Often, Men Will Say Something Like : "Who Built This World? Men! Who Created Everything, All The Technology,

Write Tension that isn't just Yelling or Guns

Listen, not all tension is someone holding a knife or screaming “I’ve had enough, Derek!” at a dinner party. Real, edge-of-your-seat tension can be quiet, slow, awkward, and still make your reader grip the page like it owes them money. So here are my favorite ways to sneak tension in like a gremlin under the bed...

╰  Unanswered Questions (That the Character is Actively Avoiding)

Tension isn’t always about what’s said—it’s about what’s not said. Let your character dodge questions, interrupt, change subjects. Let readers feel the silence humming between the lines. + Great for: secrets, internal conflict, emotional gut-punches.

╰ Time Pressure Without Action Pressure

A clock ticking doesn’t always mean bombs. Sometimes it means waiting for a test result. A letter. A phone call. A knock on the door. Tension = knowing something’s coming but not knowing when. + Great for: psychological suspense, horror, relationship drama.

╰  Small Talk That’s Not Really Small Talk

When two characters are talking about the weather, but both are secretly screaming inside? That’s tension. Give one character a goal (say the thing, don’t say the thing) and the other a defense mechanism. Now sit back and watch the discomfort bloom. + Great for: slow burns, rivalries, “we’re not talking about that night, are we?”

╰ Two Characters Who Want Opposite Things But Are Pretending They Don’t

Someone wants to leave. Someone wants them to stay. Someone wants to confess. Someone is acting like nothing’s wrong. Make your characters polite when they want to scream. + Great for: emotionally repressed chaos, family drama, enemies-to-lovers.

╰ One Character Realizes Something The Other Doesn’t

A power shift = instant tension. One person knows the truth. The other’s still talking like everything’s fine. Let that dread slow-cook. Readers love being in on the secret. + Great for: betrayal, secrets, foreshadowing plot twists.

╰ Body Language That Contradicts the Dialogue

They say “I’m fine,” but they’re picking their thumbnail raw. They laugh too hard. Their smile doesn’t reach their eyes. Show the cracks forming. Let the reader sense the dissonance. + Great for: all genres. Especially emotionally loaded scenes.

╰  Echoed Phrases or Reused Words That Hit Differently the Second Time

When a character repeats something someone else said—but now it’s laced with bitterness or grief? Chills. Callback dialogue is your best friend for building subtle dread or emotional weight. + Great for: heartbreak scenes, arcs coming full circle, psychological unraveling.

╰ Characters Performing a Role to Keep the Peace

Pretending to be “the good sibling.” Faking confidence in a boardroom. Playing therapist when they’re not okay themselves. Tension thrives when someone’s holding it together with duct tape and fake smiles. + Great for: internal conflict, layered characterization, slow unravelings.

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𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯

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I hate the “Thoreau’s mom did his laundry” criticism so much, it drives me crazy.

Henry Thoreau did not go to Walden Pond because he thought it would be a fun adventure. He went into the woods because he was deeply depressed and burnt out. He was running from the horror of his brother and best friend recently dying in his arms, and the haunting memory of causing the Fairhaven Bay fire. His friend Ellery Channing literally gave him the ultimatum of either taking some time off to write and think, or else be institutionalized.

I think Thoreau’s mother saw her depressed son choosing to retreat into a small cabin in the woods, and was worried about him. Of course she did his laundry - just as Ralph Waldo Emerson probably brought him firewood and bread. These were not chores of obligation to support a “great” man, but services of love to help their deeply depressed 28yo son and friend.

And if you ask me, there’s a lesson in that - to “suck out the marrow of life” and “live deliberately,” one must also accept help offered from the people in your life who love you. There is no true transcendentalism or individualism without love and friendship behind it.

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How to Write Better Villains (Because Your Story Deserves One)

There’s nothing worse than a forgettable villain. You know the type: cartoonishly evil for no reason, monologuing their master plan to no one in particular, and vanishing from memory the second you finish the book. A great villain, though? They haunt your thoughts, challenge your hero, and—sometimes—you catch yourself *agreeing with them*. If you want to level up your storytelling, here’s how to craft villains that stick.

1. Give them a reason to be bad (and make it make sense)

Nobody wakes up one day and just decides to be evil (unless they’re in a Saturday morning cartoon). Real people are shaped by their pasts, fears, and desires—and your villains should be, too. Maybe they believe they’re saving the world, just in a way that costs too much. Maybe they were betrayed and now trust no one. Whatever the case, give them a *why*. Even better? Make your readers *understand* that why, even if they don’t agree with it.

2. Avoid the evil-for-evil’s-sake trope  

Mustache twirling is out. Complexity is in. A villain who kicks puppies just to prove they’re the bad guy is boring. But a villain who feeds stray dogs while orchestrating a political coup? *That’s* compelling. The best antagonists aren’t evil—they’re driven. And when their goals put them in direct conflict with the hero, *that’s* where the tension comes from. Let them think they’re the hero of their own story.

