Profanity is one of those tools writers either lean on too hard or avoid like it’s radioactive. But swear words aren’t automatically “bad writing” or “edgy writing.” They’re just words and like any other words, they need to earn their place on the page.
If you’re deciding whether to drop an f-bomb (or like in some of my stories, fifty), here’s some guidelines I go by:
Every word should serve character or plot
A useful gut-check: what does this profanity do?
Does it reveal a character’s temperament, background, stress level, or worldview?
Does it intensify a moment that matters to the plot?
Does it sharpen the rhythm of dialogue in a way that fits the scene?
If the answer is “it just sounds cool” or “it makes this feel more adult,” it’s probably filler. Profanity is strongest when it functions as characterization.
Try this: Remove the swear word. If the line loses meaning, tone, or character truth, you may need it. If nothing changes, omit it.
Profanity comes with a real risk of offending some readers
I do think this is less of an issue than it was say fifty years ago, but it is something to keep in mind.The key is to choose intentionally and ask yourself:
Who is my target audience for this story?
What’s the tone I’m going for here (cozy mystery vs. grim thriller, for example)?
Am I okay with losing some readers because of this?
One thing profanity is good at is a quick way to signal genre and voice. It can also break immersion for readers who don’t like it.
Profanity should be true to the character, not the author
The best profanity usually feels inevitable. In other words the character couldn’t have said anything else.
A few examples of true to character uses:
A character swears when they’re scared, cornered, or losing control.
A character uses profanity casually because it’s part of their everyday speech.
A character never swears… until the moment it finally slips, and that tells us something about what is going on.
On the flip side, try to avoid:
A character who suddenly starts cursing because the author wants the scene to feel “more intense.”
Everyone in the cast swears in the same way (same words, same rhythm), which usually makes it feel like it’s the writer’s voice coming out of all of them.
Can you identify who’s speaking if you remove the dialogue tags? If swearing makes the voices blur together, then it’s really not adding anything of value.
Profanity should also be thought of as a natural byproduct of:
real emotion
real conflict
real character choices
If the scene is already powerful, profanity can add some heat, but if the scene isn’t working to begin with, adding profanity won’t fix it.
The one F-word check. I see this in stories a lot more than you would expect; a story has little to no swearing then, out of nowhere, a character drops the F-bomb.
If you use the F word only once in the entire story, ask yourself whether you really need it. There are two reasons I can think of why, as Ralphie would say, the Queen mother of dirty words would only appear once:
It’s true to the situation. Maybe it lands at the exact right emotional peak, and the rarity makes it hit harder. Sure go ahead and keep it it in.
Shock value. If the profanity exists mainly to jolt the reader, it can feel cheap and manipulative. Readers can can tell when the author is yanking at the steering wheel. It reminds me of a creative writing teacher I had who would always talk about the author “Showing their hand.” His point was that only in rare cases is that a good thing.
Before you submit, ask these questions:
Does this word reveal character or move the plot?
Would this character really say it, right here, right now?
Is it doing more than just trying to sound edgy?
Am I okay with the readers I might lose?
If this is my only F word, is it really needed?
If you can answer “yes” to those, you’re using language with intent.
The goal is to write in a way that is true to the characters and true to the story. Remember a great way to to test is by taking out the “bad words” to see how it affects the story. If, after that you still can’t decide… well, sometimes you just have to say “Fuck it.”
D.H.Parish (he/him) is, like Dr. Jekyll, a respectable physician by day who dabbles in darker things by night. He has had short stories presented on multiple horror podcasts, including Creepy, Scare You to Sleep, and Nocturnal Transmissions, and appear in print anthologies and magazines. His first novella, The Bodies, was just published. More information is available at dhparishstories.com.
When I asked D.H. what he loves about his story, this was his response:
First, I enjoy writing stories that invoke or invert Jewish and Christian religious imagery and ideas. Regardless of where one falls on the spectrum of belief or disbelief or nonbelief, the Bible and its associated literature (and I use the term literature here broadly) remain the richest and most enduring motherlode of stories and themes available to mine in Western culture. As I think about it, my story is ultimately going after an explanation of existence in a somewhat similar way to the Magician’s Nephew (the sixth book of the Narnia Chronicles), although my story is much briefer and far less reverent. Second, I love stories that have frame shifts, stories where you think you are comfortably reading one thing only to realize halfway through or at the end you have actually been reading or hearing or watching something quite different, the modern “classic” example being The Sixth Sense. In its laziest form, this is the “it was all a dream” kind of story (although that can sometimes work too). At their best, these are the stories that make you do a double take and immediately reread to find the hints and clues that were hiding in plain sight. Executed well, they give any twist (and any message implied in that twist) that much more impact and staying power. Finally, every superhero needs an origin story.
Tabula Rasa has been [mistakenly] rejected by Ethera, Epic Echoes, Apex, Kinpaurak, Orion’s Belt, Off Season, and Toil and Trouble.
Tabula Rasa by D.H. Parish
He looked out from his hiding place in the closet, a sliver of the room visible through a crack in the warped, ancient wood. He could see the Master hunched at his desk, neither reading nor writing, but lost in thought. For now, he had to wait. What were a few more minutes? Or hours? Or days?
Over the course of years too numerous to count, the Master had taught them from the great books of laws and spells. They had learned every rule. They had acquired proficiency in every endeavor. They could run like gazelles, swim like dolphins, and soar like eagles. They controlled magnificent creatures of immense stature and strength. They tasted whatever came to mind, listened to exquisite celestial symphonies, and witnessed beautiful scenes. All was fair and just and almost perfect.
