disagreement as treachery.

Lear is not a kind king with an anger problem added on; his flaw is his archetype with the brakes removed, a ruler who demands love as a tribute. Frankenstein is a creator whose fear of being ordinary outruns his responsibility for the creature he has made. Write one scene in which your character’s strength is the source of the damage, and the flaw will never seem merely decorative again.

Scaffolding, Not Cages

Susanne established this at the beginning of her series and it deserves repeating: archetypes serve only as a starting point, not as a fixed imprint. Use the twelve as scaffolding and take it down as the character becomes more real. Begin on a small scale: name the protagonist’s deepest desire, name the fear that opposes it, and check whether they fit the same archetype. If they do, think about giving one of them away.

What archetype is behind your present protagonist, and is their fear rooted in the same source? I’d really like to know what you think in the comments.

Ingvaras Galinskas runs Rare Personas, a quiz studio website. If you would like to find out which of the twelve archetypes is influencing you or your protagonist, you can take the free 12 archetype quiz there. The quiz takes about five minutes, and each archetype has its own page with beautiful illustrations, including its shadow side.

The post How to Use the 12 Jungian Archetypes in Your Novel appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

What if your best years—your most creative, passionate, fulfilling years—are just beginning?

Inspired by Jenny Joseph’s iconic poem “When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple,” Take Up Space invites you to level up your next decade from mundane to marvelous. Whether you paint, dance, garden, write, or dress like an icon, art can become your path to meaning, vitality, and connection.

It’s time to stop shrinking back and start showing up. Pick up a brush, a pen, or your favorite red hat — and take up space.

We are told  by an Arts & Health Study, that just as “physical activity and nutrition is good for our health, so is regular participation in the arts. These can be experienced by receptive engagement or active participation such as watching a performance, listening to music and dancing, going to museums, attending drum circles or a painting class. The focus is on engaging in the process of arts participation rather than emphasizing the end result of the final product.”

I would just like to say that after being beaten repeatably about the head and shoulders by the ubiquitous but nutritional broccoli stalk, lumping the arts into that grim good for us prescriptive isn’t exactly inspiring.

Perhaps a better way to promote the arts is to lump art practices with pounds of chocolate and one too many martinis. (Not together). In the past, that was exactly the association, if you weren’t drunk on wine, you were high on wormwood, a key ingredient in absinthe.  What if we brought back the roots of art: transgressive artists, creatives who are banned in many states, dangerous, thought provoking.  Let’s make art that causes our children to  clutch their pearls and exclaim, “what is the older generation coming to?”

What if art is more fun than exercise and tastier than nutritious food?  I absolutely agree that practicing art will elevate your mood, decrease pain, increase feel good hormones, but the practice has been elevated to a shelf many of us can’t reach.  Art is caviar, lobster tail and organic greens from co-op farms run by enlightened former cons.

But art can also be chicken nuggets.

Art is joy, art is doing, art is practicing and getting it wrong before we get it right: political poetry, build a bear, derivative music, a sculpture of dryer lint or a video of growing broccoli.

Start an art practice that delivers not gallery-worthy products, but rather the satisfaction found exclusively in fried bread.

Here are some de-elevated ideas:

Dance/Movement 

You can join a class featuring Jazz or ballet or you can take a pole dancing class: exercise and strength training plus the heart palpitations  you inspire when you announce your new routine to the next meeting of the DAR.  Be prepared to show off the bruises on your inner thighs.

Literary Arts 

You can join a Jane Austen book club, or you can discover and/or indulge in Graphic Novels. Discover the new, new artists, and emerging ways to story tell.  An interest in graphic novels can lead to Manga which can lead to comic cons, which can lead to elaborate costumes and a trip to Tokyo.  Allow something offbeat to take you on an adventure.

Media

Not social media but video games or film shorts and quirky film festivals. Discover digital culture. Play a few popular games like Minecraft, Fortnite, and Roblox.  If you like to game, go ahead and get sucked in. No school nights for us. Be part of the movement.

Music

Go big.  Take up an instrument.  Or stay interested – concerts or a curated playlist.  Get curious.  Follow your favorite bands and collect the albums, which leads to the next logical step – seeing them live. Never been to Chicago? Then buy the Chicago stop on the band tour.  Does the band need to be approved or popular?  Nope.  Find your unique groove and enjoy a night in the company of similarly inclined crazy fans. Get the T-shirt.

Theatre/Performance 

Begin as a fan and graduate to a performer. Attend enough stand up comedy nights and you’ll believe you too can do it.  So do it. Be a regular on Karaoke night, study and watch modern dance – then find a troupe to join.   Maybe you can leverage those pole dancing skills to join the circus.

 Visual Arts 

Drag yourself to a gallery or museum. Bring a sandwich and allow for inspiration rather than overwhelm.  Like anything on the walls?  Or did you find more appealing art at the swap meet?  Like stand up, the more frequently you visit museums and swap meets, the better perspective you’ll have on your own work.  You may not be creating museum quality (whatever that means) work, but just maybe your knitted pieces would sell well at the next Christmas Craft fair.

 Practical Arts

Remember feeding people is an art.  What do you love to cook or better, what are you already skilled at creating?  Do more of that, double down on food you love. Explore the origins, the transitions, buy fresh herbs and spices.  Take an advanced class in your favorite food.  Become an expert, upgrade your equipment. Create food and drinks that are both creative and delicious.  Wine making, haute couture cocktails, smoked meats, grilled fish, pizza (build your own pizza oven).  Grow herbs. As always, you’ll need to take a trip to sample your favorite food, then take cooking lessons. Forget praying and loving, eat through Italy.

 Art and Health

Art is not good for you – it’s great for you, far more fun than choking down raw vegetables and suffering through 25 weight-lift repetitions per miserable season.

