Day 275 – To win or not to win literary contests

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Get to the Point, Make ‘Em Laugh, and Ignore Fay Weldon (A Little Bit)

Let’s rip the bandage off right away: The most boring book wins literary contests.

That gem of a quote comes from the fiercely witty British novelist Fay Weldon. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Think about the last time you read a critically acclaimed, prize-winning heavyweight novel. Did it feel like a brisk jog through a comedy club, or did it feel like trudging through an intellectual swamp of heavy metaphors, agonizing grief, and sentences that stretch across three paragraphs?

Exactly.

We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency. Get to the point! Cut the fluff! Give me the TL;DR! But writing—especially the kind of writing you actually want to read and write—often rebels against this sterile efficiency.

So, what is the ultimate writing philosophy? Should we cut straight to the chase and inject a healthy dose of humor, or should we embrace the sprawling, solemn boredom that wins awards? Let’s dive in.

The Cult of “Get to the Point” (And Why Humor is Our Savior)

In the digital age, attention spans are shorter than a TikTok loop. If your opening paragraph doesn’t hook the reader, introduce a conflict, and promise emotional payoff, they’re gone. Click. Back to Instagram.

Because of this, modern copywriters, bloggers, and even fiction writers are told to get to the point. Brevity is king.

• The Problem: Being purely concise is dangerously close to being boring. A user manual is concise. A tax form gets straight to the point. Nobody stays up until 3:00 AM crying over the IRS instructions.
• The Solution: Humour.

Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the conciseness go down. It’s the human element. When you get to the point while making the reader snort coffee out of their nose, you’ve won. You’ve respected their time (by not rambling) while entertaining their soul (by being funny).

If Fay Weldon says boring books win prizes, humour is the rebellion against the prize committee. It says: I want people to actually enjoy this.

Why Fay Weldon Was Right About “Boring” Books

Let’s not throw Fay under the bus just yet. She knew the literary establishment’s inner workings better than most.

Literary prizes—think of the Booker, the Pulitzer, or heavy-hitting academic nods—often reward gravitas. A book about a happy couple who communicate well, pay their mortgage on time, and occasionally go to brunch does not win awards. Why? Because it lacks suffering and significance.

To win a literary contest, a book usually needs:

1. Misery: Preferably historical, existential, or deeply psychological.
2. Slow pacing: Often disguised as “rich atmospheric development.”
3. Sentences that require a semicolon and a master’s degree to decode.

Weldon’s warning is a liberation for everyday writers. She is essentially telling us: Stop writing for the judges in ivory towers. Write for the human beings on the subway.

If your book is so thrilling, funny, and fast-paced that it disqualifies you from winning a dusty trophy in a wood-paneled room in London or New York… take it as a compliment.

Can You Have It All? (Point + Humor + Depth)

Is it a zero-sum game? Must we choose between being a humor-filled, punchy writer who people actually read, and a solemn literary genius who wins medals that nobody checks out at the library?

Not necessarily. The sweet spot of modern writing lies in the intersection of clarity, wit, and depth.

You can get to the point quickly, keep the reader laughing, and still deliver a profound emotional punch. Think of authors like David Sedaris, Nora Ephron, or Kurt Vonnegut. They didn’t write boring, prize-winning snoozefests. They wrote punchy, hilarious, deeply moving works that outlived the prize committees anyway.

How to Apply This to Your Writing:

1. Respect the reader’s time: Get to the point. Don’t spend three pages describing a tree unless that tree is plotting a murder.
2. Disarm with wit: Use humour as a vehicle for truth. If you have a heavy point to make, a joke is the best shock absorber.
3. Ignore the gatekeepers: If you write something genuinely entertaining, fast-paced, and funny, the literary establishment might sniff at it. Let them. You’ll be too busy having an audience to notice.

The Verdict

So, what is the best thing to do?

Fay Weldon gave us great advice: don’t write the boring book just to impress the critics. But we also don’t need to live in a world of purely rushed, hyper-efficient bullet points, either.

