Day 273 – Empathetic writing

…

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

…

Day 272 – Writing Exercise

…

The one thing they tell you about writing is to not be put off by criticism.

In fact the one basic tenet I try to get across as the most important, if you want to be a writer, is to take criticism as the best form of encouragement.

The second, you are writing for yourself, not for the masses out there, because there are writers who churn out pulp fiction.  You may do that one day, but first be the best writer you can.

Then once you’ve finished that first draft, you can send it out to a respected and qualified group of beta readers, but be prepared to get constructive criticism.

It was a pity I didn’t take my own advice.

I always wanted to be a writer. I spent most of my spare time scribbling on notepads, buying a typewriter and turning scribbles into typed pages.

I was always going to finish it.

Then I met a girl, Samantha Biggins, and I took a sojourn.  With marriage and work and juggling everything else, writing took a step back.

Until we decided to get a bigger house.

While getting ready for the move, I found all of my work packed into a half dozen boxes.  Marked “Toss” in Samantha’s scrawl.

I’d told her once that I wanted to be a writer, and she told me to be practical.  Unless I became a best-selling author, there was no money in it.

She was right, but I was not tossing it.

When she asked why I was keeping it, I asked her to read what I’d written; she did, and then simply told me not to give up my day job.

Five more years of being abjectly unhappy, I found out she was having an affair with my best friend.  He is no longer my best friend; she is no longer my wife; there were no children; she refused to become a mother, and it all ended on a sour note.

I quit my job, moved, changed my name, and became an associate professor teaching students to write. 

It was the best of both worlds, teaching writing, and writing that first novel.

…

It was a new intake for my class, twenty-three souls who thought they wanted to become writers.  On average, only fifteen would survive, and perhaps one or two would continue after the classes ended.

Day one, they were full of enthusiasm, or at least most of them were.

When I told them their first assignment was to write a ten-thousand-word story over the next four weeks, applying what they learned, that enthusiasm waned.

This was not the class to use as a break between the hard stuff.  The next class dropped to twenty.

After two weeks, the student with the mt enthusiasm, Charlene, stopped on her way out the door and asked, “Are you a writer?”

Of all of them, she was the most promising, but that might be because she was a mature-age student, finally doing the university degree she would have if she had not got pregnant before graduating high school.

She was a little too forthcoming in her introduction of herself.

I wondered where this was leading.  “Yes.”

“Published?”

“No.  Still working on that first blockbuster.”

“When did you start writing?”

“About 13 or 14 years old.”

“In all that time…”

This was not going to be a time when I defended myself.

“Sometimes life gets in the way, and your priorities change.  I took a ten-year sabbatical, if you could call it that.  It happens.  Sometimes the idea of becoming a published author has to be put aside because food and rent don’t appear out of thin air.”

“Wouldn’t you just find a job that allows you to do both?”

“That’s the final lesson.  It took me ten years to figure that one out.”

“So you didn’t go to university and have to survive while studying?”

“My university studies were paid for.  The struggle came afterwards.”

She shrugged.  “We all get there, I guess, in our own time.  You want anyone to beta read your stuff, I’m available.”

I was not sure how to take that, so it was best avoided.  “If I do, I’ll let you know “

She left with an expression I couldn’t fathom.

…

Charlene’s story, exactly 10,000 words, was a story of struggle.  It had me from the first page.

And it made me think she was a faculty spy, sent to see if I knew what I was doing.  To be truthful, it was my second year at it, and it was a learning process.  My first wasn’t so great.

Teaching wasn’t the same as doing.

The other nineteen varied in length, from a thousand to five thousand words.  Stories started and petered out, some with a strong start and then hitting that invisible brick wall.  Several were in the realm of fantasy, but none could go down the superhero with humility path.

It gave me a lot of scope.

Most were glad they would not be revisiting that story until towards the end of the year.

During the previous year, I thought about restarting my book, even starting to unpack the writing boxes, but it went into recess again when I told myself I had to write class lessons and prompt papers 

In other words, I found any excuse not to write.

But during the summer break, when I finally stopped prevaricating, I dragged everything out of the boxes, arranged my writing nook, and put a piece of paper in the typewriter.

Nothing came.

I pulled out the notepads and decided I would write longhand.  That went from writing to planning to maybe I’ll do it tomorrow.

I was still prevaricating at the start of the year, and perhaps it was going to go into a recess like the year before.

Then I woke in the middle of the night, halfway through the first semester, thinking I should retype and edit the story I gave Samantha to read, and see what Charlene’s thought.

Perhaps I was looking for compliments.  If I was, then maybe I should just burn it and move on.

That morning’s lesson, we were going to visit non-fiction, and we were all going to embark on a genealogical expedition. 

I found the previous year the notion of having relatives that go back in time, and where they came from, was as much of a writing adventure for me as it was for them.  It also honed another important writing skill; research.

I was shocked to discover I came from England and Germany.  There were Irish, Welsh, Scots, but no Americans.  There was even a little Scandinavian.  They were mostly agricultural labourers, though there was the odd publican and shop owner.

I often wondered how I could be related to any of those given my school results.

