Last week, My mentor told me to write a Sci-Fi Scene. I failed spectacularly.

Sci-Fi writers have this wonderful ability to create a world that’s entirely incomprehensible in a way that’s believable.

Which is why my mentor made me write this scene. Even if you never plan to write a story in the fantasy or sci-fi genre, learning to write this type of scene is still useful to you as a romance writer because it teaches you a valuable skill: the ability to describe context and setting to the reader while keeping the story moving forward.

In contemporary fiction, the context is typically the same—the Starbucks down the street that everyone can picture because we’ve all been to one, the grungy hotel lobby we’ve all visited at one time or the other, the hospital ward you stayed at that time you broke your leg.

When writing sci-fi or fantasy, you’re forced to explain more of the context, because the readers aren’t familiar with the world. The challenge is that every time you stop to explain, you are risking losing the reader by info dumping. And this is where the growth lies.

Even when writing romance, you’ll eventually write a scene with a setting that your reader isn’t familiar with. A biochemistry lab. A jungle in Costa Rica. An ancient temple in Peru.

In these situations you’ll be called to give enough relevant detail that the reader understands the context while keeping the narrative drive high.

By writing sci-fi or fantasy, you as the writer are being forced into learning this exact skill—by coming up with a setting that the reader isn’t familiar with and showing it to them in a way that keeps the story moving forward.

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In this scene, the protagonist is caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing and risks being shunned by the group.

Here’s the structure:

Inciting Incident: The protagonist is discovered doing something disapproved of by the group.
Crisis: Status Dilemma
Climax: The Protagonist gives in to the group or stands their ground

Here are the scene constraints:

Word Count: 1,000 words
POV: 3rd Person Strict (no internal dialogue)
Tense: Past
Setting: Confined Space
Dialogue: 80%

Here’s the scene I wrote under those constraints:

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• No talking

• No technology

• No reading

• No writing

• No eye contact or gesturing

The schedule is rigid. You meditate for about 10 hours a day with the first round starting at 4:30am and the last meditation at 8pm.

Each meditation session lasted about an hour. Which meant an hour of sitting cross-legged on the floor while your back and knees began to ache.

First time students eat all vegetarian meals 3 times a day (dinner consists of fruit and ginger water or tea) while old students eat twice a day.

Pandora’s Box

The first three days of this were grueling. I thought about leaving every single day. The anxiety of being so disconnected was getting to me because I was never disconnected. I never learned to sit with myself in the quiet. My mind was telling me all kinds of stories about the terrifying things that would happen while I sat for 10 days disconnected from the world.

My mom would have a heart attack and I wouldn’t know about it. I would have a heart attack and no one would know about it. Something would happen to my brother. I would go crazy and end up in the psych ward.

These thoughts looped and looped. My mind told me more stories. More lies.

By day 9, I’d learned something really important.

My mind was a master storyteller. The problem wasn’t that it was telling stories—it was that I only noticed the anxious ones.

When the noise of the outside world disappeared, the creative ones started showing up too.

By opening Pandora’s Box, I realized that my mind told two types of stories: fear stories and creative stories.

During those ten days, I had nightmares and I had dreams.

Along with all of the fears I didn’t want to confront came story ideas and revelations I’d been searching for.

By running from the fears, I was also running from my creativity.

The Creative Lesson

Initially, I was scared that if I didn’t write it down, I would lose it. I didn’t understand why we weren’t allowed to write. But by the end of the 10 days, I understood.

What I learned:

• Writing too early interrupts thinking

• Observing thoughts creates deeper ideas

• Some ideas need to live in the mind before being captured

By allowing my thoughts to flow freely, I was observing them rather than leading them.

I thought writing things down was the only way to keep them. But I started noticing something surprising: when I didn’t immediately grab an idea, it evolved.

A character became clearer. A story deepened. A thought turned into something more solid.

I learned to observe. I observed people, nature, the environment. I sat watching squirrels chase each other, and created narratives about what kind of person someone was based on absolutely no information other than their clothing, their posture, the way they held themselves, and the way they looked.

I didn’t go to this retreat to clear creative blocks, but it helped me understand the source of mine.

We live in a world of constant connection and disconnection. We’re constantly busy—working, reading, scrolling, watching, binging.

But creativity doesn’t come from consuming more.

It comes from giving your mind enough space to wander.

Somewhere between boredom and silence, your brain starts doing what it was built to do: tell stories.

It’s the first night of orientation at the University of Chicago twelve summers ago when Poppy, our protagonist, spots Alex, the antagonist of the scene.

The Inciting Incident of this scene is the point where the antagonist or force of antagonism forces the protagonist to confront a crisis moment—in this case, this is the moment after Poppy approaches Alex:

He stares at me blankly.

Before we proceed further, let’s make it clear:

Scene antagonist ≠ Story antagonist

Aka a scene antagonist isn’t the villain of the story. It’s simply the force—person, environment, or circumstance—that blocks the protagonist’s goal in that moment.

In this case, Alex is the person forcing Poppy to confront the crisis—the fact that these two are probably not made to be friends and she should probably look elsewhere.

Poppy’s goal or object of desire is to make friends at orientation—which is why she approaches Alex. Alex’s reaction to her throws the first obstacle in her path, hinting that maybe this interaction won’t go the way she wants it to.

It’s clear at this point that Alex was not expecting to be approached, and that his goal or object of desire might be different than Poppy’s. I’d wager that his goal is in fact to attend orientation and learn more about the school.

Which means that we don’t just have two characters with completely different personalities—we have two characters with different goals or objects of desire as well, and that makes for an interesting scene.

This misaligned desire is the root of our scene tension—a necessary element for a romance novel.

Poppy does start to make some progress towards her goal when she finds out they’re both from Linfield, but again what good is a scene without a few progressive complications (obstacles).

This is the point where Poppy runs into another obstacle. Here she is trying to achieve her scene goal of making friends but Alex is boring (at least for now). The longer they talk, the more boring she’s sure the conversation is going to get, which decreases any motivation to continue the conversation and continue toward her scene goal.

We also start getting into theme here.

It’s clear that at this point, Poppy thinks she wants:

• Excitement

• Wit

• Big personality

• Adventure

But Alex represents:

• Stability

• Quiet

• Thoughtfulness

• Depth

The fact that Alex isn’t following Poppy’s humor hammers home the crisis point—while Poppy approached Alex to make friends, these two are nothing alike, which means Poppy has a decision to make. Settle for what she believes is nice and boring or keep searching for fun and adventurous like she wants.