The numbers support what we all instinctively know to be true.  In a survey by  Americans for the Arts (2024), we find, unsurprisingly that:

• About 9 in 10 Americans (86%) believe “arts and culture improve my community’s quality of life and livability.”
• 69% of Americans say that taking part in the arts and culture has “a positive effect on their overall health and well-being.”
• Over 4 in 5 Americans (81%) believe the arts may “help some people deal with mental health issues such as loneliness, depression, and anxiety.”
• Arts and culture can strengthen communities and builds social cohesion. 72% of Americans believe that “arts and culture provides shared experiences with people of different races, ethnicities, ages, beliefs, and identities.”
• 63% agree that the arts “help me better understand other cultures in my community.”

We know the arts enhance and are an important economic contributor to our communities and our country.

•  79% of Americans believe the arts are “good for local businesses, the economy, and Jobs”
• 72% favor government funding of arts and culture to address job and economic development.

All that is beneficial about art shouldn’t be off-putting. Art has never served as a health-and-safety poster. Art is both edgy and ridiculous. Take the leap from the trapeze to the top of the pizza oven brandishing a blow torch. What could go wrong?

Know someone who is newly retired or an empty-nester?  Don’t know what to do with themselves? Take up Space is a how-to book to navigate the second act of life through Art.

Catharine Bramkamp is a world traveler, poet, and belly dancer. In her spare time, she serves as a writing coach and workshop facilitator. She has authored thirty fiction, nonfiction, and poetry collections and is currently exploring all kinds of art, including outlets in which she has no talent. But it’s fun. Visit Catharine at her website here.

Featured Photo by Dina Badamshina on Unsplash

The post How to Be Artistic in Your Golden Years appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

All you have to do is open such a novel, and you will see all those creative bits that make the prose sticky and engaging. A masterful writer will think creatively about every detail of her story. She’ll consider the emotional tension her characters are feeling and find ways to express that with literary devices (such as similes and metaphors), creative imagery, and unusual word choices.

After I perused dozens of novels and short stories to find examples of microtension to use in my new writing craft book, Masterful Microtension, I’m seeing so many terrific examples popping up in the novels I’m currently reading (for my enjoyment). I want to encourage you to go on the hunt for these great little bits of tension and incongruency so that you can learn the technique yourself!

One of the novels I’ve been reading is Maggie O’Farrell’s This Must Be the Place (I share a brief passage from her novel in my book, but I was so enthralled with her writing that I bought a copy and have been glued to the pages). I try to read novels slowly to savor and consider how an author put their words together to evoke the emotions that spark in me when I read. I read slowly to step back and analyze just how they so creatively expressed a feeling or situation in few words.

I always teach my students and clients: the best way to learn an important fiction-writing technique is to study current best sellers in your genre. Get out your highlighters (or use Kindle’s highlighter feature) and mark up the book! I know—your mother told you never to write in books. Ignore that advice. It’s fine for your collector-quality first editions (I have a bunch of those!); please don’t mark those up! Just buy used or cheap paperback versions whenever possible and mark those up. And if you love the book, buy another clean copy to keep in your library (support that author!).

Okay, here are some great examples I found while reading O’Farrell’s book (I’m not even halfway through yet). See if you can identify which microtension pathways she is using. Ask: Are there places in my novel or short story where I can use a similar technique? That’s the ticket right there!

The woman is dead. Twenty years or more have passed. I am not going to drop myself down, like a speleologist, into those holes and caverns and start digging around. I have to focus, have to stop trembling, slow my galloping pulse.

[The next page follows with …] I have my gaze set on the road. I am treading carefully, as if the ground beneath me is not as firm and sure as it looks, as if it is riddled with underground rivers, as if at any moment a sinkhole may yawn open under my shoes. I am looking out for the lit sign of a cab. I have lost or dropped my cigarette somewhere along the way. The sensation that begins at my feet and trembles all the way through me is akin to the beginning of a seismic event.

Okay, that should be an easy microtension pathway to recognize. The author is using a motif of risky cave exploration to describe the character’s reticence to learn what happened to his ex-wife. Once you come up with a strong motif that can be used as an analogy, you can work with similes or metaphors to bring them out. O’Farrell has the sensation in Daniel’s body feel like a seismic event. The metaphor here is treacherous, unstable ground. If you were playing with these words, you might cluster them to arrive at sinkhole and cavern and riddled.

I hope you see how nicely all this imagery drives home an important (high) moment in the scene when the character has just learned of his ex-wife’s death. Note how all this is prefaced when he, after hearing a reference to her in the news in the past tense, finally works up the nerve to search the internet:

The four numbers at the biography’s end slide into me, like a cold blade. That the year of her death is, indeed, 1986 seems at once devastating and inevitable. Of course, I think, of course it was then. I knew it already, I find. Perhaps I always did.

O’Farrell uses the simile and wording of a cold blade sliding into this man’s heart upon learning the year of her death. We are not told why this is so catastrophic, but we feel it with the word pairing of devastating and inevitable. We know right away something terrible happened that year, something this man has spent twenty years burying.

Here’s a moment where the man, Daniel, stops at one of the many gates on his property, and his wife gets out to open it so they can drive through. Calvin, the baby, is watching her through the windshield.

A moment later, she reappears in the panorama of the windshield: she is walking away from the car. This triggers some preverbal synapse in the baby: his neurology tells him that the sight of his mother’s retreating back is bad news, that she may never return, that he will be left here to perish, that the company of his somewhat-scatterbrained and only occasionally present father is not sufficient to ensure his survival (he has a point). He lets out a howl of despair, a signal to the mothership: Abort mission, request immediate return.

Why is this masterful? O’Farrell uses anaphora (repetition of the first word in a sentence for lyricism (that) to compound and explain the baby’s distress (which involves imaginative hyperbole), and she uses metaphor (wife as mothership) in a fresh and vivid way. Also, the way Daniel imagines his baby perceives him as a father is amusing and informative at the same time.

