Or, more to the point, we all want to use words that will emphasise the description or the point we want to make.
The trick is not to make it so obscure that we send the readers to the Thesaurus too many times before they get bored.
Then there is that other problem of using the same word over and over, and that too gets boring.
Such a word is said. But you have to be careful not to use too flowery a description of what is being said, or the manner in which it is being imparted.
Gushed – I mean, who gushes these days?
Snapped – that’s what alligators do, and they don’t speak.
Quietly, whispered, demanding, spitefully, angrily. Try to think of how you would impart the words if you were in the place of your character.
How would you feel on the other end of a verbal barrage?
Perhaps therein lies a possible solution to the problem of describing conversations, arguments, heated exchanges, or what do they call them these days, robust discussions.
John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.
Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to get away.
Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.
With Worthington’s hit team hot on their trail, a diversion at the main railway station helps aid their departure.
By now, two things are certain:
Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and
John had to decide whether or not he wanted a life always looking over his shoulder.
No prizes for guessing his choice!
…
We’re still in Bratislava with Zoe, making a few repairs, having been injured in the getaway from the hotel, where bullets were flying around indiscriminately.
In a nondescript hotel near a railway station, the favourite accommodation for assassins, maybe, there’s enough time for John to get the message that Zoe is not happy with him bringing along a hit squad.
And, they’re on the news, that is to say, they know who it is that’s on the news; the blurry figures are too indistinct for anyone else to identify them. It was disconcerting to be called criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.
Back in London, Sebastian is about to have a set-to with Worthington, who has decided that Sebastian is too close and might compromise his black op, so he’s sending him to Paris.
Here, we learn that Sebastian has both Isobel and Rupert locked in the basement cells, awaiting interrogation, and that Worthington orders him to send them home.
Of course, Sebastian is not going to do anything of the sort.
He knows they know where John is, and by implication, where Zoe is, and wants to know.
In the first edit, I suspect I will have to mention Sebastian ‘arresting’ Rupert and Isobel just to keep continuity, and no unfathomable surprises later on.
The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling
“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu
In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.
In this post, we’ll explore:
Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.
Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.
1. The Science Behind the Pause
What Happens When You’re Silent
Why It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.
Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.
The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.
Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.
Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.
In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.
2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story
a. The “Goldilocks” Pause
What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
How to practice:
Ask a question.
Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.
Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try: “What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.
b. Mirror the Body Language
Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.
c. Avoid “Filler” Questions
Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.
d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”
When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.
Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.” You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence) Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.
3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves
a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence
Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.
The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.
b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue
Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.
“I’m leaving,” she whispered.
The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.
The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.
c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”
If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.
“You remember what happened that night?”
He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.
Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.
d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory
Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.
Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.
4. Pitfalls to Avoid
Pitfall
Why It Undermines Silence
Quick Fix
Filling gaps with narration
Over‑explaining robs the reader of agency.
Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pauses
Can feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.
Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredom
Some people mistake quiet for lack of content.
Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough question
Leads to shallow interviews/writing.
Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.
5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”
Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.
6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower
In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.
When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.
Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.
Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!
Is there a reason why you would not want to tell it, or that if you did, some people might find it uncomfortable?
The problem is, no matter what you write, someone out there isn’t going to like it.
And there is a raft of subjects to write about that cause concern, but these are sometimes stories that have to be told.
I have one such story, and to me, the telling of it would not fit the mainstream opinion because people are very divided over it. There are reasons for this, and they are being, in my opinion, sensationalised to polarise a particular stance.
The subject: Transgenders.
Like I said, it’s a story I would like to write about, but I know what the response is going to be.
And that isn’t to say that I do not have my own biases, the baggage that we are given when we are younger, where schools and teachers teach us what is supposedly the norm, they will need to work within for the rest of their lives.
In my day, it was that the man went to work to earn a living that provided a house, food, and everything else, while the woman stayed home, had children and looked after the man.
Yes, I can hear 50 per cent of the population laughing at that one, but how different is that societal norm to that where we are now taught that transgender people are subhumans that should be scorned and abandoned because they don’t fit the definition of man or woman?
Thankfully, I grew out of that, and women can vote, work, drive cars, and do anything they desire, though it seems there is a new movement that wants to take away all those rights and go back to the Stone Age.
Again, another very touchy subject, and that will eventually prevent the possibility of writers putting forward the various viewpoints for larger discussion.
Try going back another hundred years, when women were the sub-human species, little more than a man’s possession.