Charlene’s relatives, going back, were famous, or maybe they would have been if she hadn’t noticed that a cousin had been previously down that path, and picked the most interesting rather than the actual people who were her forebears.

Who wouldn’t do that if they were looking for a more interesting story?  After all, they had been dead for a long time and were not going to argue the point.

…

By the end of the first semester I had rewritten the first three chapters, the magic amount I thought would set up the story, and would be what I would send to a publisher for appraisal.

It had been a lot of long nights and ruthlessness I hadn’t thought was in me.    Sometimes it was not so much about what was on the page as having the backbone to throw out what was simply padding.

It was my own advice echoing in my head: 200 tightly written pages trumped 500 pages of mostly fluff.

Last day of semester, after setting an assignment to be delivered the first day back, I called Charlene over and handed her the brown, anonymous envelope.

“My marching orders,” she asked.

“The first three chapters.  If you want to read it.  I don’t usually give anyone anything, not after the last time.”

She looked at me with a quizzical expression.

“A long story that involves an ex, and it would be in poor taste to air what most people would call petty grievances.”

“We all have them.”

“Petty differences or exes?”

“Both.  But let me guess, you finally gave in to showing your work to your spouse and you got everything but what you wanted.”

“I was told not to give up my day job.”

She smiled, or perhaps it was something else.  “I was told to stick to what women like me did best: cooking, cleaning, and babies.  After that comment, I did none of the above.”

“I stopped writing.”

“So did I.  And you were right.  Life gets in the way.  I have coffee some mornings at the Three Moon cafe.  If you pick the right day, I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

She left before I could think of a suitable reply.

…

Perception is everything.

Rather than working on my novel, I spent the time fretting over the implications of Charlene’s invitation.

And, yes, it was an invitation.

That I had all sorts of feelings about the matter, right down to reading and rereading the rule book five times, the answer was always going to be the same.

It was verboten.

If it wasn’t my imagination running wild.  If it was not what I thought it was.

Normally it was not something I would think about.  And, like I said, it might be just my overactive imagination.  It had happened to a colleague the previous year.  He had ignored it, and when push came to shove, the university sacked him, even when her had done nothing to encourage the relationship.

It was for him either the devil or the deep blue sea.  Even when the girl in question told the Dean, eventually, that he had never been interested, and she did it out of spite.

It was an ugly world we lived in sometimes.

So, armed with the rule book, I reluctantly went to the Three Moon café.  She was not there, but I felt like a coffee and stayed, pretending to be one of my characters, on surveillance while waiting for the contact with the top secret information.

It wasn’t hard to pick out the university types, or the students. After all, I had heard of it from class members, a place where good food was reasonably priced, better than living on fast food and coffee

Other than the business types.

I tried not to look like a university associate professor, but as some of my students said, it was an acquired look.  Not even changing the style of my clothes worked.

One of my latest group of budding writers had said that a professor in a five-thousand-dollar suit and expensive shoes, even a Rolex watch, was still a professor.

I knew it was me she was talking about.

My coffee arrived, but it was not the waitress who took the order; it was Charlene.  She slid into the booth’s opposite seat.

“You have waitressing skills?”

“Among many others.  Navy SEAL.  Cabinet minister.  Short order chef.  A girl has to be multi-talented.  I work here, off and on.”

It was hard to tell if she was telling me off for categorising her, and if I thought about it, I probably did, and without thinking.

“Perhaps I should apologise.  Sometimes I say stuff without thinking, but it doesn’t excuse what I said.  I’m sorry.”

I was going to have to categorise these expressions of hers.  It was fascinating to watch it change.  This one: perhaps disdain.

“Apology accepted.  Better than most of those tinder dates, but what can you expect?”

“Never used a dating app.  I just think it’s too much effort, and knowing my luck, she would secretly be an axe murderer.”

“Ah, about that…”

I could see, after a moment of apprehension, that she was joking.  Or at least I hope she was.

She pulled the envelope, now creased and crumpled, and put it on the table between us.

I looked at it, but said nothing.

I had left the university rule book on the table, and she had noticed it.  It was a quick glance, one that I wasn’t supposed to see.

“Impressive daytime reading,” a glance, then back.

“Still trying to grapple with being an associate professor, which alternately makes me feel like an aging know-it-all, or just simply a weirdo.”

“What have you learned?”

“The hundred and twenty-two ways of getting into deep water and drowning.”

“Metaphorically speaking.  I still haven’t been able to find the campus pool.”

It was the subject of students’ quests, and an exercise for writing a piece on executing a question, taking something ordinary and turning it into treasure.  It was the imagination test.

She was watching me, over the top of her coffee cup, contemplating or planning my demise.  Talking to her was going to be a slow dance.

“You’re writing, in your mind, a scene, you and I.  There was a flicker of a smile.  Hopes dashed or triumph.”

“No.”  I would go with something a little more topical.  “What’s a girl like you doing the writing course?”

Expressing change, nose wrinkle, eyebrows lift fractionally.  Surprise?

“I want to be a better writer.”

“I don’t think so.  You’re almost there, from what I’m reading of your work.”

“Maybe I just want a break from work.  Working afternoons at the café and nights cleaning up after the grubs that pretend they’re human has taken its toll.”