Let’s take a look at one more from O’Farrell’s novel. When he first (randomly) encounters Claudette, a wildly famous actress, he doesn’t recognize her at all. She’s changing a flat tire and is very off-putting. Later, thinking about her, a flashbulb goes off in his head.

Halfway through uttering her name for the first time, something gave way. It was as if the bricks and timber of an edifice were falling all around me. I suddenly saw, I suddenly remembered where I’d seen her before. She had been a dancer. Or was it a doctor? I’d seen her as an amputee, a murderess, a detective, a nanny. I’d watched her be French, Spanish, Italian, Persian. She’d escaped death and she’d died of cancer, car accidents, pneumonia, tiger attack. She’d killed and been killed. I’d seen her be fifteen; I’d seen her be sixty. She’d fought, punched, stolen, lied, cheated, saved lives, given birth, given head, shot, swum, danced, dressed, undressed, over and over again, for all of us.

O’Farrell here, too, uses anaphora to create that lyrical flow of sentences (she’d this and that …). The long lists here drive home her prolific and diverse acting career and talent, as well as Daniel’s realization that he’s seen so many facets of her over the years. The wall of unrecognition breaks and tumbles around him (simile) as his brain connects the woman he just met with the famous one everybody knew.

Pay Attention!

When you read your next novel (maybe go back and reread ones that you recall were brilliantly written), pay attention and note what the author is doing and what microtension pathways she’s using. Think how you might do the same kind of technique in your scenes. Find those anchor moments when moods shift or understanding sparks, then try different ways of infusing microtension into the moment. It will truly take your writing to a higher level!

Featured Photo by Johnny McClung on Unsplash

New Release! Masterful Microtension

“I just finished studying Masterful Microtension. It’s simply breathtaking. An uninterrupted epiphany from page 1 until the end. For me, as an aspiring mystery and thriller writer, this is simply gold, something everybody who wants to engage any kind of reader should learn and master. What I can say … this is just absolutely brilliant and unique.” —Andrea Paglino

“I’ve purchased almost every craft book that C. S. Lakin has published, but I think Masterful Microtension is the most powerful thing she’s written yet. She defines the purpose of microtension as evoking a tiny spark of surprise. The thing that gives us that ‘Wait, what?’ moment. Just having a name for that is so helpful, then she goes on to show exactly how to create that moment in your manuscript. Amazing! Thank you!” —Marilyn T. Parker, author of The Struggle for Love

Learn how to masterfully craft microtension in your fiction. Microtension is the subtle but powerful element operating beneath the surface of a scene. It is created through contradiction, emotional friction, subtext, charged description, symbolism, and imaginative wordsmithing. When microtension is present, readers feel compelled to keep reading. When it’s missing, even well-plotted stories can feel flat.

Few writers have ever been taught about microtension in fiction and why it’s so important. And you’ll be hard-pressed to find any books, courses, videos, or articles on it. Yet … without it, your fiction can fall flat.

In Masterful Microtension: The Essential Element of Powerful Fiction, you’ll study how skilled fiction writers create tension at the micro level using masterful techniques such as word pairings, literary devices, motifs, and polarities.

Most books on fiction writing focus on structure, character arcs, and dramatic conflict. While those elements are crucial to a great story, they only address the big-picture elements. Microtension works at the word level, shaping the emotional energy between narrative, actions, and thoughts.

Regardless of what genre you write, Mastering Microtension will magnificently transform your prose. If you want to elevate your fiction from competent to compelling, from readable to unforgettable, microtension is the key.

Get your copy (ebook or paperback) on Amazon or any other outlet online! 

The post Master Microtension by Studying Masterful Writers appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

Actually, there are two things: plot holes and characters doing things they would never do. You know the kind of scene. A character suddenly makes a ridiculous choice simply because the author needs the plot to move in a certain direction. Or a supposedly intelligent character overlooks something obvious. Or an event occurs that feels so contrived you can almost see the author’s hand reaching into the story.

When that happens, the fictional world shatters for me.

One example that has always stayed with me is The Horse Whisperer by Nicholas Evans. Near the end of the novel, Tom Booker, the gifted horse trainer who has helped heal both Grace and her horse, Pilgrim, falls deeply in love with Annie Graves. Annie eventually decides she wants a future with Tom. But … rather than allow her to choose between him and her estranged husband, Tom deliberately confronts a dangerous wild stallion, essentially engineering circumstances that result in his death.

Seriously? I don’t know how the publisher thought that worked. And when Robert Redford produced the movie version, he was smart enough to know viewers would have panned the film if he kept that. Instead, he created a perfectly believable ending (worth watching).

Whether readers view the act as noble, tragic, or romantic, many found it difficult to reconcile with the character the novel had spent hundreds of pages establishing. Here’s the reason: Tom is portrayed throughout the story as wise, emotionally intelligent, patient, and deeply respectful of others. Yet in the climax, he effectively makes Annie’s choice for her by removing himself from the equation. For many readers, the ending feels less like an inevitable outcome and more like a contrivance designed to create a bittersweet conclusion.

That illustrates an important principle of storytelling: readers don’t necessarily reject the improbable. They reject what feels wrong.

Believability is not about realism. It’s about emotional and narrative truth. Readers will happily accept dragons, time travel, magical powers, alien invasions, and impossible coincidences. What they won’t accept are events that violate the internal logic of the story or the established nature of the characters.

So how do you make readers believe the improbable?

1. Ground Everything in Emotional Truth

The more extraordinary the external event, the more authentic the emotional response must be. Readers may never have discovered a portal to another dimension or survived a zombie apocalypse, but they understand fear, grief, hope, love, shame, and desperation. Those emotions create the bridge between the reader and the impossible event.

Consider The Martian by Andy Weir. The premise is highly unlikely: an astronaut is accidentally left behind on Mars and must survive alone for years without hardly any food. Yet readers buy into the story because Mark Watney’s reactions feel genuine. His humor, frustration, determination, and loneliness make the impossible situation feel real (and the science is very well researched and plausible). When emotional truth is strong, readers stop questioning the premise.