The climax of the scene comes when Poppy makes her decision.

Let’s be real, by this point we’d be fairly confident they’d never speak again too—if this wasn’t a rom-com and we didn’t already know how this was going to end.

The scene resolution ends with the two parting, sure that they’re never going to see each other again.

Do you agree with my take on Chapter 3? I’d love to hear your interpretation—share your thoughts in the comments!

When I was a kid, I hid under the sheets with my Harry Potter book, reading by flashlight until the early hours of the morning. I read to escape. I read because the worlds inside books were more interesting than the real one. And I wrote for the same reason.

There was always a happy ending. Predictable adventure and chaos, all wrapped up into one.

I wanted to be an author from a young age, but no one ever told me that to become one, I’d need to develop my craft.

Sure, I wrote plenty, just like any other kid obsessed with stories. I posted on fanfiction sites and every review felt like a piece of validation to continue. So I did.

But I wrote the same way every time. I didn’t reflect on my writing or try to improve because, according to the reviews of the few hundred mostly teenage fans I’d accumulated, my writing was perfect. At least, that’s how I translated them.

In school, they focused on a different kind of writing—poetry, plays, literary fiction—none of which interested me.

In high school, my creative writing teacher assigned us a play. The drama club would choose one to perform.

Mine won. From what I heard, the actors had so much trouble keeping it together that they laughed through filming. I never saw it—I moved before the performance—but the story stuck.

So did something else.

My creative writing teacher hated it. At least, that’s how I remember it. He had a look on his face when I turned it in—one that didn’t match everyone else’s reaction. I was told he was the only one who didn’t laugh.

There were other moments like that. A poetry contest I won, followed by a teacher who said someone else should have. Teachers who overlooked my writing entirely.

That’s when the imposter syndrome started. I started second-guessing my story, the plot, my characters, the sentences.

Writing became confusing. What I thought I knew about my ability began to unravel. No one told me writing was a skill. If anything, I absorbed the opposite message: you’re either talented or you’re not. And if you’re not, there’s nothing you can do about it.

College creative writing was the last straw.

What no one tells you about critique groups is how much power they hold. College students are often still learning how to write, let alone how to critique. They don’t realize how much weight their red pens carry.

When I entered college, I was sure I would be a writer. I graduated a teacher—and didn’t write seriously again for nearly a decade.

What I would have told myself back then is this:

Writing is not a talent that you’re born with. It’s a skill that you cultivate. It starts with a seed of interest that you build into a passion the more you explore it. It deepens through deliberate practice—reflection, revision, feedback.

It doesn’t happen overnight but it does. So slowly that sometimes you’re unaware that you’re improving. But you keep going anyway because of the love of the craft.

And if you stick to it, maybe not tomorrow or next year, but one day—you’ll write the kind of book you’re proud of.

Poppy heads home after meeting Rachel and thinks the whole way back about the secret to her happiness. At this point, Poppy’s object of desire is to return to the happiest version of herself—the version of her that’s still friends with Alex.

The trip is just the vehicle.

This is when the force of antagonism steps in with its big red stop sign.

The antagonistic force here is the fact that Poppy and Alex haven’t spoken in two years. The relationship is fractured. Avoidance has become the status quo. That’s the obstacle preventing her from achieving her object of desire — reconnection. This tension bleeds into her work life, where she feels blocked and uninspired.

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How to Identify the Inciting Incident of a Scene

1. What is the status quo at the start of the scene?

Before the scene:

• Poppy and Alex have not spoken in two years.

• Poppy is avoiding Alex.

• The conflict is dormant.

2. What event makes the scene impossible to ignore?

Something must happen that:

• Forces a decision

• Forces movement

In this case: Alex replies to Poppy’s accidental text, forcing her to act.

3. What moment shifts the protagonist from passive to active?

An inciting incident pushes the character into motion.

Before reply:

• Poppy is fantasizing about reconnection.

• There is distance between Poppy and Alex.

After reply:

• Poppy must manage the interaction.

• Poppy must figure out what to say.

• The relationship is active again.

4. If you removed this moment, would the story stall?

If we remove Alex’s reply, does the story stall?

Since the answer is yes, that’s our inciting incident.

The Conflict Resurfaces

Up until his reply, her surface goal was planning a trip. After his reply, Poppy still wants to plan for the trip, but we’re re-directing to a more immediate object of desire: have a conversation with Alex without things getting awkward.

Things seem like they might be going well when Alex responds to her awkward message with: “Is this about the disappearing sandwiches in the break room?”

Poppy has a choice here. She can bring up the elephant in the room — the two-year silence — or she can pretend nothing is wrong and maintain access to him. She chooses the latter.

Then the obstacle creeps back in. Poppy discovers that at some point in the last two years, Alex’s cat died — something she had no knowledge of. This detail reinforces the antagonistic force. It’s proof of emotional distance. Proof of what she missed.

The awkwardness returns.

Poppy manages to win the scene by re-establishing contact with Alex, but not without the force of antagonism highlighting the fractures in their relationship.

Externally:

• Alex and Poppy are speaking again.

• The door is open.

Internally:

• The intimacy gap is exposed.

• The discomfort deepens.

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Do you agree with my take on Chapter 2? I’d love to hear your interpretation—share your thoughts in the comments!

If you’re like me, you’ve started multiple novels and never managed to finish even one. That was until you finally buckled down and pantsed your way through your first novel. Hopefully you went out and celebrated over chocolate cake and pretend wine like I did—or something similar—because a first draft is a hell of an accomplishment.

Now your draft is sitting at the bottom of your wardrobe, hidden beneath a pile of clothes, because Stephen King told you to put your draft away for at least 6 weeks. And in the meantime, you’re thinking—what next?

This is where I am now. It’s funny because I thought that finishing would be the difficult part.

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In the course of writing Because Nani Said So, I changed directions multiple times.

I’ve always been a pantser, and I knew I needed to do something different this time. So what did I do? I created an outline—and refused to follow it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It’s just that I started writing and my characters decided they didn’t want to go where I was taking them. And really, who am I to tell them what to do?

I know, I know—I’m the author.

But I’ve always been that person who thought that my characters have a life of their own. They decide where to go, I just listen and allow. Only, in the course of this draft, I realized that’s not a great mindset. At least for me. By giving away my agency to the muses and to my characters, I was saying I had to sit and wait for them to steer the ship.