The best thing to do is write the book you would want to read. Get to the point, make ’em laugh, and leave the boring, prize-winning misery to the people who enjoy sitting in silence.

What’s your take? Do you prefer a laugh-out-loud page-turner, or do you secretly love a 600-page historical epic about melancholy? Let us know in the comments below!

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Day 274 – A story will evolve

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“Nothing Turns Out Quite in the Way You First Thought It Would”: Unraveling Agatha Christie’s Masterclass in Misdirection

“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would.”

If there is a single sentence that encapsulates the entire literary legacy of Agatha Christie, the Queen of Mystery, this is it. While not penned as a plot synopsis, this sentiment serves as the heartbeat of every locked-room murder, every gathering of wealthy suspects in a snowbound mansion, and every ticking-clock international conspiracy she ever crafted.

Christie didn’t just write whodunits; she wrote masterclasses in human expectation. She understood that the human brain loves patterns, leaps to conclusions, and is easily blinded by its own biases.

In this post, we’re going to explore why this philosophy defines Christie’s enduring genius, how she used it to trick generations of readers, and what this truth about life and storytelling can teach us beyond the final chapter.

The Anatomy of a Christie Twist: Playing with Perceptions

Why do we fall for Agatha Christie’s tricks time and time again? Because she understood the difference between seeing and observing—a distinction famously highlighted by her most brilliant creation, Hercule Poirot.

When we pick up a mystery novel, we enter a silent contract with the author. We want to solve the puzzle. We gather the clues, analyse the alibis, and try to outsmart the detective. But Christie’s brilliance lies in subverting the very tools we use to solve her puzzles.

1. The Obvious Suspect vs. The Unseen Observer

In classics like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or And Then There Were None, Christie sets up an expectation. She presents a clear suspect or a traditional formula, luring us into a false sense of security. We think we know the rules of the game.

Then, she pulls the rug out from under us. The narrator is the killer. The person we thought was dead is actually running the show. The least likely person—often the unassuming governess, the quiet doctor, or the bumbling sidekick—turns out to be the mastermind.

2. Psychological Misdirection

Christie rarely relied on cheap tricks or hidden clues revealed only on the final page. Instead, she used psychological misdirection. She played on our societal prejudices and assumptions:

• We assume the butler didn’t do it because that’s a cliché. (Until Christie makes the butler do it—or makes us suspect him so thoroughly that we miss the real culprit).
• We dismiss the elderly spinster or the eccentric foreign detective as harmless.
• We assume people act out of rational, linear motives (greed, jealousy), when in reality, human emotion is messy, contradictory, and entirely unpredictable.

By the time the truth is revealed in the drawing-room denouement, we are left staring at the page, muttering, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”

Life Imitates Art: Why Nothing Ever Goes to Plan

Beyond the realm of fiction, Christie’s words—“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would”—resonate deeply with the human experience.

How often do we map out our lives with the precision of a Poirot timeline, only for reality to hand us a completely different script?

• Career paths twist and turn into unexpected industries.
• Relationships evolve in ways we never anticipated during the first flush of romance.
• Challenges we dread turn out to be catalysts for our greatest growth, while moments we expected to bring pure joy sometimes carry unforeseen complexities.

We live in a constant state of plotting. We form hypotheses about our careers, our friends, and our futures. And yet, life is the ultimate mystery writer. It loves a good plot twist.

Rather than viewing this unpredictability with fear, Christie’s work invites us to embrace it. The thrill of a mystery isn’t knowing the ending from page one; it’s the journey of discovering that the truth is far more intricate, surprising, and fascinating than we ever could have imagined.

Lessons from the Queen of Crime

What can we take away from Agatha Christie’s philosophy of unexpected outcomes? Here are three ways to apply the Queen of Crime’s wisdom to daily life:

1. Question Your Assumptions: When faced with a problem, pause. Are you reacting to the facts, or are you reacting to your preconceived notions about how things should be?
2. Expect the Unexpected: Rigidity leads to frustration. When life deviates from your master plan, treat it not as a disaster, but as an intriguing plot twist.
3. Look for the Unseen Clues: Sometimes, the most important details in our lives are the ones we dismiss as insignificant. Pay attention to the quiet moments, the subtle shifts, and the perspectives you usually overlook.