2. Build a Chain of Cause and Effect

One mistake writers make is jumping directly to the improbable event. Instead, create a chain of escalating consequences in which each development naturally grows out of the one before it.

Think of it as the “Yes, But” method. Yes, this happened, but because of that, something else happened. And because of that, another consequence followed. Each step feels reasonable, even if the final destination would have seemed absurd at the beginning of the story.

Readers are far more willing to accept an unlikely outcome when they can see how each event logically led to the next. Momentum creates believability.

3. Establish the Rules Early

Readers need to understand the rules of your fictional world. If magic exists, establish it early. If advanced technology exists, establish it early. If supernatural events are possible, readers need to know that before they become essential to solving the plot.

Problems arise when writers introduce new rules only when they need them. This is one reason readers often complain about deus ex machina endings. The solution appears from nowhere because the groundwork wasn’t laid beforehand.

No matter how strange your world may be, readers will accept almost anything if the rules remain consistent. Consistency matters far more than realism.

4. Ground the Extraordinary in Consequences

A character discovers a magical artifact, but it comes with a terrible cost. A detective finds the crucial clue but now becomes the killer’s next target. A hero gains tremendous power but loses something equally valuable in return.

The improbable becomes believable when it carries consequences. Readers instinctively distrust stories in which miraculous solutions arrive without creating new problems.

5. Keep the Story Moving

Readers analyze less when they are emotionally invested. One reason thrillers often succeed despite highly improbable plots is pacing. The story moves so quickly that readers focus on what happens next rather than stopping to scrutinize every detail.

This doesn’t mean you should distract readers with nonstop action. It means maintaining narrative momentum. Questions lead to answers. Answers generate new questions. Conflict drives the story forward.

When readers are fully engaged in the outcome, they become much more willing to accept unusual circumstances.

6. Make Character Flaws Cause the Problem

One of the best ways to make unlikely events feel earned is to connect them directly to character flaws. A stubborn character refuses help. An arrogant character underestimates an opponent. A greedy character takes an unnecessary risk. A fearful character hides the truth.

The resulting disaster no longer feels random because it emerged naturally from the character’s established behavior. Readers may not believe coincidence, but they readily believe human weakness.

7. Challenge Every Unbelievable Moment

Here’s an exercise I’ve used during revision. Ask yourself: What is the single-most improbable thing that happens in my novel? Then make a list of every reason readers might not believe it.

Not one or two reasons. Ten reasons. Twenty if necessary.

When I was writing Conundrum, one scene worried me. My protagonist, Lisa, rushes to her brother’s office after learning he plans to take his own life. She arrives and ultimately talks him down. The scene felt dangerously close to a plot convenience, so I started listing objections like these:

A determined person usually isn’t persuaded by a single conversation. Someone in severe emotional distress may not even listen. Words don’t cure depression. She wouldn’t necessarily arrive at exactly the right moment. He wouldn’t instantly feel better. She wouldn’t magically know the perfect thing to say. Simply discovering a truth doesn’t erase a mental illness.

The more objections I listed, the clearer the weaknesses became.

Then I addressed them one by one. For every objection, I asked, “Usually that’s true—but in this case, why is it different?” If I couldn’t come up with a convincing answer, I knew I had a story problem. But I believe I made the scene work well because I addressed these potential problems.

That’s a difficult exercise because sometimes it reveals flaws in the premise, scene, or plot. But that’s exactly why it’s valuable. Sometimes the solution isn’t better prose. Sometimes the solution is changing the story itself.

One other super helpful thing to do in a situation in which your reader might question the believability is to have the POV character himself ask the questions and show doubt. In other words, have the character voice the reader’s doubts either out loud or in his head.

For example, I might have Lisa think, It’s stupid to think that I’ll be able to save my brother with words. And, situationally, she might think, I can’t believe I got here in time. Fate or some higher power must be on my side, because usually my timing sucks. Or maybe my brother, in his heart of hearts, hesitated because he really wanted me to stop him from killing himself.

Play around with your character’s thoughts regarding these potential issues and see if they can help make the action more believable.

Final Thoughts

Believability is one of the most important elements in fiction, and, ironically, it has very little to do with realism. Readers will believe almost anything if the story remains emotionally authentic, internally consistent, and true to character. They will accept dragons, miracles, impossible coincidences, and astonishing plot twists.

What they won’t accept is a story that breaks its own promises.

When readers stop believing, it’s usually not because the event was too improbable. It’s because the author failed to make it feel inevitable. The goal is not realism for its own sake. The goal is creating a story in which even the most extraordinary events feel as though they could not have happened any other way.

That’s believability.

Featured Photo by Markus Laanisto on Unsplash

The post 7 Ways to Make Readers Believe the Improbable in Fiction appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

I first became enamored with this concept after reading Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. How often are we our own “unreliable narrator,” telling ourselves lies, misinterpreting events and things we’ve heard, not being honest or forthcoming with the truth—all for various reasons.

Reasons. That’s the key. It’s the character’s motivation that lies underneath the unreliability. Fear, pain, anger, betrayal—any or all can move someone to prevaricate (I’ve always wanted to find a place to use this word!).

Other things can cause that unreliability, such as drugs, alcohol, lack of sleep, and trauma. How often do we misremember things, only to learn or realize later what really happened?

I’ve been playing around with a plot idea for years that features an unreliable narrator, but I hadn’t explored the nuances and technique to create one. Hence, this post.

If you’ve never written a story using an unreliable narrator, why not consider it? When used well, such a narrator can generate psychological tension, deepen characterization, and deliver unforgettable plot twists.

However, when used poorly, readers feel cheated and manipulated. The difference lies in execution.

Let’s look at how unreliable narrators work and how to use them effectively in your fiction.

What Is an Unreliable Narrator?