This cost me.

It cost me months—maybe years, as my book was slowed down to a crawl.

Sometimes I’d wait for my characters to tell me what to say to start writing again. Sometimes I’d be waiting for weeks.

Sometimes I’d start writing and realize, this doesn’t feel right. I’d let the characters change course. And it was exciting seeing where they chose to go.

While I learned so much in the process, it also created plot holes galore.

And what happens when you have plot holes galore?

You have to go and fill them in, my dear.

With—I know pansters will hate this word—the dreaded “outline”.

Or in my case, reverse outline.

It turns out my characters don’t need control. They need direction.

So while my draft sits in the wardrobe, I’m not waiting for the muse anymore. I’m learning how to steer the ship.

Follow along to see what that looks like.

Last week, my developmental editor, Kallista, asked me to write a Compromising Position scene—one where the protagonist does something the group disapproves of and gets an ultimatum.

I knew I would hate writing it.

In my head, if a character is caught doing something the group disapproves of, they’re obviously in the wrong. (No matter that sometimes the group is in the wrong—subconscious me obviously disagrees). So I went with the most obvious option: cheating.

I knew what the scene would sound like before I started typing. Mostly because I gave zero shits about these characters.

I wrote it anyway. I even fulfilled Kallista’s requests this time.

The problem?

The characters were flat.

When we discussed it, I told her I’d hated writing the scene and wasn’t surprised it didn’t work. When she asked why, all I could come up with was that I didn’t connect to the characters—and that I would never choose to write a scene like this on my own.

My main characters aren’t bad people. They wouldn’t do something I personally disapprove of. But maybe that’s the problem. The second I decided this character was going to cheat, I stopped seeing them as mine. I refused to get to know them because I had al

ready judged them.

Because if I write characters who do bad things—and actually like them—what does that say about me?

Yes, I’m aware how warped that sounds. And no, I don’t believe every person who does something bad is bad—at least not consciously.

Regardless, I started the scene already disconnected. I didn’t try to like the character. Why would I invest time and emotion into someone I knew was about to do something I disapproved of? This clearly wasn’t a craft issue. It was a mindset issue. I didn’t want to write a character with such a deep flaw. And if they had one, I pushed them into antagonist territory—a role I associate with people I don’t like and don’t try to understand.

Which is a problem. Characters should be complex. Just like people.

They make mistakes. They do good things and bad things.

I’ve always told myself I don’t want to dwell on the darker parts of human nature. I want my protagonists to be likable.

But humans are flawed. I’m no exception.

A friend of mine told me recently that people are either curious or judgemental. I’ve clearly been the latter, when good writing requires the former.

Even in romance, people mess up. And being willing to explore it when they do can only deepen empathy and strengthen the writing.

This has been a challenge for me. But awareness is the first step, right?

Try it out

Want to try this scene yourself?

Here are the scene constraints:

• Word Count: 800

• POV: 3rd Person Strict [Only actions and dialogue; no internal dialogue]

• Tense: Past

• Setting: Confined space

• Dialogue: 80% Dialogue

Here’s the structure:

• Inciting Incident: The protagonist is discovered doing something disapproved of by the group.

• Crisis: Status Dilemma

• Climax: The Protagonist gives in to the group or stands their ground

One thing I’ve discovered while doing story analysis, is that not everything fits in a clean box. Beat structure and scene structure give authors guidelines that help identify patterns within a story, and to structure your own scenes.

But these structures are suggestions, not fact.

Not every author follows the same structure, and some authors like to break the rules. Story analysis is great because it allows you to question when the author follows the pattern, and when they chose to do something different. It also allows you to consider why they may have made the choices they made.

I think People We Meet on Vacation is one such book, where the scenes don’t fit neatly into the scene structure—and that is fine.

Because it works.

The question we want to explore is, why does it work?

Scene #1 Summary

It’s their Friday Meeting at R+R and Poppy has to pitch a trip idea for the upcoming summer feature. The problem? She has zero inspiration—something she needs a ton of to work at a travel magazine.

Scene #1 Analysis

• Setting - a conference room at the office on Friday

• Protagonist - Poppy

• Object of Desire (OOD) - to come up with a pitch idea for her next summer feature for next year that her boss approves of

  • Why? - Because Swapna wants Poppy to write the feature.

• Forces of Antagonism - Poppy’s writer’s block; Swapna

• Swapna’s OOD - For Poppy to pitch an idea that is in season, inspired and hasn’t been done within the past decade.

  • Why? - Because it’s important to her that the idea be original.

• Crisis -

  • A: Choose a random place and hope it lands

  • B: Continue brainstorming locations that may fit Swapna’s requirements

• Inciting Incident - Poppy spots Alex at the bar and tries to get him to join in a bit of role-playing.

• Progressive complications - Alex refuses to play along, and even when Poppy admits she wants to help him get over Sarah, he resists.

• Turning Point -

  “Poppy, don’t you think Vegas could be fun?”

  “It could definitely be fun,” I agree.

  “Santorini,” Garrett says in the voice of a cartoon mouse.”

  “Santorini is lovely, of course,” Swapna says, and Garrett heaves an audible sigh of relief. “But we want something inspired.” She looks at me again.

  Poppy’s last attempt at avoiding making the crisis decision here is to simply agree with Swapna’s suggestion, since she hasn’t thought of a better idea.

  However, as Swapna continues to stare at Poppy, it becomes clear that Poppy has to confront the issue and come up with a pitch for the summer feature herself.

• Climax -

  “I’ll keep brainstorming and work something up to pitch you on Monday,” I suggest.

• Resolution -

  She nods in acceptance. Garrett sags in the chair beside me. I know he and his boyfriend are desperate for a free trip to Santorini. As any travel writer would be. As any human person probably would be. As I definitely should be.

  Don’t give up, I want to tell him. If Swapna wants inspiration, she’s not getting it from me. I haven’t had any of that in a long time.

  The resolution surfaces the real crisis here—Poppy isn’t feeling inspired and hasn’t in a while. This becomes a catalyst for the next scene.

Scene #2 Summary

Over a glass of rose at a cafe, Poppy and Rachel discuss Poppy’s sudden inability to choose a destination for her free vacation. Something that should be—and used to be—easy.

Scene #2 Analysis

• Setting - a café in New York

• Protagonist - Poppy

• Object of Desire (OOD) - to figure out how to be happy without losing the feeling as soon as she gains it.