But they were denied one power. The rest of them didn’t seem to realize it. They would say: “We dwell in the best of all possible worlds, do we not? We know how to control it, how to bend it to our will, to our delight. We have a kind Master who teaches us. What more could we desire?”
Blessed as this world was, it did not satisfy him, although he did not at first quite grasp why. Indeed, had he been asked, he could not have explained his complaint, which began as a fleeting thought that pestered him in quiet moments. But the thought grew, nourished with time, becoming a raging insistence, an all-consuming conviction, that they, that he, were deprived.
Once, when they had gathered in the Master’s study, savoring food and drink of their own conjuring while sharing and singing new songs, he noticed among the Master’s massive dark leather volumes one that bore no lettering on its spine. It seemed newer, untouched. As the others retired after the symposium, he stayed behind.
“Master,” he began, “I see on your shelf one book you have never shared with us. May I ask why?”
The Master looked at him with gentle eyes, “Of course you may ask. But I shall reply that that book is not for you.”
“Then why do you have it, why do you keep it?”
“Because I may need it.”
“May I look at it?”
“You may not. All you need, you already have. There is nothing in that book that will make this a better world for you, for anyone. Nothing.”
He studied the Master’s face, trying without success to interpret this cryptic reply. “Very well. Thank you, Master.” He bowed and took his leave, doing his best to hide his curiosity.
From that moment, however, reading that book became his mission. But how? He could not use a spell to obtain access; the Master would know and thwart him. He could not confide in others; they would not understand, or worse, would betray his confidence in a misguided attempt to “help” him. His only option was to bide his time until he could seize an opportunity to see that book. He dedicated years to this singular endeavor. Day after day, his hunger for the book grew, never sated by all else that was available to him.
Finally, opportunity came. He was strolling the halls when he saw Rafi standing in the Master’s doorway, inviting the Master to a musical performance. The Master heartily agreed, and the two of them departed in haste, such haste that the Master’s door remained ajar. Now was his chance! He pushed the door open, slowly, silently. He approached the shelf and stood before the book, the object of his desire.
Before he could seize it, he heard voices in the hall. Were they coming back? He glanced around, saw his only escape would be to the closet, and dashed in. He heard the Master return and tell Rafi that he would go to the concert when it was truly ready and then sit down again at his desk.
Thus matters stood. He was trapped in a closet, so tantalizingly close to his goal. And then it found him. It slithered over his sandals, a cold, scaly body that coiled itself around his left ankle, winding slowly but inexorably northward. He bit his lip as it circled his thigh and approached his groin. Carefully, deliberately, he reached under his cloak and, in one quick motion, grabbed its neck and yanked. It released its constrictive grip at the unexpected force. He held the serpent up to his face to look at it. The creature bared its fangs and hissed loudly, clearly upset at its unexpected capture.
Through the crack, he saw the Master rise from his chair and turn toward him. The door moved slightly as the Master placed his hand on the brass door handle to the closet. He was caught! Damn that familiar! But then Rafi came bounding in yelling, and the Master left again.
The room empty once more, he emerged from his hiding place. Still gripping the serpent, he hurled it back into the closet and shut the door to trap it. He walked to the shelf and pulled the book down, laying the tome on the Master’s desk. However much he was willing to violate the Master’s rule regarding the book, habits of obedience still kept him from sitting in the Master’s chair, and so he remained standing as he opened it.
Nothing.
It was blank.
He turned the pages. Empty leaf after empty leaf. No words.
Why had this been forbidden? What was the mystery?
Then he smiled, for he understood. A blank book meant creation. Creation meant control. Power! That was the hunger. With this book, he could write the spells, the rules. That was why the Master had hidden it. With it, he could become a master, the Master. Yes. That was now within his power, his destiny. He would make a better world, a world in his image, beholden to his will.
Aware of what lay before him, he allowed himself to sit in the Master’s chair. He opened the book to the first page, picked up the Master’s quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. He raised his hand, a small black droplet perching expectantly on the nib. He hesitated to write. Was this right?
As he paused, a quivering voice called out from the doorway: “Stop!”
He saw the Master standing in the doorway, shivering, quaking. He had never seen the Master afraid.
“Please, dear God,” the Master begged, “don’t do this. You will destroy everything we know and love. You may not mean to, but your action will release untold suffering.”
He was not used to the Master calling him by name, and as he heard the plea, he unconsciously let his hand fall until the quill tip gently kissed the vellum and irrevocably blemished the virgin parchment.
In that instant, the room vanished. He now sat alone in a vast, unending void. Nothing was visible save the open page and that first dark stain. He knew he had to continue writing. But how to start his own world, his own universe? And then he had inspiration:
“In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth…”
This week we have a non-fiction guest post from Y. Len.
Sticking withe the theme of this Blog Y Len’s non-fiction post has been [mistakenly] rejected by CRAFT, Writers Digest and Authors Publish.
On the F***ing Garden Path in Fiction, by Y. Len
To a reader:
Note 1: The word in the title that caught your attention is “Forking” and NOT what you thought;
Note 2: Contrary to what you may be thinking now, this isn’t about Borges’s “The Garden of Forking Paths”;
Note 3: Read on if you consider yourself a contrarian. If garden variety sentences are your cup of tea—fork off onto your own path.
Garden path sentences are a tricky kind of phrase
They lead you to a dead end as you try to parse their ways
They start with words that seem to make a clear and simple sense
But then they twist and turn and leave you hanging in suspense
The rules of writing castigate garden path sentences—what better reason for taking a closer look and perhaps using them to break into the craft?