Let’s first clearly define this term. An unreliable narrator is a point-of-view character whose account of events cannot be fully trusted. The narrator may lie, deceive, misinterpret reality, or withhold important information. As a result, the reader’s understanding of the story becomes distorted.

The key is that readers don’t initially realize this distortion exists. Instead, they gradually discover that the narrator’s version of reality is incomplete—or perhaps entirely false.

Why Writers (and Readers) Love Unreliable Narrators

Writers return to this technique again and again because it offers several powerful storytelling advantages.

• It Creates Memorable Plot Twists

When readers discover they’ve been viewing events through a distorted lens, the revelation can be electrifying. Suddenly, scenes take on new meaning, assumptions collapse, and seemingly insignificant details become important.

A contemporary example is The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides. The novel carefully shapes reader assumptions before revealing information that completely recontextualizes the story. The best twists don’t come out of nowhere. They feel both surprising and inevitable.

• It Deepens Psychological Complexity

An unreliable narrator allows readers to experience a character’s inner world firsthand. Instead of simply observing a character’s flaws, readers inhabit them.

This forces readers to look beyond the narrator’s words and uncover hidden fears, guilt, trauma, or self-deception. In The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro creates a narrator who cannot fully confront painful truths about his own life. The result is a deeply moving portrait of denial and regret.

• It Creates Reader Engagement

An unreliable narrator turns readers into detectives. Rather than passively consuming information, they begin analyzing inconsistencies, questioning assumptions, and searching for clues. The result is a more immersive reading experience because readers become active participants in uncovering the truth.

Four Common Types of Unreliable Narrators

Not all unreliable narrators operate in the same way. Understanding the different forms of deception can help you choose the right approach for your story.

1. The Deliberate Liar

This narrator knows the truth but intentionally misleads the reader. Their motivation may be self-preservation, shame, manipulation, pride, or outright malice.

A classic example is Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, whose narrator carefully constructs a version of events designed to justify his behavior. The challenge with this type of narrator is maintaining reader trust while concealing the truth.

2. The Self-Deceived Narrator

These characters genuinely believe their own version of reality. Their unreliability stems from denial, emotional blindness, or psychological defense mechanisms rather than intentional deception.

In The Remains of the Day, Stevens repeatedly rationalizes decisions and relationships that readers can see more clearly than he can. This type of narrator often creates powerful emotional resonance because readers recognize truths the narrator cannot.

3. The Withholder

This narrator doesn’t necessarily lie. Instead, they strategically omit information, telling the truth but not the whole truth. Many mystery and thriller novels employ this technique. The narrator may avoid discussing a crucial event, relationship, or secret until later in the story. While effective, withholding information must be handled carefully to avoid feeling manipulative.

4. The Impaired or Naive Narrator

Sometimes a narrator’s perspective is distorted because they lack understanding. The cause may be youth, trauma, limited experience, memory issues, or an incomplete grasp of events.

In Room by Emma Donoghue, young Jack narrates the story through a child’s limited understanding of a horrifying situation. Readers perceive far more than he does, creating a compelling gap between perception and reality (very cool!).

Contemporary Examples of Unreliable Narrators

Many best-selling novels have successfully employed this technique in recent years.

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides uses narrative misdirection to support a major revelation. We Were Liars by E. Lockhart gradually reveals the truth behind the narrator’s fractured memories. Sometimes I Lie by Alice Feeney openly signals unreliability from the title itself, challenging readers to determine what is true. And The Maid by Nita Prose uses a socially atypical narrator whose interpretations of events differ significantly from those around her.

Each novel demonstrates that there is no single formula for creating an unreliable narrator.

How to Play Fair With Readers

This is where many writers stumble. The goal is to deceive readers without making them feel deceived. The best unreliable narrators don’t hide the truth completely. Instead, they leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

When you’re in a character’s head (POV), it’s absolutely wrong and unfair to lie to your reader unless the character has some mental condition that makes this plausible. The things she thinks and sees and experiences are going to manifest in her thoughts. It’s one thing to not show that character thinking about a particular matter in order to create surprise later on. But that’s different than the author “pretending” a character doesn’t know what she knows and “tricking” the reader into believing something that isn’t true.

This is why many successful unreliable narrators operate through self-deception, omission, distorted perception, or retrospective narration. The narrator may be recounting events from a later point in time, giving them reason to shape the story in a particular way. The more justified the deception, the more willing readers are to accept it.

• Leave Clues

A character’s actions may contradict their stated beliefs. Their physical reactions may reveal emotions they deny. Small inconsistencies may appear in their version of events.

These clues allow readers to recognize, in hindsight, that the truth was present all along. The reveal feels earned because the evidence was always there.

• Give the Deception a Purpose (a Good One!)

Ask yourself why the narrator is unreliable. The answer should connect to character, theme, or plot.

A narrator who lies simply to create a shocking twist often feels gimmicky. A narrator who lies because they’re protecting themselves from painful truth feels human. The deception should reveal character, not merely conceal information.

• Earn the Revelation

The final reveal should illuminate the entire story. Readers should be able to mentally revisit earlier scenes and see how the clues fit together. That’s what transforms a twist from a trick into a satisfying narrative payoff.

Final Thoughts

An unreliable narrator is one of fiction’s most powerful tools because it allows writers to create mystery, psychological depth, and unforgettable revelations. But the technique requires precision.

Readers want to be surprised, not cheated. The best unreliable narrators walk that fine line beautifully. They mislead us just enough to keep us guessing while quietly leaving clues that make us realize the truth was there all along.

The narrator may lie. Our story shouldn’t.

Featured Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

The post The Unreliable Narrator: How to Deceive Readers Without Losing Their Trust appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

Upon realizing that no books have been written on this crucial topic, I set out to collate all I have learned on the subject. I heard of the term about ten years ago at Donald Maass’s Breakout Novel workshop in Oregon. Ever since, I’ve been writing and teaching about microtension. And recently I taught a few master classes with small groups, helping them learn the various microtension pathways and infuse their pages with this “sticky stuff.”