There was paid in-house eyes, along with a self-realisation that may or may not be what I thought it was.  It was the sort of pain I’d never had to endure.

She ordered another coffee.  Mine was going cold.

Then she came out with it.  “We’re not supposed to be here together, or anywhere.  If you’re checking the rules, it could mean one of two things.  You’re wondering about my motives, or you’re wondering about yours.”

“Or I’m looking for ways to cure my insomnia.”  I picked the book up.  “Reading this, or trying to, is better than any sleeping pill.”  I put it down again.  ” We can meet like this; there just can’t be any other reason than to discuss the coursework.”

“And you thought…”

“I don’t think.  I’m just telling you what I read, just before it put me to sleep.  I’m not going to bore you with details.  Perhaps we could talk about my train wreck book.”

Another smile, less warmth.  Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to be unworthy of her attention. 

“It’s anything but a train wreck, but it does tell me a lot about you.  No, its good.  Can’t wait to see more.”  She watched my reaction before adding, “Do you dance?”

I made a mental note to curse the person that gave me an imagination, because it was working overtime.

“Ballroom, or that uncoordinated wriggling?”

She laughed, perhaps imagining what I meant by uncoordinated wriggling.  I’d seen it once when I agreed to go out with a girl a friend had recommended.  She had been trying to be something she was not.

“I’ll let you ponder that, until the next batch of pages.”

With that she made an exit, which was so much more than just leaving.

And sitting there, after ordering another coffee, a realisation came over me.  I needed a museum.  Not in the sense that I would pursue romantically, but someone who could stoke the fires of inspiration, because I could see the next part of the story.

And I hadn’t felt like this in a decade.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 272 – Writing Exercise

…

The one thing they tell you about writing is to not be put off by criticism.

In fact the one basic tenet I try to get across as the most important, if you want to be a writer, is to take criticism as the best form of encouragement.

The second, you are writing for yourself, not for the masses out there, because there are writers who churn out pulp fiction.  You may do that one day, but first be the best writer you can.

Then once you’ve finished that first draft, you can send it out to a respected and qualified group of beta readers, but be prepared to get constructive criticism.

It was a pity I didn’t take my own advice.

I always wanted to be a writer. I spent most of my spare time scribbling on notepads, buying a typewriter and turning scribbles into typed pages.

I was always going to finish it.

Then I met a girl, Samantha Biggins, and I took a sojourn.  With marriage and work and juggling everything else, writing took a step back.

Until we decided to get a bigger house.

While getting ready for the move, I found all of my work packed into a half dozen boxes.  Marked “Toss” in Samantha’s scrawl.

I’d told her once that I wanted to be a writer, and she told me to be practical.  Unless I became a best-selling author, there was no money in it.

She was right, but I was not tossing it.

When she asked why I was keeping it, I asked her to read what I’d written; she did, and then simply told me not to give up my day job.

Five more years of being abjectly unhappy, I found out she was having an affair with my best friend.  He is no longer my best friend; she is no longer my wife; there were no children; she refused to become a mother, and it all ended on a sour note.

I quit my job, moved, changed my name, and became an associate professor teaching students to write. 

It was the best of both worlds, teaching writing, and writing that first novel.

…

It was a new intake for my class, twenty-three souls who thought they wanted to become writers.  On average, only fifteen would survive, and perhaps one or two would continue after the classes ended.

Day one, they were full of enthusiasm, or at least most of them were.

When I told them their first assignment was to write a ten-thousand-word story over the next four weeks, applying what they learned, that enthusiasm waned.

This was not the class to use as a break between the hard stuff.  The next class dropped to twenty.

After two weeks, the student with the mt enthusiasm, Charlene, stopped on her way out the door and asked, “Are you a writer?”

Of all of them, she was the most promising, but that might be because she was a mature-age student, finally doing the university degree she would have if she had not got pregnant before graduating high school.

She was a little too forthcoming in her introduction of herself.

I wondered where this was leading.  “Yes.”

“Published?”

“No.  Still working on that first blockbuster.”

“When did you start writing?”

“About 13 or 14 years old.”

“In all that time…”

This was not going to be a time when I defended myself.

“Sometimes life gets in the way, and your priorities change.  I took a ten-year sabbatical, if you could call it that.  It happens.  Sometimes the idea of becoming a published author has to be put aside because food and rent don’t appear out of thin air.”

“Wouldn’t you just find a job that allows you to do both?”

“That’s the final lesson.  It took me ten years to figure that one out.”

“So you didn’t go to university and have to survive while studying?”

“My university studies were paid for.  The struggle came afterwards.”

She shrugged.  “We all get there, I guess, in our own time.  You want anyone to beta read your stuff, I’m available.”

I was not sure how to take that, so it was best avoided.  “If I do, I’ll let you know “

She left with an expression I couldn’t fathom.

…

Charlene’s story, exactly 10,000 words, was a story of struggle.  It had me from the first page.

And it made me think she was a faculty spy, sent to see if I knew what I was doing.  To be truthful, it was my second year at it, and it was a learning process.  My first wasn’t so great.

Teaching wasn’t the same as doing.

The other nineteen varied in length, from a thousand to five thousand words.  Stories started and petered out, some with a strong start and then hitting that invisible brick wall.  Several were in the realm of fantasy, but none could go down the superhero with humility path.