A garden path effect in writing is achieved by weaving a semantic ambiguity into a sentence. While being read, the sentence leads the reader toward a seemingly familiar meaning that is actually not the one intended. That’s where/how the “forking” happens. When read to the end, the sentence seems ungrammatical or makes no sense and requires rereading so that its true meaning may be fully understood after alternative parsing.
The horticultural label for this linguistic phenomenon hails from an old saying “to be led down (or up) the garden path”, meaning to be deceived, tricked, or seduced. In a century-old “A Dictionary of Modern English Usage” (1926), H.W. Fowler describes such sentences as unwittingly laying a “false scent”.
In late 1970s–1980s, Lyn Frazier and Janet Dean Fodor developed the “Garden Path Model” of sentence processing. It argued that readers use simplest-structure-first heuristics. When those heuristics fail, readers experience the garden path effect. Later research argued that multiple cues (syntax, semantics, context, frequency of usage) all interact.
The old man the boats. The old man… here is first taken as a noun and a verb is expected next. Correct parse:The old [people] man (verb) the boats.This popular example illustrates how word class ambiguity (noun vs. verb) tricks the reader.
The horse raced past the barn fell. The horse raced past the barn… here feels complete. Correct parse:The horse [that was] raced past the barn fell. This, one of the most cited examples in the literature, shows how readers “commit too early” to a sentence structure and must re-analyze.
Fat people eat accumulates. Similar to the above example, intentional missing relative pronoun (that) prompts misanalysis.
Hard to argue the “expert” opinion that garden paths have no place in academic, technical and business writing where clarity rules. In case of fiction in general and certain genres of fiction in particular, the answer may not be as straightforward.
The optimist in me believes that not all readers are content with garden variety sentences. Some may enjoy cracking open verbs and nouns to attribute agency where others wouldn’t expect it, and/or stringing together phrases that tell stories with their structure, as well as with their content. Yes, the complex prose demands a mental effort when constructing the images or navigating the linguistic possibilities that it presents. Yet the payoff of doing so is (i) the immediate satisfaction (“Aha! That writer ain’t no slouch, but I got it anyway!”) AND (ii) an expansion of the boundaries of language and the enrichment of what one can imagine on the page.
Remember your inexplicable affinity for that IKEA piece you put so much time and frustration into putting together after putting so much time and frustration into understanding the accompanying instructions given in tiny font in multiple languages with English seeming only slightly less bewildering than the others? Similar satisfaction may result from reading “some assembly required” prose.
Another off the cuff example would be Hitchcock’s films that make the audience jump to conclusions that are inevitably incorrect. Doesn’t a garden path sentence do the same on a micro level? By momentarily misleading the reader, it can create a sense of mystery and intrigue.
At their core, garden path sentences manipulate the reader’s expectations. They present a surface meaning that sooner or later collapses under grammatical or semantic pressure, demanding rereading and rethinking. This small act of disorientation can be scaled upward: in fiction, a writer might mirror a character’s confusion, instability, or unreliability through similar linguistic detours.
For instance, in a psychological thriller, sentences that shift direction can echo a protagonist’s fractured mental state, forcing the reader to share in their uncertainty.
In my adventure/murder mystery “The Bloodvein River Monster,” the adult character is recovering from mercury poisoning that affected his mental ability.
The five-year-old boy with the runny nose woke thirsty and lay in the dark, listening to silence. No flashing colors, no frightening voices in his head. A clean scent of resin and wood told him where he was and that he was no longer that boy.
He had no idea how long he’d slept, only a vague memory of stumbling through the forest. It was still night. Or already? His body felt weak, but there was no panic. Thoughts drifted, bumping softly one into the other, yet he could hold on to them long enough to finish each before the next arrived. He scooped handfuls of snow into his mouth, the chill numbing his tongue but easing his thirst, and drifted back into sleep.
Next time Ezra woke with the feeling the dream left.
The last sentence of the excerpt carries the drifting, dreamlike atmosphere established earlier even after the character wakes—the garden path phrasing itself is deliberately ambiguous (Ezra woke, feeling that the dream has left or he woke with some unspecified feeling left by the dream?) inviting the reader to share in Ezra’s uncertainty. The psycholinguistic effect of a single short sentence here is comparable to that of the entire first paragraph that achieves the similar result as it starts with the character as the five-year-old boy only to end by denying that very fact.
The garden path technique also offers rhythmical and aesthetic value. “Traditional” prose strives toward clarity, smoothing the reader’s ride over the (often intentionally) bumpy roads our characters take. By contrast, garden path structures may introduce hesitation and slower reading, break immersion and compel attention to the mechanics of language itself.
The last but not least, garden path sentences can serve as thematic devices. Stories about deception, shifting identities, or supernatural interference gain resonance when their very sentences enact misdirection. The language performs the subject matter: just as a character may be fooled, so too is the reader. In this sense, garden paths may become not just ornamental puzzles but enactments of the story’s underlying concerns.
Of course, as with almost everything in life, restraint is essential. Overuse your rake in your writing and you’ll risk reader’s frustration, turning prose into a riddle rather than a narrative. But strategically placed—like a topspin serve à la Pete Sampras in your otherwise bland pickleball game—a garden path sentence or two of them can create surprise, deepen psychological realism, and remind readers that language itself is a valuable writer’s tool.
Have fun in the garden!