The Enduring Magic of the Unexpected

Agatha Christie remains the best-selling fiction writer of all time for a reason. She tapped into a universal truth: we are endlessly fascinated by the gap between what we expect and what actually happens.

Whether she was writing about cyanide in a teacup or the winding, unpredictable nature of human fate, Christie reminded us that certainty is an illusion. The real magic happens in the twists, the turns, and the stunning realisations that change everything we thought we knew.

So, the next time life doesn’t turn out quite the way you thought it would, channel your inner Hercule Poirot. Adjust your lapel, embrace the complexity of the puzzle, and get ready for a brilliant twist.

What is the biggest plot twist life has handed you so far? Did it turn out better—or stranger—than you first thought? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

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Day 274 – A story will evolve

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“Nothing Turns Out Quite in the Way You First Thought It Would”: Unraveling Agatha Christie’s Masterclass in Misdirection

“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would.”

If there is a single sentence that encapsulates the entire literary legacy of Agatha Christie, the Queen of Mystery, this is it. While not penned as a plot synopsis, this sentiment serves as the heartbeat of every locked-room murder, every gathering of wealthy suspects in a snowbound mansion, and every ticking-clock international conspiracy she ever crafted.

Christie didn’t just write whodunits; she wrote masterclasses in human expectation. She understood that the human brain loves patterns, leaps to conclusions, and is easily blinded by its own biases.

In this post, we’re going to explore why this philosophy defines Christie’s enduring genius, how she used it to trick generations of readers, and what this truth about life and storytelling can teach us beyond the final chapter.

The Anatomy of a Christie Twist: Playing with Perceptions

Why do we fall for Agatha Christie’s tricks time and time again? Because she understood the difference between seeing and observing—a distinction famously highlighted by her most brilliant creation, Hercule Poirot.

When we pick up a mystery novel, we enter a silent contract with the author. We want to solve the puzzle. We gather the clues, analyse the alibis, and try to outsmart the detective. But Christie’s brilliance lies in subverting the very tools we use to solve her puzzles.

1. The Obvious Suspect vs. The Unseen Observer

In classics like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or And Then There Were None, Christie sets up an expectation. She presents a clear suspect or a traditional formula, luring us into a false sense of security. We think we know the rules of the game.

Then, she pulls the rug out from under us. The narrator is the killer. The person we thought was dead is actually running the show. The least likely person—often the unassuming governess, the quiet doctor, or the bumbling sidekick—turns out to be the mastermind.

2. Psychological Misdirection

Christie rarely relied on cheap tricks or hidden clues revealed only on the final page. Instead, she used psychological misdirection. She played on our societal prejudices and assumptions:

• We assume the butler didn’t do it because that’s a cliché. (Until Christie makes the butler do it—or makes us suspect him so thoroughly that we miss the real culprit).
• We dismiss the elderly spinster or the eccentric foreign detective as harmless.
• We assume people act out of rational, linear motives (greed, jealousy), when in reality, human emotion is messy, contradictory, and entirely unpredictable.

By the time the truth is revealed in the drawing-room denouement, we are left staring at the page, muttering, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”

Life Imitates Art: Why Nothing Ever Goes to Plan

Beyond the realm of fiction, Christie’s words—“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would”—resonate deeply with the human experience.

How often do we map out our lives with the precision of a Poirot timeline, only for reality to hand us a completely different script?

• Career paths twist and turn into unexpected industries.
• Relationships evolve in ways we never anticipated during the first flush of romance.
• Challenges we dread turn out to be catalysts for our greatest growth, while moments we expected to bring pure joy sometimes carry unforeseen complexities.

We live in a constant state of plotting. We form hypotheses about our careers, our friends, and our futures. And yet, life is the ultimate mystery writer. It loves a good plot twist.