  • Why?: Because Poppy’s dream life feels different than she imagined it. She doesn’t enjoy her job like she used to anymore.

• Forces of Antagonism - Poppy’s fixed mindset is the force of antagonism here; Poppy believes that although she’s worked hard to achieve what she has, she’s still not happy. Because of this, she feels directionless and purposeless.

• Rachel’s OOD - for Poppy to confront the reasons for her lack of happiness

  • Why?: Because Poppy is clearly stuck and not enjoying her work like she used to.

• Crisis -

  • A: Choose any location for her trip to make her boss happy despite being unhappy herself.

  • B: Figure out what makes her happy.

• Inciting Incident -

  “—so I could get my dream job. And I actually got it. I work at one of the top travel magazines! I have a nice apartment! And I can take cabs without worrying too much about what that money should go to, and despite all of that”—I take a shaky breath, unsure of the words I’m about to force out even as the full weight of them hits me like a sandbag—”I’m not happy.”

  Until this point, the goal was to figure out why it’s so hard for Poppy to pick a place for her next trip.

  But this is when the real problem surfaces—the problem of why Poppy is having so much trouble with something that used to come easily to her.

  Poppy’s problem isn’t that she can’t pick a vacation—it’s that she lacks the motivation to do so because her ultimate object of desire is happiness— which is now out of her reach.

• Progressive complications -

  • One way that Poppy avoids facing the crisis is by complaining about her lack of happiness.

  • Poppy compares Rachel’s level of happiness to her own.

    “You sell it well, Rach,” I say. “You seem pretty happy.”

    This suggests that because Rachel is happy, Poppy should be too. Instead of accepting that she’s missing something and taking action to fix it, she’s still stuck on how things should be.

  • Poppy looks for solutions:

    • “Are you saying I should get a dog?” I say.

    • “So I need new goals.”

    She hops from one possible solution to the next in hopes of some quick fix to her dilemma.

• Turning Point -

  “Anyway,” Rachel continues, “she (Rachel’s mom/therapist) told me that sometimes, when you lose your happiness, it’s best to look for it the same way you’d look for anything else.”

  “By groaning and hurling couch cushions around?” I guess.

  “By retracing your steps,” Rachel says. “So, Poppy, all you have to do is think back and ask yourself, when was the last time you were truly happy.”

  This is Poppy’s last attempt to avoid facing the crisisby using humor and sarcasm to deflect from the issue.

• Climax -

  “I know right away when I was last truly happy. Two years ago in Croatia, with Alex Nilsen.”

  According to Story Grid, the Crisis is the moment the protagonist acts on the decision they make during the climax.

  But in this particular scene, Poppy doesn’t take physical action. What she does do, is finally acknowledge the real reason for her unhappiness, which she’s been avoiding until this point. This is why I chose this as the climax of the scene.

• Resolution -

  “Just think about it, will you?” Rachel says. “Dr. Krohn is always right.”

  “Yeah, I say. “I’ll think about it.”

Do you agree with my take on Chapter 1? I’d love to hear your interpretation—share your thoughts in the comments!

I’ve always loved love stories. I’ve been obsessed with them since elementary school—since Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol graced the screens of Bollywood with their fictional romances and taught me what it felt like to dream. To imagine. To feel.

It’s that zing of electricity that bubbles up under my skin when I watch or read a story I love. When two perfectly suited or mismatched characters fall in love and it just…works.

People We Meet on Vacation felt like that for me. Poppy and Alex lit up the Netflix screen with that familiar zing of friendship, love, and chemistry that had me itching to watch their story unfold again and again. To pick up the novel and dissect it, scene by scene. To let my curiosity speak for itself.

Which is what brought us here, to this analysis.

Why Analyze People We Meet on Vacation?

There are many reasons I chose to analyze this novel in particular. Here are a few:

• Winner for Readers’ Favorite Romance in 2021

• Goodreads Choice Award 2021 for Best Romance

• Over 2 million copies sold in the U.S.

• #1 New York Times Bestseller

Who should analyze this book?

I firmly believe that writers in any genre can benefit from analyzing books.

However, if you’re writing an adult contemporary romance with a friends-to-lovers trope, a past-and-present timeline, or a story that follows characters traveling to different places, this book is well worth checking out.

Book Summary

Poppy is a free spirit with a serious case of wanderlust. Alex is a chronic homebody with sleepy eyes and a serious case of book-nerd-itus.

In other words, Alex and Poppy have nothing in common. This doesn’t stop them from becoming the best of friends, post their fated college car ride home to Linfield, Ohio years ago. And from meeting every summer for a decade of their yearly vacation together.

That was, until Poppy made the mistake of a century two years ago and they stopped talking. Ouch.

Despite having the life that most people can only dream of—flying off to different countries and getting paid to write about her adventures—Poppy isn’t happy. And that has everything to do with Alex.

So what’s a girl to do except go straight to the trip and convince her former best friend to go on one more trip together? Shockingly, Alex says yes.

Now, Poppy has a week to bring back their ruined relationship from wherever it is that friendships go to die.

But is a week enough time to undo two years of silence?

Scene Summary

It’s the last night of Poppy’s vacation and it couldn’t be further than what she’d planned. Instead of lounging on a sandy beach, Poppy is stuck in a rainy dive bar that practically screams FDA hazard. Still, Poppy is intent on enjoying the evening with her best friend, Alex.

Scene Analysis

• Setting - a local dive bar called BAR, with sticky floors, in a rainy resort town. It’s their last night in town, and the place feels filthy.

• Protagonist - Poppy

• Object of Desire (OOD) - Poppy wants Alex to have fun without getting drenched in the rain or stuck in a crowded tourist trap.

  • Why? - Alex just broke up with Sarah so Poppy wants to make him feel better.

• Forces of Antagonism - Alex, the rain, the bar’s grimy environment

  • Alex’s OOD - To stay comfortable and distracted, reading his book

  • Environmental antagonist OOD - To obstruct Poppy from achieving her goal of enjoying her last night

    • Why? - Because the environment and circumstances aren’t adding up to what is typical on a fun vacation.

• Crisis

  • A: Keep coaxing Alex, risking continued resistance.

  • B: Let him be, even though Poppy wants him happy.

• Inciting Incident - Poppy spots Alex at the bar and tries to get him to join in a bit of role-playing.

• Progressive complications - Alex refuses to play along, and even when Poppy admits she wants to help him get over Sarah, he resists.