Garden path sentences are fun to read and write
They challenge your grammar and the depth of your insight
They show you how the English language can be full of tricks
And how a single word can change the meaning in a flick
Even Death Must Die comes to us from Miguel Angel Lopez Muñoz. Miguel was born and lives in Madrid, Spain. He has a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics with a Master’s degree in Quantum Cryptography. He writes fantasy, science fiction and horror and has won awards like the UPC of science fiction Award (in 2006 and again in 2024), and published books related to those three genres. He has been published in Bag of Bones, where he won the “206 Word Story” call, Microverses and Coffin Bell. He is a big fan of video games, transformers and board games, and you can follow his posts on these three topics on his Instagram @magnus_dagon
Miguel’s wonderful story has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Analog, Andrómeda Spaceways, and Ápex Magazine
When asked what he loves about this story, this was his response:
What I like most about this story is that it deals with a subject I don’t often talk about, which is religion. But it deals with it from a point of view that I really like, which is mythology (mythological stories, especially Greek ones, are among those with which I have won the most literary competitions).
I also really like the story from a narrative point of view, as there isn’t much dialogue but somehow the plot isn’t overloaded with descriptions, and also from a visual point of view, with veiled suggestions that focus on the aesthetic tone of the Great Temple and its hard-working builders.
Even Death Must Die by Miguel Angel Lopez
On rainy days, when it was my turn to descend from the tower, I saw the black clouds full of pollution. These same clouds, thick and dark like a great sea, yet dense and soft as velvet, forced us to ascend higher, banishing us from the promised land and made us gods to them — although I doubt the heavens would have wanted someone like me.
I secured my suit and checked the air cylinder, preparing for the exit to the outside as the glassed-in elevator reached the lowest level. As a precautionary measure, so that my appearance would not be observed from below, the exit at the base of the tower was slightly electrified to clear the area of curious androids. In my opinion, although at the time such a custom may have been of some use, by then they were no longer looking for me, but merely awaiting my arrival. That is understandable. We don’t go looking for her either; we just wait for her to arrive when the time is right. Human culture has represented her sometimes as a faithful friend, sometimes as an executioner of souls; but always as someone we want to have far away.
According to the reports I had received from the tower technicians, the android I was supposed to bring back had been split in two by one of the mechanical saws in charge of shaping the rocky terrain. In the middle of the downpour I arrived at the factory area, the robots making way for me, looking at me with devotion or fear. But for the first time since I had that macabre function I noticed that some robots were looking at me with a defiant attitude, a brave gesture considering that in the mystical terrain, I was a personification of the end of all living beings, and in the physical terrain, I was twice as tall as any of them.
I arrived at the place where the disabled robot was and there I found, as it always used to happen, the protective android. It was a robot like the others, but equipped with accessories whose only purpose was to imitate, in a misunderstood way, the accessories of my artificial breathing suit. It looked at me and pointed to what I was looking for.
“Hello, B33MH,” I said, without any tone in my voice.
“Welcome, deity Ben,” the android replied solemnly. “We knew you would come.”
The first time I introduced myself to the androids and told them my name, they decided to anticipate it with the deity treatment. At first I tried to force them to simply call me by my name, but to no avail. To them my name was something as imperishable as space or time.
“What happened?” I asked calmly.
“It was an accident, my lord. It got too close to the saw.”
“I want the androids who handle saws to stay farther away from them. There’s no need to take such risks.”
“But sir, that way it will take longer to complete the Great Temple of the deities.”
“The Great Temple can wait, B33MH. Your safety is more important to me now.”
“So it shall be done, my lord.”
I pulled out a tractor beam and put all the pieces of the fallen robot together then placed it in a box of darkness, a handy collapsible container that for robots must have been little less than a coffin. I carried it in both hands with as much respect as I could muster for my actions. B33MH looked at me, fulfilling the function its kind had bestowed upon it, to be a living witness to my actions, and asked me, as it always did, to accompany me back to my kingdom.
“When it is your time, you will come with me. But first you must not,” I said simply, hoping to settle a matter that was not open to discussion.
“What will become of our companion, deity Ben? Will it, like the others, have access to your kingdom?”
“They all have,” I replied. “You can stop worrying about it. It is at peace with itself and everyone else now.”
“You’re lying!” said another of the androids behind me. Despite my surprise, none of the androids noticed the slightest hesitation on my part. The suit, which they considered part of my own organism, helped.
“Why do you say that, C22RD?” I asked, trying to appear as calm as possible.
“I don’t believe you are a deity. You may be powerful, but you are something else. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
I kept quiet. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I had to give them the opposite. I had to make it seem that my motivations were impossible for their perishable metallic bodies to conceive.
In response to the silence, C22RD spoke again.
“I will prove to everyone that you are a plastic god.”
I turned and walked away, oblivious to its comments, as if I could not hear them. Although I didn’t turn around at any point I know that all the robots were waiting for a reaction that would clarify how I felt about those direct attacks. Instead, I gave them uncertainty. It was the only thing I could give them, for it was the only thing I harbored at that moment.
#
Now, remembering that day, I know that many things had to happen to get to that point. At the beginning I was a mere observer, just another technician with the only incentive of maintaining direct contact with the androids. It was a poorly paid job and not without its dangers; I would arrive in my suit, take the defective models with me when they stopped working, check a couple of systems to verify programming guidelines, and supervise the progress of the domes that would one day house us. But little by little they began to invest more in such construction, as humanity as a whole began to believe hopefully that this would be the solution, that truly someday the metal slaves would complete a cupular world isolated from the toxic emanations of the clouds. The Great Temple, as they now call it. Paradise on Earth. It is the only one of their biblical expressions that I do not consider exaggerated. Not that the towers were bad to live in, but home, no matter how many generations pass, is still home. It is written as one more mark on our genetic will until there is no way to overlook it.