Rather than viewing this unpredictability with fear, Christie’s work invites us to embrace it. The thrill of a mystery isn’t knowing the ending from page one; it’s the journey of discovering that the truth is far more intricate, surprising, and fascinating than we ever could have imagined.

Lessons from the Queen of Crime

What can we take away from Agatha Christie’s philosophy of unexpected outcomes? Here are three ways to apply the Queen of Crime’s wisdom to daily life:

1. Question Your Assumptions: When faced with a problem, pause. Are you reacting to the facts, or are you reacting to your preconceived notions about how things should be?
2. Expect the Unexpected: Rigidity leads to frustration. When life deviates from your master plan, treat it not as a disaster, but as an intriguing plot twist.
3. Look for the Unseen Clues: Sometimes, the most important details in our lives are the ones we dismiss as insignificant. Pay attention to the quiet moments, the subtle shifts, and the perspectives you usually overlook.

The Enduring Magic of the Unexpected

Agatha Christie remains the best-selling fiction writer of all time for a reason. She tapped into a universal truth: we are endlessly fascinated by the gap between what we expect and what actually happens.

Whether she was writing about cyanide in a teacup or the winding, unpredictable nature of human fate, Christie reminded us that certainty is an illusion. The real magic happens in the twists, the turns, and the stunning realisations that change everything we thought we knew.

So, the next time life doesn’t turn out quite the way you thought it would, channel your inner Hercule Poirot. Adjust your lapel, embrace the complexity of the puzzle, and get ready for a brilliant twist.

What is the biggest plot twist life has handed you so far? Did it turn out better—or stranger—than you first thought? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

Day 273 – Empathetic writing

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The Empathy Engine: How Writers Make You Fall in Love with People Who Don’t Exist

Have you ever sobbed uncontrollably over the death of a fictional character? Or felt your heart race as a made-up detective navigated a dark alley? Or closed a book and felt a lingering, hollow ache, as if you’d just said goodbye to a real, lifelong friend?

It’s a peculiar magic, when you think about it. You are sitting on a couch, staring at dead trees covered in squiggly black ink, yet your nervous system responds as though you are experiencing a real-world event. You are feeling profound grief, joy, terror, and love for people who have never drawn a breath.

How do writers pull off this psychological sleight of hand? How do they make us see, hear, and—most importantly—feel for strangers who live only on the page?

Let’s pull back the curtain on the writer’s craft and explore the anatomy of literary empathy.

1. The Visual Illusion: Painting with Specificity, Not Adjectives

A common misconception among beginner writers is that to make readers see a character, they need to describe every physical detail: eye colour, height, clothing brand, hair texture. But human brains don’t process people by cataloguing inventory. We process people through impression, movement, and telling details.

Master writers know that specificity breeds reality.

Instead of writing: “She was an old, tired woman who wore a faded blue coat,” a skilled writer might write: “Aunt Mae wore her winter coat into June, the hem frayed where she’d stepped on it a hundred times, smelling faintly of mothballs and spearmint.”

Suddenly, you don’t just see the coat; you feel the weight of it, you smell it, you understand Aunt Mae’s stubbornness and her isolation.

Writers also master the art of visceral action. They show characters interacting with their environment in ways that reveal personality. A nervous character doesn’t just “feel anxious”—they pick at the cuticle of their thumb until it bleeds, or they repeatedly check the lock on the door. By anchoring the character in physical space through sensory details (sight, sound, texture, smell), the writer tricks our brains into treating the character as a physical presence in the room with us.

2. The Sound of Truth: Capturing the Inner and Outer Voice

To make a reader hear a character, a writer must master dialogue and internal monologue.

Human speech is messy. We interrupt each other, trail off, use subtext, and lie. If a writer makes dialogue too grammatically correct and polished, it sounds like a robot reading a script. But when a writer captures the rhythm, cadence, and vernacular of a real voice—complete with hesitations, regional slang, and unspoken tensions—the character springs to life.

Consider the difference between:

• “I am very angry that you forgot our anniversary,” said John.
• “Right. Well. The restaurant takes reservations until eight, I suppose,” John said, staring intently at his thumbnail.