This is probably the only time I will raise the subject, as an instance of what writers may or may not write about, a highlight that public opinion, fueled by people in power, does eventually affect what can be written.
It’s something that we should all be mindful of, as well as keeping an open mind.
The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling
“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu
In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.
In this post, we’ll explore:
Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.
Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.
1. The Science Behind the Pause
What Happens When You’re Silent
Why It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.
Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.
The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.
Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.
Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.
In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.
2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story
a. The “Goldilocks” Pause
What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
How to practice:
Ask a question.
Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.
Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try: “What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.
b. Mirror the Body Language
Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.
c. Avoid “Filler” Questions
Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.
d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”
When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.
Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.” You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence) Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.
3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves
a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence
Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.
The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.
b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue
Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.
“I’m leaving,” she whispered.
The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.
The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.
c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”
If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.
“You remember what happened that night?”
He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.
Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.
d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory
Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.
Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.
4. Pitfalls to Avoid
Pitfall
Why It Undermines Silence
Quick Fix
Filling gaps with narration
Over‑explaining robs the reader of agency.
Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pauses
Can feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.
Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredom
Some people mistake quiet for lack of content.
Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough question
Leads to shallow interviews/writing.
Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.
5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”
Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.
6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower
In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.
When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.
Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.
Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!
When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry
“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”
It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?
In this post, we’ll:
Parse the quote – what does it really say?
Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.
Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.
1. The Quote in Plain English
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.
Break it down:
Phrase
What it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling
Many poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obvious
When a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartistic
Poetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.
At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.
2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry
a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product
Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.
Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.” That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.
b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”
Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.
c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling
When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.
3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge
Natural
Obvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.
Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.
Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.
Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.
Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.
In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.
4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses
4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament
My mother’s hand was warm, Now she’s gone, my world is cold. I miss her like the desert misses rain.
What went wrong?
Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.
4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery
She left a kitchen with an empty kettle, steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh— a ghost of mornings that never boiled.
What works?
Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.
4.3 Why the Difference Matters
The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.
5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry
If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.
Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back
Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?
Find a “Metaphorical Lens”
Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:
What object carries a similar weight?
Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
What action could stand in for the emotional state?
Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”
Play with Form to Force Freshness
Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.
Use “Defamiliarisation”
Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange. Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”
This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.
Invite the Reader to Participate
Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.
Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”
During revision, ask:
“Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
“What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
“Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”
If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.
6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience
The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?
The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.
When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.
7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)
Problem
Why it Happens
Fix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”
Overreliance on literal feeling.
Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”
Using familiar metaphors without thinking.
List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”
Too much telling, not enough showing.
Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”
Fear that editing will kill the feeling.
Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.
8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”
Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.
So the next time you sit down to write, remember:
Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.
Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.
Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.
So, here’s the thing. If I thought I could get James Patterson’s opinion on one of my novels, I would try, but I don’t think, given the prolific output he maintains, that he would have the time to put an amateur like me on the straight and narrow.
But…
Who’s to say that if I found another struggling author like me who was of a mind to offer an opinion, I wouldn’t take it?
I would have to say the best critic would be someone who writes similar genre stories to yours.
So…
Here’s the deal, minus the steak knives.
Join a writing group, a bunch of fellow writers who write the same stuff, and take on board contemporary reviews.
Something else that might help, in the absence of those great authors who probably have no time to look over our work, is to get the opinions of beta readers. I’ve been looking, but it seems a lot of them want payment. I guess there’s a good living out there, but they would have to be both reputable and good at it.
Other than that, there’s always a possibility that one day…
When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry
“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”
It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?
In this post, we’ll:
Parse the quote – what does it really say?
Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.
Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.
1. The Quote in Plain English
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.
Break it down:
Phrase
What it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling
Many poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obvious
When a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartistic
Poetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.
At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.
2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry
a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product
Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.
Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.” That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.
b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”
Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.
c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling
When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.
3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge
Natural
Obvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.
Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.
Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.
Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.
Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.
In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.
4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses
4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament
My mother’s hand was warm, Now she’s gone, my world is cold. I miss her like the desert misses rain.
What went wrong?
Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.
4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery
She left a kitchen with an empty kettle, steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh— a ghost of mornings that never boiled.
What works?
Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.
4.3 Why the Difference Matters
The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.
5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry
If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.
Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back
Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?
Find a “Metaphorical Lens”
Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:
What object carries a similar weight?
Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
What action could stand in for the emotional state?
Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”
Play with Form to Force Freshness
Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.
Use “Defamiliarisation”
Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange. Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”
This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.