It was around those days that I began to think of androids as more than just machines and they began to think of me as something… metahuman. It was always ensured that they didn’t know the truth of their existence, that they would simply work in exchange for having watchmen looking out for their safety. It was never really slavery. It took me a while to realize it, but our situation was very similar to that of the gods in ancient times. They worked convinced that in a way they were honoring unquestionable beings. We were giving them resources, technological help and renewing their population, for them this was greatest gift that we could ever bestow. The only difference with the Greek or Egyptian gods was that we humans did exist and were actually trying to protect them.
Without missing a beat, the robots were working out answers to questions we did not at first imagine they could ask.
When the extent of their perception became clear, our superiors decided to specialize us so that they would have a whole legion of creatures and symbols to worship. Thus, from the point of view of the androids, the deity John was in charge of bringing new life among the robots, the opposite of my function; the deity Robin was in charge of the proper functioning of the lesser machines and the deity Carl was in charge of quelling revolts. The relationships we might have with each other and our working style formed a whole complex mythological imaginary for the robots. Thus, for example, for them living and dying were twin processes that for a time were simultaneously hosted by both deities until they decided to arrive on their own to attend to their personal affairs among the non-eternals. Something so complex to explain that my turn and John’s simply ceased to coincide.
At first we were given instructions and courses so as not to disrupt the pantomime they had so carefully worked out for themselves. In my particular case I was advised to provoke in them the same panic of death that most humans experience. They showed me a multitude of allegorical images, and made hundreds of suggestions about how I should express myself and move in front of them. But I didn’t want or intend to be a clear-cut symbolic thing, I didn’t want to be the quivering thought of those wretched metal entities. For God’s sake, I was an engineer, not Machiavelli or Milton. I believed in knowledge, not in turning the headboard upside down to ward off evil spirits. So I ignored all ethical and aesthetic advice and stuck to my own script. No ankh, no scythe, no huge wings full of eyes. If they must live in the shadows, I thought, I’ll make those shadows a little more pleasant place.
Sometimes I wish that beings more intelligent than me would burst into my life and, by means of complicated artifices and subtle orchestrations, would suddenly restore the beliefs I had lost so long ago. That an angel would come from the heavens and tell us all, yes, there is life after death, neither emptiness nor nothingness awaits you. That he would disprove all my suspicions. That is what I tried to give to the androids. The hope of continuity against all logic of nature. If in doing so I was right, they would thank me after all; if I was wrong, then they would never feel cheated because wherever they were they would feel no joy, no sadness, no hate, no pain, no nothing. The truth is that it often torments me to think that they might have a chance and we might not. That those who are no longer operative look at me from somewhere we fail to understand and pity me, their false crystal idol, full of doubts and uncertainties, then accuse me, with pointed finger, of behaving as a giver of something that I am not even capable of receiving.
Not all the idolized technicians shared my point of view, of course. It’s amazing how much misery man is capable of when given the opportunity. Carl Tinerch, the man in charge of quelling riots, enjoyed his task with psychopathic pleasure. He must have been the kind of kid who chased cats on tower roofs with neural lasers. Although the other technicians despised him, they did not feel the same animosity toward him as I did, partly because their job was not to palliate his excesses or to restore the delicate balance between good and evil in the robot pantheon. One fine day I decided to send the balance to hell and descended before my turn with the healthy intention of giving Tinerch a little thrashing in front of the robots, a fight that they added to their list of mythical events, with the sole intention of stopping his cruel slaughter. I made all the robots present promise that there would never be a similar revolt.
The superiors reprimanded me and reduced my salary, arguing that I might have broken Tinerch’s suit, which is otherwise absolutely true. However, I was not dismissed from my position. They knew I was important down there, and that was not to be changed. The riots, however, soon broke out again. Many robot sympathizers defended their position by saying that there was no society down there. I agree with them on that; the problem is that they thought that had been the intention at some point in the experiment, a kind of peaceful coexistence between creators and creations. I was quickly disillusioned. Anyway, I prefer to see robots as individuals rather than as a mass. Their collective destiny is beyond my capabilities even if I pretended otherwise.
But that day, at that moment, with the box of darkness in my hands and returning until I was lost in the heights that no android would ever know, I knew that something else was going to happen. I had the same cold feeling as when I went down to hit Tinerch, only that I was no longer the trigger of the events. And sure enough, something happened. C22RD made good on its threats, but not in the way I would have expected.
#
I had just arrived on the observation floor from my own home. I hadn’t even had time to eat, so I was about to grab the first piece of crap I could find in the vending machines. I was already heading for the one in the hallway with the idea that everything it would have would be out of date when John Redfer signaled me to come in.
“What’s wrong, Johnny?” I said, not hiding my concern. John would never have bothered me off shift unless it was for something serious.
“We haven’t received a signal from C22RD since yesterday, and the cameras can’t find it. The last we heard, it was headed for the Grand Temple base.”
Sometimes among ourselves we used the same religious jargon that the androids themselves, mostly for practical reasons. I walked over to the monitors and made a mental note of the coordinates of the area.
“I’m going down,” I said as I approached the closet and put on my suit. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Do you want me to come down with you?”
“Thank you, John, but I think you’d better not. I’m afraid we’re facing a crisis of ideals. I’ve got to solve this one on my own.”
“What do I do if Tinerch comes? This looks like his business.”