I cover a full chapter on literary devices, because I’ve found they are the most important and powerful pathway for microtension. Here are just some of the many literary devices you can use. I’m going to share an excerpt from my book, but there is so much more writers need to know about microtension and how to wield it in their fiction. I hope you will see why so many writers are super excited about this book and what they’re learning from it (just read the reviews on Amazon!).

Other Literary Devices

Here are some brief lines that demonstrate some other common (and not-so-common) literary devices. You don’t have to memorize all these terms, but become familiar with what they are and how they work in a sentence so you can use them in appropriate ways for strong effect.

Adnomination: Repetition of words with the same root. The difference lies in one sound or letter. In that scene from my novel Intended for Harm in which Simon throws Joey off the roof, moments later his stepmother shows up:

“Where’s Joey?” she asked.

Simon sucked in a breath, started to answer. “He’s around—”

“Here, Mommy.”

Simon jerked up his head, watched Joey run over to Rachel on his unshattered legs, put his small unbroken bony arms around her, his unsmashed head leaning against her waist, his unbloodied hands on her hair.

The use of these “un” words—emphasizing that none of Joey’s bones broke in the fall—add weight via microtension to the shocking and unbelievable reality Simon is witnessing.

Merism: This is when people or objects are described by listing traits. Here’s a brief usage in Leave the World Behind by  Rumaan Alam. The author is also using motif by choosing words related to the beach they are heading to.

They wound into the empty parking lot (it was early) and paid five dollars to a khaki-uniformed teen who seemed himself made of sand— golden curls, freckles, browned skin, teeth like little shells.

Metonym: A figure of speech that uses a word or term to replace or represent another closely related word or term. From Lexicon by Max Barry:

Tom had wandered over to the magazine rack, where a man in a red-checked snow hat was staring suspiciously at shrink-wrapped women.

The shrink-wrapped women stand for women posed in men’s voyeuristic magazines, not literally women in shrink wrap!—notice also the bit of alliteration that adds a lyrical quality. Try saying shrink-wrapped women five times fast!

Allusion: Alluding to something familiar in comparison. This, frommy novel Conundrum:

Survival was paramount. If she remained, death was certain—if not literal, then emotional. She’d weighed choices over and over until they became too heavy to hold any longer. She had a fleeting opportunity, had to grab it with both hands or she would miss the golden ring; it would fly past her, irretrievable, and she would languish with longing, regret, the bitterness ebbing away at her until nothing remained.

The allusion to grabbing a gold ring evokes the 19th-century feature of some carousel mechanisms: a dispenser that presented rings (usually iron) on a horizontal arm as the mechanical horses passed. One of the rings was brass; grabbing it earned the rider a prize—commonly a free ride. It grew into a metaphor (figurative) for grabbing hold of an opportunity.

Personification: This is a popular microtension technique, one I love to use, especially when writing fantasy—though it’s easy to insert in any genre. Attributing human characteristics to inanimate objects, even just an adjective or verb here and there, can create wonderful sticky prose. Phrases like “the snarling wind” or “the stubborn door” may seem insignificant, but they aren’t. Once you start looking for them in great fiction, you’ll see them everywhere. Here are some examples from Lexicon (Barry’s novel is brimming over with these):

The driver’s window was half-cranked, letting in furious air.

His bindings loosened; he brought forward his arms against the protest of his muscles and rubbed his wrists.

They trudged through blackness and snow until Wil could no longer feel anything. His nerves retreated somewhere deep inside, where there was still warmth.

When the car exited the garage into bright sunshine, she closed her eyes. Somewhere in the snarl of streets, she fell asleep. [Notice the nice alliteration, too.]

I’m very fond of zeugmas. A zeugma is when you apply a single word or phrase to additional words but in creative ways. Here are some lines from Intended for Harm that use this literary device (also note the use of epiphora, with a grouping of verbs ending with fied, and adjectives ending in able, to give a lyrical feel):

She went into the bathroom, brushed her hair and washed her face, came out, checked her purse. She took out her prescription bottles; she wouldn’t need those happy pills anymore. Pills that mollified and simplified and verified and nullified.

She deposited her key ring on the little shelf. She wouldn’t need them anymore—those keys that opened doors and started engines and kept her world running on empty … She would not be able to lie to him that easily, but she would this one time, to stave off the inevitable, the unbearable, the unthinkable.

There are many more literary stylistic devices, though, and covering all of them would require volumes. Take the time to explore these and see if you might add them to your microtension toolbox to use at just the right moments in your scenes.

I hope this little foretaste gets you excited to read more!

New Release! Masterful Microtension

“I just finished studying Masterful Microtension. It’s simply breathtaking. An uninterrupted epiphany from page 1 until the end. For me, as an aspiring mystery and thriller writer, this is simply gold, something everybody who wants to engage any kind of reader should learn and master. What I can say … this is just absolutely brilliant and unique.” —Andrea Paglino

“I’ve purchased almost every craft book that C. S. Lakin has published, but I think Masterful Microtension is the most powerful thing she’s written yet. She defines the purpose of microtension as evoking a tiny spark of surprise. The thing that gives us that ‘Wait, what?’ moment. Just having a name for that is so helpful, then she goes on to show exactly how to create that moment in your manuscript. Amazing! Thank you!” —Marilyn T. Parker, author of The Struggle for Love

Learn how to masterfully craft microtension in your fiction. Microtension is the subtle but powerful element operating beneath the surface of a scene. It is created through contradiction, emotional friction, subtext, charged description, symbolism, and imaginative wordsmithing. When microtension is present, readers feel compelled to keep reading. When it’s missing, even well-plotted stories can feel flat.

Few writers have ever been taught about microtension in fiction and why it’s so important. And you’ll be hard-pressed to find any books, courses, videos, or articles on it. Yet … without it, your fiction can fall flat.