Which one do you hear? Which one makes you lean in?

Furthermore, writers invite us into the inner sanctum of the character’s mind. Through interiority—the thoughts, doubts, and rationalisations that bounce around inside a person’s head—we hear their private voice. When a character admits a shameful secret to the reader that they would never dare tell anyone in the story, an intimate bond of trust is formed. You are now accomplices.

3. The Empathy Engine: Universal Vulnerability

Seeing and hearing a character are just the entry points. The real magic trick is making the reader feel for them. How does a writer cross the chasm from “this is an interesting person” to “I care about what happens to them as if they were my own child”?

The secret is vulnerability and flaws.

Perfection is repellent. If a character is impossibly brave, flawlessly beautiful, remarkably intelligent, and always does the right thing, we might admire them, but we won’t feel for them. We admire statues; we empathise with humans.

Writers make us care by giving their characters:

• Contradictory desires: They want to be loved, but they push people away.
• A secret shame: A memory or a fear they try desperately to hide from the world.
• Unmet needs: A deep, aching void—whether it’s a missing parent, a lost love, or a lack of self-worth—that drives their every action.

When we see a character trying desperately to maintain their dignity while the universe relentlessly kicks them down, our mirror neurons fire. We recognize our own insecurities, our own heartbreaks, and our own frailties in that fictional creation. We don’t feel pity for them; we feel camaraderie.

4. The Power of Empathy Engineering (The Writer’s Toolkit)

Underneath the artistry, writers use specific psychological levers to guide our emotions:

• The “Save the Cat” Moment: Popularised by screenwriter Blake Snyder, this is a moment early in a story where a character does something inherently kind or endearing (like saving a stray cat), instantly earning the reader’s affection.
• Stakes and Consequences: We care about characters in proportion to what they stand to lose. A character losing a dollar bill doesn’t move us; a character losing custody of their child, or losing their last chance at redemption, grips our soul.
• Empathy by Association: How other characters treat someone influences how we feel about them. If a universally despised tyrant is kind to a stray dog, our perception of the tyrant shifts. We look for the humanity underneath.

Why We Need the Illusion

Why do we willingly subject ourselves to the emotional rollercoaster of reading about fictional pain and triumph?

Because in our daily lives, we are trapped behind the glass wall of our own skull. We can never truly know what it feels like to be someone else. We are limited to one perspective, one life, one set of experiences.

Great writers are the bridge builders across that isolation. They take us by the hand and lead us into the minds of murderers, saints, monarchs, paupers, heroes, and cowards. They stretch our capacity for compassion until it breaks open.

When a writer makes you weep for a person who has never existed, they aren’t just telling a story—they are expanding your humanity. They are proving that empathy knows no boundaries, and that even in the quietest, loneliest corners of your imagination, you are never truly alone.

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Day 273 – Empathetic writing

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The Empathy Engine: How Writers Make You Fall in Love with People Who Don’t Exist

Have you ever sobbed uncontrollably over the death of a fictional character? Or felt your heart race as a made-up detective navigated a dark alley? Or closed a book and felt a lingering, hollow ache, as if you’d just said goodbye to a real, lifelong friend?

It’s a peculiar magic, when you think about it. You are sitting on a couch, staring at dead trees covered in squiggly black ink, yet your nervous system responds as though you are experiencing a real-world event. You are feeling profound grief, joy, terror, and love for people who have never drawn a breath.

How do writers pull off this psychological sleight of hand? How do they make us see, hear, and—most importantly—feel for strangers who live only on the page?

Let’s pull back the curtain on the writer’s craft and explore the anatomy of literary empathy.

1. The Visual Illusion: Painting with Specificity, Not Adjectives

A common misconception among beginner writers is that to make readers see a character, they need to describe every physical detail: eye colour, height, clothing brand, hair texture. But human brains don’t process people by cataloguing inventory. We process people through impression, movement, and telling details.

Master writers know that specificity breeds reality.