“Give him my regards,” I replied, leaving the air cylinder in hand.
When I reached the edge of the dome, which was already at an advanced stage, I noticed that all the robots were looking at me impatiently. It didn’t take me long to see why. There, where the cameras could not reach because it was normal for new tunnels to be opened every day, was the body of C22RD, motionless and guarded by two other androids. I bent down to get through the tunnel and take it away, but they blocked my way.
“It was right. You didn’t get there to take it because you wouldn’t be able to find it in time. Its sacrifice was not in vain.”
I came out of the tunnel to return to the ditch again and met the protective android. It looked frightened.
“My lord, you were late in coming.”
“I came as soon as I could, B33MH. As you well know, there are many things I have to take care of.”
“But this poor wretch, my lord… will no longer receive rest in your kingdom, for several cycles have passed since your last arrival.”
“It’ll be able to rest like the others, you don’t have to worry about it.”
Suddenly an android hit me with a stone and broke a tube of the suit. Fortunately it was not serious, but B33MH did not interpret it that way. It activated the tunneling machines and buried the android. I was witnessing the first display of artificial violent fanaticism in history, as well as the first robot suicide. I was really going to have a lot of explaining to do when I got to the surface.
If I made it, that is.
Several more androids stoned me until one of them finally hit a carbon dioxide processing tube. The malfunction was not total, but I had to get back to the tower as soon as possible or I would die without remedy as soon as I was exposed to the noxious gases. I grabbed as best I could both the body of the buried android and the body of C22RD and took them away without even having time to use darkness boxes. Some robots began to chase me, and although their stones hardly hurt me, they would soon end up breaking another tube and write a black chapter in their particular myths. After a while, however, Tinerch appeared in his armored suit. Despite hating him and his methods, I was glad of his presence. He merely put a smokescreen between them and us to slow them down, because to the robots, the smoke from the Carl deity carried evil effects on the circuits. I guess he didn’t attack them because he knew that under no circumstances would I be sent to ground level again right after the incident and then it would be his turn to pick up the robots he slaughtered. I was always curious how the androids would have interpreted that.
My superiors decided that for a couple of days it would be wise for me not to go back down, with John taking over my job. The two days became a week and the week became a month. Finally I was announced that I could no longer go down again. There were enough robots who didn’t believe in me to make my descents dangerous, but I should train my replacements to learn how to do my job in every way imaginable.
It didn’t work out. None of the substitutes were admitted by the robot community, thinking of them as heretics, as impostors. Part of the fault was that the new ones always tried to be very theatrical, very lyrical, so as to instill awe in them and hold them in check. The experience, at least, helped me to understand that when you want to gain the respect of someone, whether human or robot, you can do it from the path of equality or from the path of superiority, but the second path will never make you truly respected. Feared, adored. But not really respected.
I seem to remember that after I was relieved of my position I was angry with the androids for having spurned the opportunity I had given them to reconcile their fears of dying. I suppose it is true that it was a beautiful gift, but it is also true that they never asked me for it. Perhaps I should have let them learn for themselves, freed them from that vicious circle that had formed around them, secretly lectured them on how terrible life really was, that they were less than nothing, the offspring of an imperfect culture and race that did not know for itself its own end. That we were not giving them the chance to exist but that it was precisely the opposite. That if there were gods it should be them.
One fine day, thirty years later, I decided to ask for permission to descend again. I knew I would have no problem in getting approval, and I was curious to see with my own eyes the evolution of the Great Temple, now almost completed. It was fortunate that this happened, because all the technicians were already quite old, and if it was impossible to replace me at the time, it would be even more impossible to do it with all of them at the same time.
When I descended I noticed how there was a lot of commotion everywhere. Most of the androids did not have to work too hard because of the little that remained to be done, a fact that they had interpreted as the advent of the new order. My arrival only compounded that feeling. That the deity Ben was descending from the heavens again after thirty years was for them an indication that we were very satisfied.
I wanted to tell them that the reality was that as soon as the dome was finished hundreds of men in armored suits, hundreds of Carl deities, would descend to disconnect them all, by hook or by crook, and melt them down to become part of the Great Temple structure, but I refused to do so. I’m sure they would have managed to concoct some sort of pseudo-Buddhist narrative to justify such an action. A nirvana to which to throw their last prayers.
The people upstairs had asked me to check that the air levels were correct as I was going down, so I went into the huge, diaphanous dome and took out the measuring instruments. When I had finished, I noticed an old android approaching me, barely able to move, but still able to operate certain devices such as hydraulic cranes. It was B33MH.
“My lord, you have returned. I have waited so long…”
At that moment I was sure that, if robots could cry, it would have done so.
“I have returned, yes. But I must tell you — it is not for long.”
“Why did you leave us? Some of us were still faithful to you.”
“I ceased to be necessary, B33MH. Even we must retire when the time comes. Come closer.”
The android came as fast as it could until it was in front of me. Then I removed the helmet from my suit very slowly. For the robot that must have been a mystical experience like no other.
“I just want you to know that, believe it or not, deep down we are just like you. We have fears. We doubt our final destiny. I know you will never say it, that’s why I share it with you.”
“Is that true, my lord?”
I put the helmet on the ground, so that it would be clear that it was not part of myself.
“Even Death must die,” I said, my aged face uncovered.
I have been lucky enough to land a story at Factor Four Magazine (Issue 52, November of 2025). Factor Four has a decent acceptance rate and pays pro rates. The only quirk I experienced was that I didn’t get a notification of when the story was to go live. Once I received payment, I just keep checking back every couple days to see if the story was on their site. This is not completely uncommon in short fiction markets, so I wanted to mention it for any budding writers out there who haven’t experienced that yet.