• Turning Point - Alex has been resistant to Poppy’s attempts at coaching him up until the point where the conversation swivels back to their friendship: “You love me,” I point out, the tiniest bit defensive. …”I know that,” he says.”

• Climax - I grin up at him. “I love you back.” Poppy has made the decision to change the conversation from Alex’s dating life to their friendship and acts on this.

• Resolution - Alex confirms that this is their best trip yet. They go back to their rental, chat about the trip and take a picture to commemorate their vacation.

Do you agree with my take on the prologue? I’d love to hear your interpretation—share your thoughts in the comments!

Inciting Incident. Turning Point. Crisis. These are words almost every author and English major knows.

I sure thought I did. Until I had to find them in a scene. That’s when things got…muddy.

For the last month, I’ve been in Story Grid’s mentorship program, writing scenes and analyzing others. That means we return to these core scene elements. A lot. And I’ll be honest, I thought scene analysis was going to be simple.

It hasn’t been.

My 16-year-old self would be aghast at the pen marks in my perfectly good romance novels. (I’m sure I wasn’t the only pubescent teen who made it into her mother’s Harlequin romance collection). She’d be even more aghast to see how messy it all looks.

No cute hamster doodles beside perfect handwriting here! My books are all sloppy scrawl, scratch marks, and edu-ma-cated guesses.

Regardless, I’m having fun. And with each analysis, I learn something new about craft. What more can a writer-reader-nerd hope for?

Scene Elements

If you’re unfamiliar with elements that make up a scene, let me recap. (Disclaimer: all definitions are based on Story Grid methodology). All scenes typically have the following components:

• Status Quo - the protagonist’s life before the inciting incident shakes things up.

• Inciting Incident - the moment the problem (or opportunity) arises.

• Object of Desire - the protagonist’s goal, arising from the inciting incident.

• Progressive Complications - the events that make it harder for the protagonist to get their object of desire, raising the tension.

• Turning Point - the final refusal by the protagonist to give the antagonist what they want.

• Crisis - the event in which the antagonist forces the protagonist to make a difficult decision (this could be between two equally good choices, or two equally bad ones).

• Climax - the protagonist acts on the decision they made during the crisis.

• Resolution - the outcome of the protagonist’s actions and how life has changed as a result.

Identifying these elements within a scene are a lot easier said than done—but not without its benefits.

With some—or maybe a lot—of practice, you start to recognize patterns in structure. These patterns tell you everything you need to know about what goes into a scene, and how to replicate the structure in your own writing.

And what better subjects of research than the books we love?

Which is why I’ll be posting my scene analyses of Emily Henry’s People We Meet on Vacation in all its messy glory. I hope you’ll follow along—and I hope you’ll do your own analysis of the scenes.

The prologue + the first three chapters will be available for all subscribers.

Join the Community

If you’re searching for a new kind of book club—if you’re a writer wanting to read like one. Join the fun.

When you upgrade to a paid subscription for as little as your daily Starbucks coffee a month, you’ll unlock exclusive access to all my story analyses and a community of romance writer-readers to nerd out with.

And if you’re excited for our first scene analysis, mark your calendar for Tuesday, February 17th.

Bring your highlighters, pens, and sticky notes. Let’s tear into the Prologue together.

Finishing my first draft took 3 years, 3 months, and more mindset battles than plot twists.

Here are five lessons I wish someone had told me before I started.

1. Whether it’s before you start writing or after, you will need to outline your story

Before my fellow pantsers start taking out the bullhorns and rioting—hear me out.

I have always been a pantser.

Want to know how many first drafts I’ve finished? One. And despite that I’m proud of myself for finishing, there are plot holes galore that I’ll need to go back and address in my first edit, because while I had an outline—I chose not to follow it.

That ended in:

• Plot holes

• Incorrect timelines

• Changing backstories

• Pacing issues

When you have an outline, you reduce or eliminate these problems because you know what information needs to go where.

Whether you choose to outline before you start your novel, or reverse outline afterward to check for the issues above—is up to you.

What I can tell you from experience however, is that it is far quicker to outline beforehand than to go back and fix all your developmental issues afterwards.

Yes, you’ll have to edit your novel anyway. But only you know how much you’ll have to edit and how long it will take you. So sit down, consider the pros and cons of both methods, and pick one. Your choice will dictate the journey.

2. Mindset is the biggest blocker between you and a finished first draft

Limiting beliefs tend to loop in our minds.

The same limiting beliefs that were planted there by that one well-meaning English teacher that didn’t realize how much harm they’d be doing by telling you to prepare for brokenness if you followed the path of a writer.

The ones planted by your parents every time they suggested you choose the safer career path—one with a steady paycheck.

This is the number one reason why your draft is still sitting at 9,876 words after two years. And please don’t take this as a criticism—it took me 3 years and 3 months to finish my first draft and the first year or two it stayed stuck at three chapters.

Even after pitching an agent who requested my full manuscript at first query—I chickened out and didn’t pick up my work in progress again for almost a full year. Why? Because the thought loops were strong.

It’s not always obvious. It doesn’t always come in the form of audible voices in your head screaming at you. It’s not always a voice that sounds like you yelling “You suck!”

Sometimes it’s barely a whisper.

Sometimes it’s just a feeling in your chest. A feeling of stuckness. Like there’s a thorn burrowed deep in your chest and you can’t start writing until it’s gone.

Sometimes it comes in the form of an action. In the way you pick up your phone and start scrolling when you should be writing. When you decide you need to do laundry at that moment. When a text you didn’t feel the need to answer ten minutes ago suddenly demands your attention.

Sometimes it’s all so subtle, you’re not even aware of the puppetmaster pulling the strings.

But let me tell you a secret.

When you know the puppet master is there—when you see him pulling the strings—it takes the power away.

Similarly, when you become aware of the thought loops—when you become aware that thoughts are not always facts, and make the choice to ignore the voice—that’s when you start walking down the road to finishing your draft.

3. You don’t need to know everything about your story right from the start

The first draft is about exploration. It’s about getting to know the story—the real story—and getting to know your characters.

I spent three years with my characters. I’d like to think that I know something about who they are by now.

Hell, I know more about them than their own parents, lovers, and selves. And that is more than enough to edit a book.

In the beginning though… in the beginning, the answers to many of these questions are just that. Questions.