Instead of writing: “She was an old, tired woman who wore a faded blue coat,” a skilled writer might write: “Aunt Mae wore her winter coat into June, the hem frayed where she’d stepped on it a hundred times, smelling faintly of mothballs and spearmint.”

Suddenly, you don’t just see the coat; you feel the weight of it, you smell it, you understand Aunt Mae’s stubbornness and her isolation.

Writers also master the art of visceral action. They show characters interacting with their environment in ways that reveal personality. A nervous character doesn’t just “feel anxious”—they pick at the cuticle of their thumb until it bleeds, or they repeatedly check the lock on the door. By anchoring the character in physical space through sensory details (sight, sound, texture, smell), the writer tricks our brains into treating the character as a physical presence in the room with us.

2. The Sound of Truth: Capturing the Inner and Outer Voice

To make a reader hear a character, a writer must master dialogue and internal monologue.

Human speech is messy. We interrupt each other, trail off, use subtext, and lie. If a writer makes dialogue too grammatically correct and polished, it sounds like a robot reading a script. But when a writer captures the rhythm, cadence, and vernacular of a real voice—complete with hesitations, regional slang, and unspoken tensions—the character springs to life.

Consider the difference between:

• “I am very angry that you forgot our anniversary,” said John.
• “Right. Well. The restaurant takes reservations until eight, I suppose,” John said, staring intently at his thumbnail.

Which one do you hear? Which one makes you lean in?

Furthermore, writers invite us into the inner sanctum of the character’s mind. Through interiority—the thoughts, doubts, and rationalisations that bounce around inside a person’s head—we hear their private voice. When a character admits a shameful secret to the reader that they would never dare tell anyone in the story, an intimate bond of trust is formed. You are now accomplices.

3. The Empathy Engine: Universal Vulnerability

Seeing and hearing a character are just the entry points. The real magic trick is making the reader feel for them. How does a writer cross the chasm from “this is an interesting person” to “I care about what happens to them as if they were my own child”?

The secret is vulnerability and flaws.

Perfection is repellent. If a character is impossibly brave, flawlessly beautiful, remarkably intelligent, and always does the right thing, we might admire them, but we won’t feel for them. We admire statues; we empathise with humans.

Writers make us care by giving their characters:

• Contradictory desires: They want to be loved, but they push people away.
• A secret shame: A memory or a fear they try desperately to hide from the world.
• Unmet needs: A deep, aching void—whether it’s a missing parent, a lost love, or a lack of self-worth—that drives their every action.

When we see a character trying desperately to maintain their dignity while the universe relentlessly kicks them down, our mirror neurons fire. We recognize our own insecurities, our own heartbreaks, and our own frailties in that fictional creation. We don’t feel pity for them; we feel camaraderie.

4. The Power of Empathy Engineering (The Writer’s Toolkit)

Underneath the artistry, writers use specific psychological levers to guide our emotions:

• The “Save the Cat” Moment: Popularised by screenwriter Blake Snyder, this is a moment early in a story where a character does something inherently kind or endearing (like saving a stray cat), instantly earning the reader’s affection.
• Stakes and Consequences: We care about characters in proportion to what they stand to lose. A character losing a dollar bill doesn’t move us; a character losing custody of their child, or losing their last chance at redemption, grips our soul.
• Empathy by Association: How other characters treat someone influences how we feel about them. If a universally despised tyrant is kind to a stray dog, our perception of the tyrant shifts. We look for the humanity underneath.

Why We Need the Illusion

Why do we willingly subject ourselves to the emotional rollercoaster of reading about fictional pain and triumph?

Because in our daily lives, we are trapped behind the glass wall of our own skull. We can never truly know what it feels like to be someone else. We are limited to one perspective, one life, one set of experiences.

Great writers are the bridge builders across that isolation. They take us by the hand and lead us into the minds of murderers, saints, monarchs, paupers, heroes, and cowards. They stretch our capacity for compassion until it breaks open.

When a writer makes you weep for a person who has never existed, they aren’t just telling a story—they are expanding your humanity. They are proving that empathy knows no boundaries, and that even in the quietest, loneliest corners of your imagination, you are never truly alone.

…