Please check out my story, We don’t like to use that term, when you have a chance. It is a quick 700 word read and, I think, a fun one.
It’s important to think about what a reader is really looking for when they search for a book or look for the next short story to read. Their need is the demand that we are looking to supply. If we can align with that in what we write, our stories will always find a home.
Here are a few things I came up with. See if you agree:
1. Surprise: The Unexpected and the Inevitable
David Mamet, the legendary playwright, once said that a great story is “unexpected and inevitable.” That seeming contradiction captures something essential about storytelling. We want to be surprised but in a way that makes perfect sense once it happens. Not random or gimmicky but with a twist that feels like the only possible outcome.
Think of the best stories you’ve read or watched. There’s a moment when the truth snaps into place like a puzzle piece. You didn’t see it coming but you should have. That’s the sweet spot. The Sixth Sense is one that comes to mind for me that did that very well.
Readers crave that moment, not just for the thrill, but because it affirms meaning. Surprise, when done right, is more than a twist. It’s a revelation.
2. Exploration: The Deep Human Need to Discover
We are all explorers. We read to venture into the unfamiliar: new worlds, new minds, new truths about ourselves. That’s why genres like sci-fi and fantasy endure but also why, to Matt Walter’s point in a previous post, that story is an important in nonfiction as well. All generas and types are vehicles for exploration.
3. It Has to Be Interesting
Years ago, a blogger said something that stuck with me: “The only rule to writing is that it has to be interesting.” That has stayed with me and always rung true through the years.
You can break every convention, tense, point of view, structure, grammar, and still succeed, if your writing is interesting. But “interesting” doesn’t just mean flashy or weird. It means engaging and alive. It means giving the reader something to care about and to feel.
Always remember the readers don’t owe us their time; we have to earn it, word by word.
If we can give a reader surprise, exploration and something that is interesting, we will earn that time and it will also be something editors will want to publish.
Let me know in the comments below what you think readers want.
You’ve written a story. You’ve poured your heart into it. You’ve rewritten sentences, perfected metaphors, and shaped characters you care deeply about. You’re sure it’s good, hell, maybe it’s even great. Yeah, the big names will want this one. It’s probably worthy of The Atlantic or the New Yorker. This could even be the one that finally nails the Pushcart Prize.
Then the wind goes out of your sails when the first person to read your masterpiece points out how you spelled the name of your main character differently in two places in the opening paragraph. How could you have missed that? You must have read through the story a hundred times with all the rewrites. It’s embarrassing and aggravating.
And it’s one of the most fundamental truths in writing: it’s incredibly hard for us to see the flaws in our own work. Here’s why:
We’re Too Close to the Story
Writers live inside the world they’ve created. We know every motivation, backstory, and all the subplots. The backstory that isn’t on the page lives in our heads “rent free” as the kids say. We mentally fill in all of the things we know about the story as we read through it. Your brain fills in the gaps, smoothing over inconsistencies and connecting dots that were never actually drawn and not clear to other readers.
We’re Emotionally Invested
We writers form emotional bonds with our characters and often fall in love with select scenes and phrases. This emotional attachment can make us blind to, or cause us to push back against, needed changes. Cutting scenes and characters, also known as “Killing our darlings” as the saying goes, feels like a loss to us even though it usually makes a story stronger.
Sometimes we don’t really know the Story We’re Telling
We often begin writing with an idea but no clear theme. Or we have a theme but it gets lost in the logistics of plot development. The result is a story that meanders or contradicts itself. I also tend to see a lot of what I call “lopsided stories” where way too many words are spent on things that do not advance the plot or develop the character.
Hard Work Doesn’t Make It Good
We sometimes confuse “I worked hard on this” with “This is the best it can be.” But hard work doesn’t guarantee a polished end result. Rewriting, re-envisioning, and sometimes throwing everything out and rethinking it from the ground up, often lead to better storytelling.
Our Brains Want to Be Done
Writing is hard. Getting through that first draft is a triumph. So when we type “The End,” part of our brain wants it to be done. The desire to move on and submit makes us less critical of our work. We stop interrogating where the story doesn’t work.
So What Can You Do?
Time: Step away from your draft. A few weeks or even months can give you enough distance to see it with fresh eyes. Sometimes when I go through my “false starts” that I haven’t touched in years, I am surprised at what I see. It often feels like someone else wrote the words I am seeing. (and I mean that in both in a good and bad way). This is the ideal kind of distance you want from your work, where you have forgotten about the story entirely and are coming at it completely fresh. Unfortunately that isn’t always practical.
Read your work out loud: A more immediate solution is reading your story out loud. In Steve Martin’s Masterclass he talked about how he reads his work to his cat. I will even record myself reading a story so I can play it back later and really listen. Hearing your story often reveals awkward pacing, unclear dialogue, or tonal shifts you might miss otherwise.
Re-outline: After the first draft, take the time to outline what you actually wrote. It often differs from your plan and can reveal plot holes. One trick I have learned, especially if if I have “pantsered” a story is to force chapter breaks and title those breaks in the story as though they were chapter headings. I do this even though I am mainly writing short stories, which don’t usually have chapter titles. It really helps me to see the plot progression and where I have sections that repeat information previously covered. It also really helps me to see where I can cut.
Get feedback from others: Other people have a fresh set of eyes and the advantage of knowing nothing about the story. No preconceived notions, no biases (other than these people are likely your friends so they might be softer on you than you need). Issues we tend to read past will stand out to them like a neon sign.