In Masterful Microtension: The Essential Element of Powerful Fiction, you’ll study how skilled fiction writers create tension at the micro level using masterful techniques such as word pairings, literary devices, motifs, and polarities.

Most books on fiction writing focus on structure, character arcs, and dramatic conflict. While those elements are crucial to a great story, they only address the big-picture elements. Microtension works at the word level, shaping the emotional energy between narrative, actions, and thoughts.

Regardless of what genre you write, Mastering Microtension will magnificently transform your prose. If you want to elevate your fiction from competent to compelling, from readable to unforgettable, microtension is the key.

Get your copy (ebook or paperback) on Amazon or any other outlet online! 

Featured Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

The post Literary Pathways for Microtension appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

Character emotion, when written well, links directly to reader empathy. Why? Because when the character’s feelings are authentic and clearly conveyed, readers respond to them. When a protagonist expresses grief, joy, anger, or fear, readers immediately relate because they’ve experienced those emotions personally. They’re pulled into the character’s experience. And that’s exactly where we want them.

But as we all know, characters don’t always cooperate. If they’re anything like real people (and they should be), at some point, they’re going to hide their feelings. Suppressed emotion makes them more realistic while also generating questions for readers that increase intrigue:

Why is she hiding how she feels? What does it mean?
Was she successful, or does the other person suspect the truth?
What’s at stake if they find out?

That intrigue is awesome because it pulls readers in deeper, keeping them hooked so they can find answers. But this only happens if the character’s suppressed emotion is written smoothly and realistically. So let’s talk about what that looks like with a universal feeling that should crop up multiple times in any story, no matter the genre.

Fear: A Primal Emotion

Fear isn’t just any old emotion; it’s hardwired into the psyche as a way of protecting us from real or perceived danger. As such, it’s hard to ignore. This means that most characters will be comfortable expressing it. When a friend grabs them in the dark, they startle or swear, and they’re okay with that.

But there are situations where a character may want to hide their fear:

• They’re with someone they want to impress.
• They’re with someone who views fear as a weakness.
• They don’t want people to know they’re afraid of a particular thing.
• They need to be strong for someone else.
• Hiding or denying the fear is necessary for survival.
• They want to maintain a power dynamic or the status quo in a tense situation.
• They’re avoiding or denying a past trauma.

If any of these situations cause your character to downplay fear, their suppression will be subtle, possibly not even discernible to others. But readers need to see what they’re hiding. This means you’ll have to show the character’s muted response in the moment while indicating to readers that it’s a front, and fear is in play. Here’s how.

Body Language

 Characters who want to mask fear will downplay their physical cues. Basically, they act normal despite what’s happening on the inside.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Ms. Bozeman said. “The judge has determined that for your mom to get better, she needs to be in a place that can best service her mental health challenges. But don’t worry—while she’s staying at Ravencrest, your dad’s agreed to take you in.”

Melody took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Here, readers see no outward sign that this news has rocked the character’s world. Melody’s response seems reasonable. Good thing she has a father to take care of her, right?

Visceral Responses

But this isn’t good news, and while she’s showing calm on the outside, inside, she’s fighting panic. Readers need to see that, so we show it through what’s happening internally.

“But don’t worry—while she’s staying at Ravencrest, your dad’s agreed to take you in.”

Melody’s stomach tightened. The air fled her lungs, and she had to remind herself to inhale. This couldn’t be happening. All the moving, starting over at new schools, avoiding social media—Mom had explained it all when she was still lucid.

They’d left him when Melody was little, and her few memories of that time were hazy and fear-tinged. But she did have a clear vision of him looming over her and relaying in terrifying detail what he’d do if she told anyone the truth about him.

She dragged her gaze up to Ms. Bozeman, who was watching her intently. It was too dangerous to say anything now that her father knew where she was. She’d have to try to get away before he came.

Melody took a deep breath and forced her fingers to loosen their death grip on her armrests. “Okay.”

If readers see only Melody’s physical cues, nothing seems amiss; her deep breath is an expected response for someone dealing pretty well with a hard reality. But her thoughts tell another story, and her internal visceral reactions (the tightening stomach and difficulty breathing) underscore the truth: Melody is terrified. Thanks to her mental process, we know she has good reason; we now have some context for her fear. The outward physical cues, thoughts, and visceral reactions work together to show readers Melody’s true emotional state, what caused it, and why she must hide it.

One note of warning for this technique: Include thoughts strategically so they don’t slow the pace. Show only as much as is needed, then move on to action.

Dialogue and Speech Changes

The character can alter their body language to hide fear, but it often is obvious in the voice because of fear’s physiological effect on the body. Increased muscle tension in the neck and vocal cords influence timbre and make it sound tight, husky, or brittle. Rapid, shallow breathing can impair breath control so the character’s words sound shaky and weak. Fear also commonly causes the voice to pitch higher.

Changes in the brain itself can cause dialogue shifts, mostly in the character’s speech patterns. Distraction leads to stammering and stuttering. High anxiety might make it hard for the character to find words at all. A talkative person might slip into flight mode and resort to one-word answers, or a reserved person could begin babbling nonstop.

When fear comes to visit, it often settles into the voice first. Show changes to voice and speech alongside any attempts to hide the fear so readers (and other characters) can see what’s really going on.

 Tells

 Most people aren’t totally comfortable lying, and their tics and tells give them away in moments of dishonesty. Melody might fiddle with an earring, pop her knuckles, or slouch to appear unconcerned. Maybe her voice betrays her as it rises in pitch or breaks, making her clear her throat. If your character often lies when they’re afraid, use their tell as a clue for readers.

Cracks in the Mask

One final thought about hiding fear: Very few characters will be one hundred percent successful in masking it. Certain changes naturally occur—for everyone—with the onset of fear. Trembling limbs, quicker breathing, eyes going wide … It’s hard to disguise all that. (Just look at the death grip Melody has on those armrests.) And the longer a character must suppress an emotion, the harder it is to keep it hidden. So unless they’re a deception expert, authenticity requires the mask to slip—and readers need to see it.