3. Let your villain challenge the protagonist in meaningful ways  

Your villain shouldn’t just be a physical threat—they should challenge your hero’s beliefs, force them to make hard choices, and maybe even make them question themselves. When the antagonist represents a deeper, thematic opposite to the protagonist, you’ve got literary gold. Think of how The Joker unravels Batman’s moral code, or how Killmonger forces T’Challa to reconsider Wakanda’s isolationism. Conflict isn’t just punches—it’s philosophy.

4. Make them unforgettable

Whether it’s a chilling line of dialogue, an eerie calmness, or a twisted sense of humor, give your villain something *distinct*. Personality matters. A unique voice, a specific mannerism, or an unexpected vulnerability can elevate your villain from “meh” to “iconic.” Think about what makes them tick—and what makes them *memorable*.

5. Don’t be afraid to make them right

The scariest villains are the ones who are *almost* right. When a reader can see where they’re coming from—or even agree with some of their points—that’s powerful. It creates tension not just in the story, but in the reader’s own mind. And that’s exactly what a good villain should do: make you question, make you uncomfortable, and make the story impossible to forget.

What are some of your favorite villains in fiction? Drop your favs (or your own villain WIPs) in the tags or replies—I’d love to see them!

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𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔠𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔢 + 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 + 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔞𝔦𝔯

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a list of 100+ buildings to put in your fantasy town

academy

adventurer's guild

alchemist

apiary

apothecary

aquarium

armory

art gallery

bakery

bank

barber

barracks

bathhouse

blacksmith

boathouse

book store

bookbinder

botanical garden

brothel

butcher

carpenter

cartographer

casino

castle

cobbler

coffee shop

council chamber

court house

crypt for the noble family

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

kindergarten

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawnshop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

sheriff's office

shrine

silversmith

spa

speakeasy

spice merchant

sports stadium

stables

street market

tailor

tannery

tavern

tax collector

tea house

temple

textile shop

theatre

thieves guild

thrift store

tinker's workshop

town crier post

town square

townhall

toy store

trinket shop

warehouse

watchtower

water mill

weaver

well

windmill

wishing well

wizard tower

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𝔦𝔱’𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔡

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"women didn't invent anything"

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In the past fifty years, fantasy’s greatest sin might be its creation of a bland, invariant, faux-Medieval European backdrop. The problem isn’t that every fantasy novel is set in the same place: pick a given book, and it probably deviates somehow. The problem is that the texture of this place gets everywhere.

What’s texture, specifically? Exactly what Elliot says: material culture. Social space. The textiles people use, the jobs they perform, the crops they harvest, the seasons they expect, even the way they construct their names. Fantasy writing doesn’t usually care much about these details, because it doesn’t usually care much about the little people – laborers, full-time mothers, sharecroppers, so on. (The last two books of Earthsea represent LeGuin’s remarkable attack on this tendency in her own writing.) So the fantasy writer defaults – fills in the tough details with the easiest available solution, and moves back to the world-saving, vengeance-seeking, intrigue-knotting narrative. Availability heuristics kick in, and we get another world of feudal serfs hunting deer and eating grains, of Western name constructions and Western social assumptions. (Husband and wife is not the universal historical norm for family structure, for instance.)

Defaulting is the root of a great many evils. Defaulting happens when we don’t think too much about something we write – a character description, a gender dynamic, a textile on display, the weave of the rug. Absent much thought, automaticity, the brain’s subsconscious autopilot, invokes the easiest available prototype – in the case of a gender dynamic, dad will read the paper, and mom will cut the protagonist’s hair. Or, in the case of worldbuilding, we default to the bland fantasy backdrop we know, and thereby reinforce it. It’s not done out of malice, but it’s still done.

The only way to fight this is by thinking about the little stuff. So: I was quite wrong. You do need to worldbuild pretty hard. Worldbuild against the grain, and worldbuild to challenge. Think about the little stuff. You don’t need to position every rain shadow and align every tectonic plate before you start your short story. But you do need to build a base of historical information that disrupts and overturns your implicit assumptions about how societies ‘ordinarily’ work, what they ‘ordinarily’ eat, who they ‘ordinarily’ sleep with. Remember that your slice of life experience is deeply atypical and selective, filtered through a particular culture with particular norms. If you stick to your easy automatic tendencies, you’ll produce sexist, racist writing – because our culture still has sexist, racist tendencies, tendencies we internalize, tendencies we can now even measure and quantify in a laboratory. And you’ll produce narrow writing, writing that generalizes a particular historical moment, its flavors and tongues, to a fantasy world that should be much broader and more varied. Don’t assume that the world you see around you, its structures and systems, is inevitable.

We... need worldbuilding by Seth Dickinson

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Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”

These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.

╰ They say they're "independent." Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay. They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)

╰ They say they're "laid-back." Translation: They stopped believing their wants mattered. They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.

╰ They say they're "a perfectionist." Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable. Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.

╰ They say they're "private." Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied. Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.

╰ They say they're "ambitious." Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away. If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)

╰ They say they're "good at moving on." Translation: They’re world-class at repression. They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.

╰ They say they're "logical." Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings. Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)

╰ They say they're "loyal to a fault." Translation: They mistake abandonment for loyalty. They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."

╰ They say they're "resilient." Translation: They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)

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