If you want to take the time to understand all the details beforehand—that’s fine. But it’s not necessary. Because while you sit with them, watch them, hear their whispers, follow their actions—the characters become real in a way that they weren’t before. They start to tell you who they are or their actions bring up questions about what details are relevant—what details are important for you to really know.

4. Scenes should be intentional

Every scene, every line, has a place. A reason for existing in the space of your novel.

Scenes should:

• Explore the theme

• Advance character change

• Reveal meaningful backstory

• Increase tension or stakes

• Develop relationships and dynamics

• Move the plot forward

And if it doesn’t do one of these things? You should be asking yourself why it exists.

There’s a reason that everyone always skips the filler episodes in Naruto and Bleach (for any anime watchers who understand this reference). Because if it adds nothing to the story, then why turn the page?

5. Your critique group will be your biggest advantage or detriment

I have never liked critique groups.

My first experience with critique was in my college creative writing class. The professor never taught us how to critique—just to read the stories and say what we thought worked and didn’t work. That is very vague instruction—escecially for a group of incoming college students wanting to prove themselves to be the next great American novelist (or romance writer in my case).

Which, of course, meant that a lot of the time, stories got ripped to shreds.

Up until this point, I was under the impression that I was a good writer. I’d been writing fanfiction since middle school and I had a small but consistent following. A play I’d whipped up in the last ten minutes of class had been selected to be filmed by the drama club in high school. I’d even won a poetry contest or two.

Surely this meant that I could write, correct?

By the end of four years in my Creative Writing minor, I wasn’t so sure.

Critiques are meant to be constructive. But it’s also important to remember that they’re subjective—based purely on the reader’s experience and preferences. Which means you can take what works and leave what doesn’t.

I learned none of this.

To me, all I saw was pages and pages of red ink. Red ink that spelled out ‘Not good enough’.

I entered college dreaming of being a writer. I left college a teacher.

It’s a part of my life I wouldn’t change. Teaching taught me a lot. Still, I gave up writing for nearly a decade. I wrote in spurts here and there but it was like the light had gone out.

The wrong critique group can kill a writer’s soul. Their spirit. I firmly believe that.

But the right one… the right one can salvage what’s left of it. Can reignite that spark of something that’s threadbare, flickering, but yearning to be re-lit.

I found my critique group through reddit. Someone posted about a romance writers discord group, and because my luck with general critique groups up to this point had been shit, I thought I’d have better luck in a romance-specific group.

I did.

I met three other romance writers who became my rocks. This draft would still be stuck at 9,876 words if not for them.

We’ve been meeting every Thursday for over a year now. We became familiar with each other’s plots, writing styles, strengths and weaknesses. They were invested in my characters, and I was invested in theirs. We cheered for them, were angry at them, gave praise when it was due, and told each other honestly when something didn’t work.

And slowly, my post-critique PTSD started to heal.

If you are one of those with critique group trauma who hasn’t found them yet—trust me when I say they are out there.

You just haven’t found them because it’s not the right moment, fit, or group.

The Finish Line

Finishing a draft doesn’t mean you’re done. It doesn’t mean you’re a perfect writer. But it does mean you didn’t quit. It means you’re capable of sitting down and working towards something that’s important to you.

It means that instead of prioritizing the cell phone, the laundry, your job, your kids, your dog, the taxes—you chose you.

What is Copywork?

I love copywork. In my opinion, it’s the easiest way to learn craft, without spending hundreds (or thousands depending on what a book-whore you are) on craft books. Plus, it’s been proven to work by people far better and greater than us.

For those of you who don’t know what copywork is, let’s get technical.

Copywork is the practice of copying the work of an established writer word for word.

This doesn’t just help improve your grammar skills (which it totally can), but helps you learn the style, structure, and techniques used by published authors that you already love and respect.

But Isn’t Copywork Stealing?

The common concern many people (including me) have when they first learn about copywork is that by mimicking someone else, it takes away your own voice and your originality. But every writer learned by picking up a book, reading it, and mimicking. Just ask Stephen King.

“At some point I began to write my own stories. Imitation preceded creation; I would copy Combat Casey comic word for word in my Blue Horse tablet, sometimes adding my own descriptions where they seemed appropriate.” — Stephen King, On Writing

Famous Copywork Advocates

• Benjamin Franklin used copywork to teach himself logic and persuasion by rewriting essays from The Spectator.

• Hunter S. Thompson famously typed out The Great Gatsby and A Farewell to Arms just to feel what it felt like to write a masterpiece.

• Jack London would spend hours a day copying Rudyard Kipling’s writing by hand.

In Their Own Words

“But on the whole, though I never arrived at the perfection I had been so ambitious of obtaining, but fell far short of it, yet I was, by the endeavour, a better and happier man than I otherwise should have been had I not attempted it; as those who aim at perfect writing by imitating the engraved copies, their hand is mended by the endevour, and is tolerable while it continues fair and legible” — Benjamin Franklin, The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

“If you type out somebody’s work, you learn a lot about it. Amazingly, it’s like music. And from typing out parts of Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald – these were writers that were very big in my life and the lives of the people around me – so yeah, I wanted to learn from the best, I guess.” — Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

My Copywork Method

Copywork is pretty simple, as I’ve already established. You simply pick a book you like and write it out word for word.

Longhand is best, but typing is fine.

But, since I’m an overachiever (and former teacher), I take it a bit further.

1. Choose a scene you want to copy.

2. Copy the scene word for word.

3. Re-write the scene from memory.

4. Compare your re-write to the original.

5. Jot down your takeaways (techniques you picked up, etc.).

6. Apply what you’ve learned.

Simple, right?

Copywork Exercise

This year, in my journey to improve my story craft and become a better writer, I decided to practice copywork more consistently. To start out the year, I picked a scene from the book People We Meet on Vacation, mainly because, like many of you, I’m guessing, I just finished watching the netflix release and I loved it. So of course, I had to buy the book and pick it for my first story craft analysis.

What follows is the original scene that I copied from the book, “People We Meet on Vacation,” along with my (attempted) re-write from memory. Disclaimer: My version stinks. It’s definitely not Emily Henry worthy writing. But then if it were, I wouldn’t be here doing copywork, I’d be on the best seller list writing Emily Henry type books.

If you’d like to follow along and see my copywork exercise and the takeaways, feel free to subscribe!

Read more

I am a Story Grid mentee. A fact I’m learning to show more enthusiasm about—even when the red ink starts flowing.

Focusing on writing is a dream—and a privilege. And this year, I decided to gift myself that privilege.