It gave me a lot of scope.

Most were glad they would not be revisiting that story until towards the end of the year.

During the previous year, I thought about restarting my book, even starting to unpack the writing boxes, but it went into recess again when I told myself I had to write class lessons and prompt papers 

In other words, I found any excuse not to write.

But during the summer break, when I finally stopped prevaricating, I dragged everything out of the boxes, arranged my writing nook, and put a piece of paper in the typewriter.

Nothing came.

I pulled out the notepads and decided I would write longhand.  That went from writing to planning to maybe I’ll do it tomorrow.

I was still prevaricating at the start of the year, and perhaps it was going to go into a recess like the year before.

Then I woke in the middle of the night, halfway through the first semester, thinking I should retype and edit the story I gave Samantha to read, and see what Charlene’s thought.

Perhaps I was looking for compliments.  If I was, then maybe I should just burn it and move on.

That morning’s lesson, we were going to visit non-fiction, and we were all going to embark on a genealogical expedition. 

I found the previous year the notion of having relatives that go back in time, and where they came from, was as much of a writing adventure for me as it was for them.  It also honed another important writing skill; research.

I was shocked to discover I came from England and Germany.  There were Irish, Welsh, Scots, but no Americans.  There was even a little Scandinavian.  They were mostly agricultural labourers, though there was the odd publican and shop owner.

I often wondered how I could be related to any of those given my school results.

Charlene’s relatives, going back, were famous, or maybe they would have been if she hadn’t noticed that a cousin had been previously down that path, and picked the most interesting rather than the actual people who were her forebears.

Who wouldn’t do that if they were looking for a more interesting story?  After all, they had been dead for a long time and were not going to argue the point.

…

By the end of the first semester I had rewritten the first three chapters, the magic amount I thought would set up the story, and would be what I would send to a publisher for appraisal.

It had been a lot of long nights and ruthlessness I hadn’t thought was in me.    Sometimes it was not so much about what was on the page as having the backbone to throw out what was simply padding.

It was my own advice echoing in my head: 200 tightly written pages trumped 500 pages of mostly fluff.

Last day of semester, after setting an assignment to be delivered the first day back, I called Charlene over and handed her the brown, anonymous envelope.

“My marching orders,” she asked.

“The first three chapters.  If you want to read it.  I don’t usually give anyone anything, not after the last time.”

She looked at me with a quizzical expression.

“A long story that involves an ex, and it would be in poor taste to air what most people would call petty grievances.”

“We all have them.”

“Petty differences or exes?”

“Both.  But let me guess, you finally gave in to showing your work to your spouse and you got everything but what you wanted.”

“I was told not to give up my day job.”

She smiled, or perhaps it was something else.  “I was told to stick to what women like me did best: cooking, cleaning, and babies.  After that comment, I did none of the above.”

“I stopped writing.”

“So did I.  And you were right.  Life gets in the way.  I have coffee some mornings at the Three Moon cafe.  If you pick the right day, I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

She left before I could think of a suitable reply.

…

Perception is everything.

Rather than working on my novel, I spent the time fretting over the implications of Charlene’s invitation.

And, yes, it was an invitation.

That I had all sorts of feelings about the matter, right down to reading and rereading the rule book five times, the answer was always going to be the same.

It was verboten.

If it wasn’t my imagination running wild.  If it was not what I thought it was.

Normally it was not something I would think about.  And, like I said, it might be just my overactive imagination.  It had happened to a colleague the previous year.  He had ignored it, and when push came to shove, the university sacked him, even when her had done nothing to encourage the relationship.

It was for him either the devil or the deep blue sea.  Even when the girl in question told the Dean, eventually, that he had never been interested, and she did it out of spite.

It was an ugly world we lived in sometimes.

So, armed with the rule book, I reluctantly went to the Three Moon café.  She was not there, but I felt like a coffee and stayed, pretending to be one of my characters, on surveillance while waiting for the contact with the top secret information.

It wasn’t hard to pick out the university types, or the students. After all, I had heard of it from class members, a place where good food was reasonably priced, better than living on fast food and coffee

Other than the business types.

I tried not to look like a university associate professor, but as some of my students said, it was an acquired look.  Not even changing the style of my clothes worked.

One of my latest group of budding writers had said that a professor in a five-thousand-dollar suit and expensive shoes, even a Rolex watch, was still a professor.

I knew it was me she was talking about.

My coffee arrived, but it was not the waitress who took the order; it was Charlene.  She slid into the booth’s opposite seat.

“You have waitressing skills?”

“Among many others.  Navy SEAL.  Cabinet minister.  Short order chef.  A girl has to be multi-talented.  I work here, off and on.”

It was hard to tell if she was telling me off for categorising her, and if I thought about it, I probably did, and without thinking.

“Perhaps I should apologise.  Sometimes I say stuff without thinking, but it doesn’t excuse what I said.  I’m sorry.”

I was going to have to categorise these expressions of hers.  It was fascinating to watch it change.  This one: perhaps disdain.

“Apology accepted.  Better than most of those tinder dates, but what can you expect?”