Recognizing that we have literary blind spots is the first step toward better writing. Every great story was once a messy draft, written by someone who couldn’t see the flaws, until they eventually found a way to work through them, often by giving a story time and/or getting feedback from others.
We often talk about the craft of writing as if the words on the page are the story. But that’s not quite true.
What you write isn’t the story, it’s the framework used to trigger an imaginative experience inside the reader’s mind. The real story happens inside the reader’s head.
Every reader brings their own experiences, biases, memories, and emotional context to your work. When two different people read the same story, they don’t actually experience the same story. One reader might see a character’s silence as deep introspection, another might read it as passive aggression. A setting described as “dusty and quiet” might evoke peaceful nostalgia for one reader and tension or dread for another.
It’s one of the challenges of storytelling. You have to structure what you write so that your readers fill in the blanks with their own intelligence and intuition in the way that provides the experience and emotion you intend.
This is where reading is very different from going to see a movie. When watching a movie, all of the images and sounds are pushed to us, predefined with little room for our own creative interpretation. Because of this, the story inside the head of every member of the audience will be very similar.
When reading, a story only happens when a reader engages with your words and transforms them into sights, sounds, feelings, and meaning.
I subscribe to the theory that most of what we are trying to do when we tell a story is get people to feel. Emotion is what makes people care about what happens to the characters in the story and that keeps the pages turning.
I also like to think of it in terms of writing to create an experience.
Be intentional, but not controlling. You can guide the experience, but you shouldn’t dictate every detail. The reader is your collaborator.
Embrace slight ambiguity. Sometimes, the most powerful moments are the ones left just a little open-ended, allowing the reader to land on their own truth. Be careful here, clarity is still king, don’t omit too much and leave the reader confused. Confusion makes the reader put down the story and walk away.
Revise with the reader’s interpretation in mind. Ask yourself: Will this paragraph spark the right images and emotions? Or am I over-explaining and closing down possibilities for the reader to work with my words to make the story their own?
A story only lives when someone interprets in within the context of themselves.
You will write a lot of words that never, ever get read.
I often wonder how much content writers like Stephen King have that will never see the light of day. We tend to measure how prolific a writer is by what makes it to print, but how many drafts and failed attempts are sitting back there in his creepy Victorian home that will never make it to print? I can only imagine it is double or three times what he has had published, probably even a lot more.
Chances are the vast majority of your words will go unread by anyone other than yourself. Even if you do manage to get published, the number of eyeballs parsing your prose is likely far fewer than you think.
I recall hearing the majority of traditionally published books sell between 200 and 2,000 copies over their entire lifetime and self-published books often fare even worse, with many selling fewer than 100 copies total.
Those numbers might make you want to stop. Why write if no one is going to read it? Why struggle with plot, voice, pacing, or character arcs when no one will see it?
We say we write for others, but we actually write for ourselves.
It’s like working out. The final physique might be for the world. But the daily discipline of exercise is ours alone. The early mornings, the sore muscles, the days when you show up just to keep the streak alive, few see that (nor do we want them to) yet it is essential.
Writing is the same. Every word you write teaches you something. Every awkward paragraph, every overwrought metaphor, every false start are all part of the mental muscle-building.
Those words we throw out are the reps needed to get to the words we keep.
I’m not an expert on how to get there. Honestly, I’m probably a better example of what not to do. This very Blog is a great example. As of this writing, there is not a lot of daily traffic. I can blame it on the SEO algorithm, but it’s probably comes down to me not be writing what people want to read.
But still, I write. Ignoring the stats and pushing through because, while I hope people find value in what I have to say, the truth is these words are mostly for me.
If you’re a writer who feels unseen, just know that you’re not alone. Even if your words don’t find a large audience, they still matter. Words that are thrown away are essential. They are needed to get to the words we keep; the ones that end up being foundational elements for the strange and beautiful craft of turning thoughts into language and language into story.
So keep writing the words that don’t get read until you get to the ones that do.
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
With just one sentence, we’re already leaning in. The stakes are clear; there’s a relationship on the line. We don’t know the details yet, but we already care.
This is the power of starting with stakes.
When readers pick up a story, they’re subconsciously asking, “Why should I care?”
That doesn’t mean you need a car chase on page one. It means the story must immediately communicate that something is at risk, and that it matters deeply to someone. Stakes create tension.
Early Conflict = Early Investment
Going back to our opening line:
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
From this, we immediately understand:
There’s a broken relationship.
There’s urgency: a last chance.
There’s emotional weight: he wants to “make things right.”
We don’t know what Andy did and we don’t know if Cindy will forgive him, but we already want to see what happens.
The Mistake to Avoid
Too many stories start with background instead of conflict. A little background is fine. It helps to orient us as to what is going on and color in tone and setting. But often times I see stories where the author goes on for pages describing the setting or a scene before for we get to anything that matters to the character. The quicker you can get to the core conflict or stakes, the better.
Try This Exercise
Take the first paragraph of any story you are currently working on. Ask yourself:
What’s at risk here?
Does the character know it?
Will the reader care?
If the answer to any of those is “not yet,” consider revising to make sure these questions are answered.
Stakes are a promise to the reader
Keep in mind that starting with stakes is a promise to the reader. When we mention Andy’s situation in the opening line in the way we did, we are committing to our reader that by the end of the story there will be answers as to how Andy got into that situation and what the outcome will be for him.
Stakes make us care what happens and that keeps us reading.
Breaking Into The Craft 