A whole year to write, to develop my craft, to follow my dreams.

As an aspiring author with a serious case of delay delay delay until I’ve done enough research, improved enough, to convince myself that I’m a decent enough writer to complete my novel—I joined Story Grid.

I don’t recommend or believe that every author needs to run off and join a $5000 mentorship program to succeed. Especially if you have financial constraints.

I joined because after getting axed from my job last year, my imposter syndrome was huge—and I feared that it was keeping me from taking the action I needed to do to become an author—to sit down and actually write.

I joined because I have the time, finances, and ability to devote myself to myself for a year.

So that’s what I’m doing.

What Is Story Grid?

If you haven’t heard of Story Grid, it’s a tool and program that allows authors to level up their craft game.

As a part of their one-on-one mentorship program, you’re paired up with a mentor, your personal developmental editor, who works with you for a minimum of four months to identify your weaknesses, and develop your writing skills.

Each week, we’re assigned a scene to work on or revise with specific scene constraints.

This week, my mentor gave me a scene called “Take a Chance on Me”—a scene where the antagonist asks the protagonist out on a date.

As a romance writer, I was excited for this —especially since my first assignment was a chase scene—which I hated. This one, however, was my domain. I live and breathe romance, so of course I’d do well at it. Or at least better than I did writing the chase scene.

And, I did do better. Of course, I did. Because I wrote a scene that would be funny to me. My ideal reader has always been myself, not anyone else. The problem with this mentality is, as far as the mentorship is concerned, the goal is to write for someone else—my mentor.

And as far as Kallista was concerned, yes—she laughed in the right places but I still fell short of what she asked for.

But if she laughed, what’s the problem, right?

The problem was that I knew exactly what she was going to say before I even hit submit. I hit it anyway.

I’d written a story in my head that said “they obviously don’t know romance and not every scene needs a huge crisis,” or “this scene is great as is” and “I don’t want to re-write it and make it worse by doing what they ask”. The loop went on and on and I folded to my ego instead of just following the directions.

The Five Commandments

So where did I fall short? How did I know my scene didn’t fulfill the scene requirements? Because every scene is required to follow Story Grid’s five commandments for a good scene.

In other words, every scene we write must consist of:

1. An inciting Incident - the incident that starts the scene—aka the first moment the antagonistic force puts pressure on the protagonist, taking their attention away from their goal or desire.

2. A Turning Point - the moment the protagonist refuses to go along with the antagonist’s whims.

3. A Crisis - the protagonist must make a decision between two options of equal weight, both with significant stakes.

4. A Climax - the protagonist acts on the decision they made during the crisis. This is when all the tension and stakes you’ve built pays off for the reader.

5. A Resolution - the aftermath of the protagonist’s decision.

My scene had a beginning and an end, but I was missing the “middle” that makes a story actually work.

The Scene Constraints

The structure:
Inciting Incident: Antagonist asks the protagonist out on a date.
Crisis: Trust Dilemma
Climax: The protagonist either accepts the date or declines it.

The constraints:
Word Count: 500
POV: 1st Person Strict
Tense: Present
Balanced mix of Dialogue and Physical Action
Setting: Performing a physical task (e.g., washing dishes, walking)

My Scene

“Go out with me.” [Inciting Incident]

I scowl at the too tall for his own good, too dark, too handsome and far too egotistical asshole currently standing in the middle of her empty hair salon at seven minutes to closing.

“We’re closed.” I sweep the floor around his legs, making sure to swat at his tailored pants with the end of my broom in the process. Benjamin Vo has the nerve to glare, as if I’m the one intruding on his space. This is why I hate lawyers, I think. I sweep a pile of hair that was lying beneath the swivel chair particularly roughly in his direction, smirking when the curly locks cover his brown leather lace ups, making a mess of them.

Ben’s lips turn downward as he stares at the shoes that no doubt probably costs the equivalent of my entire monthly rent on the salon and apartment combined. I almost gag at the thought and swat at him with the broom again, but unfortunately, he dodges this time. “Problem, Benjamin?”

“Problem? Why would there be problem? It’s not like these are Ferragamo.” He mutters, grabbing a tissue from the countertop behind me and brushing the hairs off his shoes.

I roll my eyes. Asshat.

“Go out with me,” he tries again, throwing the tissue into the trash behind me.

“We’re closed,” I respond immediately, gesturing to the schedule posted on the door.

“No, you’re open until 8pm. Now go out with me.”

“It’s four minutes to closing, Mr. Vo and time is money, so I’d appreciate it if you would get out and let me close up.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he mutters, side-stepping my broom and sliding into the salon chair. “Cut my hair then.”

I stare at the hot asshat, confused. “What part of “we’re four minutes to closing did you not get, Mr. Vo?”

“I’ll pay you double your rate, okay?”

“Triple. You can afford it,” I say after a moment, eyeing his shoes.

He glowers at me, “Fine. Triple.”

I prop the broom against the wall and grab the scissors from my supply desk before making my way over to him. His hair is soft, healthy, free of gels and oils. It’s that thick, black hair that makes women drool and men jealous. I love it and hate it at the same time.

“Go out with me,” Ben asks again.

“I’d rather chew my toes off and eat them, Benjamin,” I say, chopping off another lock of hair. It physically hurt to cut it. I like the way it falls into his eyes and—

“Our best friends are getting married Alka. Which means we have to start getting along. So, let me take you out and prove that I’m not that bad, would you?”

I consider it. “One date. Two hours max. And you’re paying,” I say finally, cutting another lock. [Climax]

Ben rolls his eyes, but I see the makings of a smile at the corner of his lips. “It’s a date,” he murmurs. [Resolution]

The Feedback

Kallista’s feedback was as expected: she enjoyed the humor, but the scene was repetitive. Alka repeated “We’re closed” over and over—something I did intentionally to create humor. But humor doesn’t drive a scene; conflict does.

And you can’t build conflict through repetition—especially with limited real estate.

The scene was funny, but felt like the beginning of a much longer scene.

I wasn’t meant to think of this as the beginning part of a 2000 word scene—the 500 words was the complete scene. Which means every word must be thoughtfully chosen to create the full scene arc.

By the time we got to the climax, Kallista was left wondering why Alka changed her mind. Because I skipped the turning point and crisis, she couldn’t follow the character’s logic—couldn’t be emotionally there with the character at the moment of her decision. I was so focused on humor and building likable characters, that I forgot what needed to be there to make the scene work.