“Never used a dating app.  I just think it’s too much effort, and knowing my luck, she would secretly be an axe murderer.”

“Ah, about that…”

I could see, after a moment of apprehension, that she was joking.  Or at least I hope she was.

She pulled the envelope, now creased and crumpled, and put it on the table between us.

I looked at it, but said nothing.

I had left the university rule book on the table, and she had noticed it.  It was a quick glance, one that I wasn’t supposed to see.

“Impressive daytime reading,” a glance, then back.

“Still trying to grapple with being an associate professor, which alternately makes me feel like an aging know-it-all, or just simply a weirdo.”

“What have you learned?”

“The hundred and twenty-two ways of getting into deep water and drowning.”

“Metaphorically speaking.  I still haven’t been able to find the campus pool.”

It was the subject of students’ quests, and an exercise for writing a piece on executing a question, taking something ordinary and turning it into treasure.  It was the imagination test.

She was watching me, over the top of her coffee cup, contemplating or planning my demise.  Talking to her was going to be a slow dance.

“You’re writing, in your mind, a scene, you and I.  There was a flicker of a smile.  Hopes dashed or triumph.”

“No.”  I would go with something a little more topical.  “What’s a girl like you doing the writing course?”

Expressing change, nose wrinkle, eyebrows lift fractionally.  Surprise?

“I want to be a better writer.”

“I don’t think so.  You’re almost there, from what I’m reading of your work.”

“Maybe I just want a break from work.  Working afternoons at the café and nights cleaning up after the grubs that pretend they’re human has taken its toll.”

There was paid in-house eyes, along with a self-realisation that may or may not be what I thought it was.  It was the sort of pain I’d never had to endure.

She ordered another coffee.  Mine was going cold.

Then she came out with it.  “We’re not supposed to be here together, or anywhere.  If you’re checking the rules, it could mean one of two things.  You’re wondering about my motives, or you’re wondering about yours.”

“Or I’m looking for ways to cure my insomnia.”  I picked the book up.  “Reading this, or trying to, is better than any sleeping pill.”  I put it down again.  ” We can meet like this; there just can’t be any other reason than to discuss the coursework.”

“And you thought…”

“I don’t think.  I’m just telling you what I read, just before it put me to sleep.  I’m not going to bore you with details.  Perhaps we could talk about my train wreck book.”

Another smile, less warmth.  Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to be unworthy of her attention. 

“It’s anything but a train wreck, but it does tell me a lot about you.  No, its good.  Can’t wait to see more.”  She watched my reaction before adding, “Do you dance?”

I made a mental note to curse the person that gave me an imagination, because it was working overtime.

“Ballroom, or that uncoordinated wriggling?”

She laughed, perhaps imagining what I meant by uncoordinated wriggling.  I’d seen it once when I agreed to go out with a girl a friend had recommended.  She had been trying to be something she was not.

“I’ll let you ponder that, until the next batch of pages.”

With that she made an exit, which was so much more than just leaving.

And sitting there, after ordering another coffee, a realisation came over me.  I needed a museum.  Not in the sense that I would pursue romantically, but someone who could stoke the fires of inspiration, because I could see the next part of the story.

And I hadn’t felt like this in a decade.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 271 – Making the reader feel like they’re part of the story

…

Creating the Illusion of Reality: What James Clavell Can Teach Us About Immersive Fiction

“The goal of writing any novel is creating the illusion you are reading reality and you are part of it.” — James Clavell

When you open James Clavell’s monumental Asian Saga—whether you’re dodging assassins in feudal Japan with Shōgun or navigating the cutthroat corporate boardrooms of 1960s Hong Kong in Noble House—you aren’t just reading a book. You are living somewhere else. You smell the rotting vegetation of the jungle, you taste the bitter green tea, and you feel the suffocating tension of cultural collision.

Clavell, a master storyteller who survived a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, understood something fundamental about the human psyche: our brains are hardwired for stories, but they only surrender to them when the illusion of reality is absolute.

How do you achieve this literary magic trick? How do you pull a reader out of their cozy armchair and drop them squarely into a fictional world, making them believe, if only for a few hundred pages, that it is real?

Let’s unpack Clavell’s profound philosophy and explore how writers can use it to craft unforgettable, immersive fiction.

---

1. Sensory Grounding: Making the Unreal Tangible

The quickest way to shatter the illusion of reality is through a sterile landscape. If your characters are walking through a room that has no specific smell, texture, or temperature, the reader’s brain wakes up and remembers: I am looking at ink on paper.

Clavell was a master of sensory immersion. He didn’t just tell you a character was angry; he described the “bile rising in the throat” or the “sweat freezing on the back of the neck.”

• Sight and Colour: Go beyond the basic colour wheel. Describe the bruised purple of a twilight sky or the dull, oily sheen of a newly cleaned katana.
• Sound and Silence: What does the silence sound like? Is it heavy, oppressive, or ringing with the distant hum of cicadas?
• Smell: Olfactory memory is the strongest trigger in the human brain. Use it. The scent of woodsmoke, cheap gin, damp wool, or fear-sweat will anchor a reader instantly.

The Takeaway: To make a reader feel like they are part of the scene, bombard their senses. Make your fictional world physically real to them.