The beauty of these techniques is they work for all suppressed emotions—fear, yes, but also anger, jealousy, sadness, or even happiness. Let the character carry on their façade with the rest of the cast while you reveal the truth to readers in a way that keeps them turning pages.

Need more information about fear’s role in storytelling and how to show it effectively? Check out The Fear Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to What Holds Characters Back.

Becca Puglisi is an international speaker, writing coach, and best-selling author of The Emotion Thesaurus and other resources for writers. Her books have sold over 1.4 million copies and are available in multiple languages, are sourced by US universities, and are used by novelists, screenwriters, editors, and psychologists around the world. She is passionate about learning and sharing her knowledge with others through her Writers Helping Writers blog and via One Stop For Writers—a powerhouse online resource for authors that’s home to the Character Builder and Storyteller’s Roadmap tools.

Featured Photo by Ahtziri Lagarde on Unsplash

The post 5 Techniques for Showing a Character’s Suppressed Emotion appeared first on C. S. Lakin.

By now, you’ve seen glimpses of how microtension operates through every pathway of fiction—through dialogue and interiority, through setting and description, through action, imagery, and even the smallest choices in language.

It isn’t confined to a single technique or even to a specific type of scene. It is a way of writing—a way of shaping every moment so that something is always at stake, always slightly unresolved or at odds. It uses metaphor, symbolism, similes, and images to spark your readers’ imaginations and deepen the meaning simmering under the action of every scene.

In essence, it’s what gives fiction its life. It’s the glue that holds the shape of your story. Often those “sticky bits” stick in readers’ memories for months, even decades. Microtension makes your big moments bigger, your emotional moments deeper and complex, and your characters unforgettable.

The more you become aware of microtension and practice using the pathways (they’re all presented in my book), the more you will begin to see it everywhere—in novels, plays, and short stories that hold you captive, in passages that stir your imagination, in lines or even phrases that linger long after you’ve turned the page.

This is how you take your fiction from good to great—by becoming a master of microtension.

Study Great Writers!

The most effective way to master microtension is to study the fiction of accomplished authors, as well as poetry. Not passively as a reader but actively—like a craftsman examining how something is made. When a scene grips you, pause and look closer. What is creating that effect? Is it contradiction in the character’s emotions? Subtext in the dialogue? A detail in the setting that doesn’t quite align with the mood? A single word or phrase that shifts the meaning of the sentence? Lyricism or creative use of literary devices?

Great writing is rarely accidental or merely intuitive. The authors who produce it understand, whether consciously or not, how to infuse microtension into their prose. By identifying the pathways they use, you begin to build your own awareness and expand your range.

You will start to notice how often expectations are disrupted, how frequently meaning is withheld, and how regularly characters are placed in moments of quiet but riveting conflict. You see how even the smallest details—a gesture, a pause, a word choice—can carry weight. And once you see it, you can begin to copy the technique.

As Hemingway said (as if it were easy!): “Find what gave you the emotion [when you read something that moves you] . . . Then write it down, making it clear so the reader will see it too and have the same feeling as you had.”

At first, this might feel daunting. You may find yourself slowing down, testing different word pairings, clustering words and phrases, exploring contradictions, or looking for ways to deepen a moment (or pull out a key stand-alone line). Over time, these techniques will become second nature, just as with anything you practice regularly.

Remember: it’s not about padding every page with random complexities or incongruencies. It’s about casting a light on the truth that human experience is rarely simple, rarely singular, and rarely resolved in a single moment. When you reflect that truth on the page—through contradiction, through nuance, through carefully chosen language—you create writing that feels alive.

And that is what readers respond to and delight in.

So as you move forward, don’t think of microtension as a checklist or a set of techniques to apply mechanically. Think of it as a lens—a way of seeing your scenes more clearly and shaping them more intentionally.

Try out the different pathways. Experiment with them. Combine them. Push them further.

Because the more you look for microtension, the more you will see it—and the more naturally it will start to wiggle its way into your writing.

New Release! Masterful Microtension

“I just finished studying Masterful Microtension. It’s simply breathtaking. An uninterrupted epiphany from page 1 until the end. For me, as an aspiring mystery and thriller writer, this is simply gold, something everybody who wants to engage any kind of reader should learn and master. What I can say … this is just absolutely brilliant and unique.” —Andrea Paglino

“I’ve purchased almost every craft book that C. S. Lakin has published, but I think Masterful Microtension is the most powerful thing she’s written yet. She defines the purpose of microtension as evoking a tiny spark of surprise. The thing that gives us that ‘Wait, what?’ moment. Just having a name for that is so helpful, then she goes on to show exactly how to create that moment in your manuscript. Amazing! Thank you!” —Marilyn T. Parker, author of The Struggle for Love

Learn how to masterfully craft microtension in your fiction. Microtension is the subtle but powerful element operating beneath the surface of a scene. It is created through contradiction, emotional friction, subtext, charged description, symbolism, and imaginative wordsmithing. When microtension is present, readers feel compelled to keep reading. When it’s missing, even well-plotted stories can feel flat.

Few writers have ever been taught about microtension in fiction and why it’s so important. And you’ll be hard-pressed to find any books, courses, videos, or articles on it. Yet … without it, your fiction can fall flat.

In Masterful Microtension: The Essential Element of Powerful Fiction, you’ll study how skilled fiction writers create tension at the micro level using masterful techniques such as word pairings, literary devices, motifs, and polarities.

Most books on fiction writing focus on structure, character arcs, and dramatic conflict. While those elements are crucial to a great story, they only address the big-picture elements. Microtension works at the word level, shaping the emotional energy between narrative, actions, and thoughts.

Regardless of what genre you write, Mastering Microtension will magnificently transform your prose. If you want to elevate your fiction from competent to compelling, from readable to unforgettable, microtension is the key.

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