I struggled with this feedback because I’ve read plenty of scenes where there is no clear crisis or turning point—especially in romance novels. Or rather, I thought I’d read scenes without them. In reality, the best ones just hide the machinery so well I didn’t notice it.

What I also missed was that Kallista had given me this assignment not because every scene has to have some outrageous life or death crisis, but to challenge my ability to create a crisis within the limited constraints given so that I can build my ability to do so in a longer scene later.

Kallista’s feedback taught me a lot, and also left me with a challenge—how do I maintain my tone and humor while raising the stakes given the limited word utility? I guess we’ll see!

Hit the subscribe button if you’re interested in the re-write feedback.

Your task: I challenge you to try this scene for yourselves and share in the comments!

I’m sitting at my desk, not doing any writing even though I’m only four chapters away from being finished with my book—the same way I haven’t been doing any writing every other day for over a year now, until that deadline hits and I have to submit a chapter to my critique group—and then I sprint for the finish line until I just barely make it. This is the norm for me. I’m procrastinating—moping—the same way I always do, when my brother knocks on my door.

I spend the next thirty minutes complaining about how I know my story is good but I just can’t seem to get it done.

At which point he asks a critical question—“Why?”

So I tell him I don’t know and he responds that I do know. “Why aren’t you writing?” He asks again.

“I don’t know what to write,” I say.

“Why don’t you know what to write?” He prods.

“Because my characters usually tell me what to write, and I just tell their story. I’m waiting for them to tell me what to say.”

“There’s your problem,” he tells me. “Why are you waiting for your characters to tell you a story when you’re the writer?”

Limiting Beliefs

I’ve had this belief since I was a child, since I first experienced that feeling of flow—where you sit down at your desk and the story just spills onto the page, and into your mind.

I believed that the story was alive, coming from some source outside of myself, and I was the conduit.

When the muse decided to deliver the idea, when the characters decided what direction they wanted to take the story—whether it was in class, in the middle of lunch, or at 3 am—I’d drop what I was doing and run to the nearest sheet of paper and scribble, scribble, scribble for fear that if I wasn’t fast enough the magic would disappear and the story would sputter out.

I didn’t realize how deeply that belief was ingrained in me, and how damaging it might be for me as a writer, until my brother asked me, “Why? Why don’t you know what to write? Why do you think the words come from outside of you? They’re your thoughts. Your words. You write the story. You decide what happens next.”

The Mindset Shift

For the last few days, I’ve been using a new mantra: I write the story. I decide what happens next.

The flow hasn’t always been there, but the words have. When I took ownership of the output, the words started to flow again. I just had to stop waiting for permission from my own imagination.

The Question

If you’re stuck, stop looking at the page and start looking at your “Why.”

• Why aren’t you writing?

• Why are you stuck?

• Why do you believe you need “permission” to start?

Follow that chain of whys. There’s your answer. The blockage isn’t in the story—it’s in the belief.

So, stop waiting. You’re the writer. Decide what happens next.

If you’re an aspiring author, it’s almost guaranteed that you’ve had one of these thoughts:

• “My story feels flat, but I don’t know why.”

• “My scenes work individually, but the middle just… drags.”

• “I know something’s wrong, but I don’t have the words to describe it.”

Nine times out of ten, these aren’t “writer’s block” issues—they’re pacing and structure issues.

You can spend hundreds of dollars on craft books trying to memorize abstract theory. But the truth is, once you start understanding story beats, the mechanics of storytelling become visible, and these problems begin to solve themselves.

What is a Story Beat?

Think of beats as the building blocks of your novel. Technically, a beat is the smallest unit of a narrative that drives the story forward by changing the emotional or plot direction.

A beat isn’t necessarily a chapter. It could be:

• A single, sharp realization in a 500-word scene.

• A massive turning point (like the “Midpoint”) that shifts the entire trajectory of your book.

Whether you’re writing a cozy romance or an epic fantasy, successful stories are almost always built on the same essential beats. And whether you use Save the Cat, The Hero’s Journey, or Romancing the Beat, you’re just choosing a different map for the same destination: a story that keeps the reader turning the page.

The Fear of the Formula

I know tons of pansters that cringe when they hear the dreaded phrase “beat sheet”— me included, once upon a time.

We pantsers tend to enjoy letting our characters tell the story, and letting the muses deliver the plot. This being the case—we can’t stand formula or predictability. We fear that following a beat sheet will block us or dampen our creativity (all valid fears for a pantser).

But it doesn’t have to. A beat sheet is a guide—a suggestion—the yellow brick road that many successful authors have traveled down. The ratios and percentages that chef grandma proved to you would turn out well every time so long as you follow her recipe—only chef grandma likes lamb.

You hate lamb.

But so what?

Chef Grandma taught you the ratios so that you could make the recipe your own.

She knows the exact ratios needed to make a perfect souffle. She’s not a “formulaic” cook—she just understands the chemistry of what makes food rise.

In the same way, story beats are the ratios of storytelling. They tell you how much tension to add and when to let the story breathe. Your characters, your world-building, and your voice are the ingredients. Those are 100% yours. The beats just make sure that your story doesn’t collapse in the middle or turn into a block of overly burnt bricks formerly known as “cake”.

Why “Reverse Engineering” Beats Theory

Steven Pinker once said: “Writers acquire their technique by spotting, savoring, and reverse-engineering examples of good prose.”

Memorizing a craft book is like reading a manual on how to ride a bike. Analyzing a published novel is actually getting on the bike. When you analyze a successful book in your genre, you see exactly how an author handled a “sagging middle” or a “flat climax” in real-time.

The Method: Read, Label, Reflect

To move from an aspiring writer to a craft master, you need to change how you read. Stop reading for fun; start reading like a writer.

1. Read: Pick a scene or a chapter from a book that works.

2. Label: Identify the beat. Is this the “Inciting Incident”? Is this the “All is Lost” moment? Mark it.

3. Reflect: This is the most important step. Ask yourself:

   • Why did the author put this here?

   • What would happen if this beat were removed?

   • How did this beat change the character’s emotional state?

By doing this, you aren’t just following a map—you’re learning how maps are made.

Ready to Build Better Stories?

Understanding beats gives you the diagnostic tools to fix a broken draft and the creative control to write a tighter first one.

Want to see this in action? Join our craft group community. We move past the abstract theory and get into the “reverse-engineering” work together, analyzing popular fiction to see exactly how the pros build stories that land.