---

2. Radical Authenticity in Detail (Even in Made-Up Worlds)

Whether writing historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi, the secret to believability is specificity. Clavell spent years researching Japanese culture, maritime navigation, and political machinations before writing Shōgun. Because he understood the precise terminology of sailing a 17th-century ship and the rigid, life-or-death etiquette of the samurai, the world felt unshakeable.

Readers can smell a bluff from a mile away. If you are writing about a futuristic dystopia, you don’t need a 50-page info-dump on how the ray guns work, but you do need to know how the characters maintain them, what they cost on the black market, and how the metal feels when it gets hot.

• Research deeply: Know ten times more about your setting than you actually put on the page. That iceberg of knowledge gives your writing weight.
• Use jargon naturally: Let characters use the language of their profession or world without stopping to explain every little term to the reader. This treats the reader like an insider, pulling them deeper into the illusion.

---

3. Psychological Realism: Flawed Humans, Not Plot Puppets

You can have the most meticulously researched setting in the world, but if the people moving through it feel like cardboard cutouts, the illusion shatters.

Clavell’s characters—like John Blackthorne or Dirk Struan—are gloriously flawed. They are driven by base survival instincts, petty jealousies, profound loyalties, and blinding prejudices. They make terrible mistakes, misread situations, and suffer the consequences.

To make the reader feel like they are part of the story, the internal life of your characters must mirror the messy reality of human consciousness:

• Conflicting desires: People rarely want just one thing. They want to do the right thing, but they also want to survive; they love someone, but they also resent them.
• Subjective perception: No character sees the world objectively. A nervous character will interpret a falling leaf as an ambush; a confident one will see it as a sign of renewal. Filter the world through the psychological state of your POV character.

---

4. Stakes That Matter (Life, Death, and Identity)

In reality, choices have consequences. If a novel is going to feel real, the reader must feel that the characters have skin in the game.

In Clavell’s novels, the stakes are almost always existential. It’s not just about winning an argument; it’s about honour, survival, empire-building, or avoiding a brutal execution. When the stakes are high, the reader leans in. Their heart rate increases. They forget to check their phones.

Even in contemporary or quiet literary fiction where the stakes aren’t life-or-death physical combat, the emotional stakes must feel catastrophic to the protagonist. If heartbreak feels like the end of the world to the character, the writer must make it feel like the end of the world to the reader.

---

The Ultimate Goal: Empathy Through Immersion

Why do we chase this illusion? Why do writers spend years bleeding over manuscripts, and why do readers devour them?

Because, as James Clavell suggests, great fiction offers a radical form of expansion. It allows us to live a thousand lives instead of just one. When a novel successfully creates the illusion of reality, the reader stops being a passive observer and becomes an active participant. They sit in the samurai’s council room; they stand on the deck of the rolling galleon; they feel the crushing weight of the decision.

As writers, our job isn’t merely to tell a story. It is to build a doorway, step through it ourselves, and leave it wide open for the reader to follow.

---

What about you? What is the last novel that successfully tricked your brain into believing it was real? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Day 271 – Making the reader feel like they’re part of the story

…

Creating the Illusion of Reality: What James Clavell Can Teach Us About Immersive Fiction

“The goal of writing any novel is creating the illusion you are reading reality and you are part of it.” — James Clavell

When you open James Clavell’s monumental Asian Saga—whether you’re dodging assassins in feudal Japan with Shōgun or navigating the cutthroat corporate boardrooms of 1960s Hong Kong in Noble House—you aren’t just reading a book. You are living somewhere else. You smell the rotting vegetation of the jungle, you taste the bitter green tea, and you feel the suffocating tension of cultural collision.

Clavell, a master storyteller who survived a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, understood something fundamental about the human psyche: our brains are hardwired for stories, but they only surrender to them when the illusion of reality is absolute.

How do you achieve this literary magic trick? How do you pull a reader out of their cozy armchair and drop them squarely into a fictional world, making them believe, if only for a few hundred pages, that it is real?

Let’s unpack Clavell’s profound philosophy and explore how writers can use it to craft unforgettable, immersive fiction.

---

1. Sensory Grounding: Making the Unreal Tangible

The quickest way to shatter the illusion of reality is through a sterile landscape. If your characters are walking through a room that has no specific smell, texture, or temperature, the reader’s brain wakes up and remembers: I am looking at ink on paper.

Clavell was a master of sensory immersion. He didn’t just tell you a character was angry; he described the “bile rising in the throat” or the “sweat freezing on the back of the neck.”

• Sight and Colour: Go beyond the basic colour wheel. Describe the bruised purple of a twilight sky or the dull, oily sheen of a newly cleaned katana.
• Sound and Silence: What does the silence sound like? Is it heavy, oppressive, or ringing with the distant hum of cicadas?
• Smell: Olfactory memory is the strongest trigger in the human brain. Use it. The scent of woodsmoke, cheap gin, damp wool, or fear-sweat will anchor a reader instantly.

The Takeaway: To make a reader feel like they are part of the scene, bombard their senses. Make your fictional world physically real to them.

---

2. Radical Authenticity in Detail (Even in Made-Up Worlds)

Whether writing historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi, the secret to believability is specificity. Clavell spent years researching Japanese culture, maritime navigation, and political machinations before writing Shōgun. Because he understood the precise terminology of sailing a 17th-century ship and the rigid, life-or-death etiquette of the samurai, the world felt unshakeable.

Readers can smell a bluff from a mile away. If you are writing about a futuristic dystopia, you don’t need a 50-page info-dump on how the ray guns work, but you do need to know how the characters maintain them, what they cost on the black market, and how the metal feels when it gets hot.

• Research deeply: Know ten times more about your setting than you actually put on the page. That iceberg of knowledge gives your writing weight.
• Use jargon naturally: Let characters use the language of their profession or world without stopping to explain every little term to the reader. This treats the reader like an insider, pulling them deeper into the illusion.

---

3. Psychological Realism: Flawed Humans, Not Plot Puppets

You can have the most meticulously researched setting in the world, but if the people moving through it feel like cardboard cutouts, the illusion shatters.

Clavell’s characters—like John Blackthorne or Dirk Struan—are gloriously flawed. They are driven by base survival instincts, petty jealousies, profound loyalties, and blinding prejudices. They make terrible mistakes, misread situations, and suffer the consequences.

To make the reader feel like they are part of the story, the internal life of your characters must mirror the messy reality of human consciousness:

• Conflicting desires: People rarely want just one thing. They want to do the right thing, but they also want to survive; they love someone, but they also resent them.
• Subjective perception: No character sees the world objectively. A nervous character will interpret a falling leaf as an ambush; a confident one will see it as a sign of renewal. Filter the world through the psychological state of your POV character.

---

4. Stakes That Matter (Life, Death, and Identity)

In reality, choices have consequences. If a novel is going to feel real, the reader must feel that the characters have skin in the game.

In Clavell’s novels, the stakes are almost always existential. It’s not just about winning an argument; it’s about honour, survival, empire-building, or avoiding a brutal execution. When the stakes are high, the reader leans in. Their heart rate increases. They forget to check their phones.

Even in contemporary or quiet literary fiction where the stakes aren’t life-or-death physical combat, the emotional stakes must feel catastrophic to the protagonist. If heartbreak feels like the end of the world to the character, the writer must make it feel like the end of the world to the reader.

---

The Ultimate Goal: Empathy Through Immersion

Why do we chase this illusion? Why do writers spend years bleeding over manuscripts, and why do readers devour them?

Because, as James Clavell suggests, great fiction offers a radical form of expansion. It allows us to live a thousand lives instead of just one. When a novel successfully creates the illusion of reality, the reader stops being a passive observer and becomes an active participant. They sit in the samurai’s council room; they stand on the deck of the rolling galleon; they feel the crushing weight of the decision.

As writers, our job isn’t merely to tell a story. It is to build a doorway, step through it ourselves, and leave it wide open for the reader to follow.

---

What about you? What is the last novel that successfully tricked your brain into believing it was real? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Days 269/270 – Writing Exercise – An argument where a personality changes

…

You think you know someone, and in the end you do not know them at all.

I had seen it happen with my father, but I had been warned about him, what the war had done to him. And how different he had been when he returned.

I did not know him before the war, but the things my mother’s parents said made him out to be the gentlest, kindest man on God’s green earth.  I believe them. Because when I was very young I had seen it with my own eyes.

He had been that kind and gentle man.

But then, just as I turned thirteen, that unlucky number I dreaded, he changed.  Not instantly, and not with any discernible symptoms.

Little signs, a moment of irritability, having a routine interrupted.  Life in the house was orderly: up at seven, breakfast at eight, he was gone by eight thirty, and we were off to school not long after that.  At three, got out of school, home by three thirty, mother cooking dinner for five pm precisely, our father getting home at four thirty, and reading the paper until five.

Sometimes the timetable slipped; something went wrong, we were delayed at school, he would get home late, but it never warranted more than a comment and an assurance it wouldn’t happen again, and if it did, it wasn’t an insurmountable problem.

Until it did, and that first time, for just an instant, I saw someone I didn’t recognise, and it frightened me.

The following week, my older brother got into trouble at school, and my mother had to front up to the headmaster’s office.  It made her late and put the dinner schedule out.  He raised his voice, and my parents argued.  I may not have been very old, but I knew that circumstances had made it impossible for her, and yet he had blamed her, not for being tardy with dinner, but that she was to blame for my older brother’s mischievous nature.

I could not see how that was possible.

I asked her the next morning, after he left for work, and my older brother had gone to school by himself.  She said there were miscreants in her family, not explaining what miscreants were, or what they did, or how he knew about them.

We had not, as far as I could remember, visited or communicated with any of our uncles and aunts on either side, and rarely saw my mother’s mother, and sometimes went to see my father’s mother.  I had never seen my mother’s father, though I did remember my father saying something very bad about him when they were having a private argument in their room.  I had only vague memories of my father’s father, and that they were of a monster, ten feet tall, scaring the living hell out of me.

He probably wasn’t, but that was all I remembered of him.

…

A week slid past.  Something I didn’t know about myself suddenly presented itself.  I had heard my mother referring to me as her ‘little scamp’.  I mean, I didn’t think I was little, but like any parent, they give you labels.  My brother was gregarious.  My mother liked using big words without explaining them.

Perhaps I could get into what she called ‘mischief’.  Trouble did seem to have a habit of following me around, and playing backyard cricket, as we did sometimes in that half hour between when our father came home, and dinner was served.

It was a small backyard, and he always warned us not to hit the ball hard.  I had to, didn’t I, just that once, and it went over the fence.  It had done so before without much fanfare, but this time, it annoyed him.  He told me to go around, ask the neighbour if I could get the ball, and apologise.

I would not.

That was the first time I received what might be called corporal punishment.  My father smacked me.  Hard.  It hurt.  I cried.  And my mother admonished him, saying, strangely, that punishment might have happened in his house, but it was not going to happen in hers.

He simply said it was not her house; it was his, and he would mete out punishment for ‘unruly’ behaviour, whenever and however he saw fit.  Oddly, it was the first time it had happened.

My opinion of him had slipped from someone I thought was kind to someone mean, as happened when a child is punished.  I had not been punished for what I believed were far worse infractions, another of my mother’s big words, so why this time?

It can be said children can be foolish.  I guess I was about to learn the error of my ways. 

Several days later, my mother called us for dinner.  On rare occasions we were allowed to do homework, or study in our room.  My brother went; I wanted to finish the chapter of my book.  It was not the first time, but the most recent occurrence, my father had given me a warning.  I ignored it because in previous instances there had been warnings, but no punishment.

A child doesn’t understand consequences.  Maybe at school, where if you did misbehave in class there was punishment, and it happened. 

I came into the room, and my father glared at me.  My mother was looking at my father.

“Come here.” 

By this time, I think I was about to find out there were going to be consequences, but I still couldn’t equate it with what had happened in the past.

“You were told not to be late.”  He smacked me.  Hard.  “Now sit down.”

“No.”  I had no idea where that came from.

“What did you say?”

“I’m going to my room.”

“Sit down.”  He said it in such a way that I knew now I had pushed him too far.

He stood, came over and slapped me on the side of the face so hard I fell on the floor.  My mother leapt out of her chair, knocking it over and came over to stand between me and him, a furious expression on her face.

“You promised me that you would not be like your father.  He may have beaten you and your brothers, but I will not have it in this house.”

I stayed on the floor, holding my face.  It really hurt, and I was crying.

“Then discipline your brats.”

“They are your brats too, but this is not the way.  Your father was a monster.  I told you that when he beat both of them for simply moving his newspaper.  You said then that you would never be like your father.  You are.  Right now.”

“And with your family you think you can take the high moral ground?  Your father was a pathetic excuse of a man who killed himself.  What would you know about anything?”

She hit him.

He punched her back; she fell backwards and hit her head on the door of the cabinet and went quiet.  I crawled over to her and shook her shoulder, saying, “Mum, Mum, wake up, please,” and sobbing.

My father looked down on me.  “This is your fault.”

I could see my brother was about to say something but then closed his mouth. 

No remorse, no recognition of what he had done.  He sat down again, as if nothing had happened.  My mother stirred, looked at me, then got up.  He watched her until she was standing.

“Come, Robert, I’ll take you to your room,” she said, while looking at my father. 

He was going to speak, then didn’t.

Whatever I may have thought of my father and my mother in the past, that was gone.  It was replaced by fear, the kind that made me think twice before I did anything that might upset him.

And that wasn’t out of respect, because I knew that the way we had lived our lives up until this moment in time, in a carefree and relaxed environment, was never going to be the same again.  He had changed; my mother had changed in a way I never thought was possible.

…

Many years later I learned from my brother that my father, a few weeks before ‘the incident’, he had a recurrence of the nightmares brought on by his war experiences.  He had never talked about them, not until recently, but the nightmares brought on sleeplessness, which brought on irritability and tiredness, which triggered a complete change of character.

He reverted to what he ‘knew ’, which was the characterisation of his own family life, which had been brutal and unrelenting, the reason why he left home very young and volunteered in the army to get away from his father.

That period in our lives lasted for nearly six months, during which all three of us found ourselves at the end of his tongue and hand, sometimes so bad, we had to skip school lest someone ask questions, questions that could not be explained away.

Until he collapsed and had to be taken to hospital with a recurrence of malaria, which had previously caused him to spend a few months in the hospital after returning from New Guinea.

They eventually called it a nervous breakdown.  He was there for a month.  We didn’t visit him.  When he came home, he apologised and said it would never happen again, but the damage had been done, and my mother was never the same, towards him, or towards us.

The thing is, no matter how hard you try to bury these memories, they stick in your mind, and nothing will ever remove what happened that day.  That first day I was on the floor, too frightened to get up.  Later, I hid under my bed, too frightened to come out.

And whatever my nature had been before the incident, it changed me, turning me into a frightened, unconfident child who preferred to live in any fantasy world other than the reality that was life in that house.  These days, what happened to us was hidden behind closed doors, and few people talked about it.  Not like today, when bullies like my father can go to jail.

At least, in my case, I did not perpetuate the cycle of violence.  It stopped with me.  Perhaps if it could be said anything good came out of it, it was that.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026