Invite the Reader to Participate
Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.
Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”
During revision, ask:
“Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
“What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
“Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”
If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.
6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience
The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?
The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.
When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.
7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)
Problem
Why it Happens
Fix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”
Overreliance on literal feeling.
Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”
Using familiar metaphors without thinking.
List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”
Too much telling, not enough showing.
Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”
Fear that editing will kill the feeling.
Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.
8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”
Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.
So the next time you sit down to write, remember:
Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.
Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.
Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.
Does Where You Are Determine What and How Much You Write?
Introduction: The Unseen Hand of Place
You sit down at your desk, coffee steaming, notebook open, and… nothing happens. The cursor blinks like a taunting lighthouse. You hear the house settle, the dishwasher start, a notification ping from a social‑media app you don’t need to check. The very space you’ve cultivated for creativity feels more like a trap than a sanctuary.
Flip the scene. You’re on a cramped airport bench, a train rattles past, or you’re lying on an exam table, waiting for the surgeon’s lights to turn on. The world around you is noisy, uncomfortable, and utterly unpredictable—yet suddenly the words flow.
Is it the environment that makes us write—or the lack of it?
In this post, I’ll explore how location shapes both what we write and how much we manage to produce, why the “bad” places often become the most fertile, and what practical tricks you can use to turn any setting—home, office, or waiting room—into a writing ally.
1. The Myth of the “Ideal” Writing Space
1.1 The Comfort‑Trap
When we think of the “perfect” writing nook, we picture a quiet corner, a comfy chair, ambient lighting, maybe a plant or two. The problem? Comfort breeds complacency.
Distractions multiply – The very things you set up to keep you cozy—TV, music playlists, the fridge within arm’s reach—are also the easiest pathways to procrastination.
Decision fatigue – Choosing the right pen, the perfect mug, the exact temperature of the room consumes cognitive bandwidth that could otherwise go toward drafting sentences.
1.2 The “Creative Crisis” of Home
Home is a paradox. It’s where you choose to be, yet it’s also where the countless responsibilities, family members, and chores compete for your attention. Even with a meticulously organised desk, the mental clutter of “Did I leave the stove on?” or “I need to reply to that email” can block the flow of ideas.
Research note: A 2019 study published in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that participants reported higher creative output in “moderately distracting” environments (e.g., a coffee shop) compared to completely quiet or extremely noisy settings. A touch of ambient stimulus appears to “prime” the brain for associative thinking.
2. The Unexpected Power of “Bad” Places
2.1 Waiting as a Creative Engine
I first noticed the phenomenon while waiting for a 2‑hour pre‑surgery appointment. The fluorescent lights hummed, the nurse called my name in a monotone, and the sterile smell hung heavy. Instead of scrolling through my phone, I pulled out a notebook and let the anxiety of the impending operation funnel into a short story about a surgeon who could hear the thoughts of his patients.
Why did it work?
Time becomes owned – In a waiting room you have no real agenda; the minutes are yours by default. The brain, desperate to escape monotony, seeks a task.
Heightened emotional state – Stress, anticipation, or even boredom raise cortisol levels, which can sharpen focus temporarily—much like the “fight or flight” effect that hones attention on a single objective.
Physical constraints force mental clarity – Limited space, fixed seating, and the inability to move freely eliminate the temptation to “just get up and do something else.”
2.2 Other “Uncomfortable” Hotspots
Location
What Usually Pops Up
Why It Helps
Public transport (bus/train)
Observational snippets, dialogue, micro‑fiction
Constant flow of strangers gives instant character material.
Coffee shop (moderate buzz)
Blog outlines, brainstorming lists
Ambient chatter creates a low‑level “white noise” that blocks internal monologue distractions.
Ample time (e.g., a weekend retreat) → Long‑form novels or deep‑dive investigative pieces.
Understanding this relationship allows you to leverage a location rather than fight it. If you know you’ll be in a noisy airport, plan to write a list of story beats rather than a full draft. If you’re in a quiet home office, schedule deep‑work sessions for complex research.
4. Strategies to Turn Any Environment Into a Writing Ally
4.1 The “Mini‑Commitment” Method
What it is: Instead of promising yourself an hour of writing, commit to five focused minutes.
Why it works: Short bursts reduce the psychological barrier and are easier to fit into any setting—whether you’re on a train or standing in line.
Implementation tip: Keep a small notebook or a note‑taking app on your phone. When you spot a waiting period, open it and set a timer for 5 minutes. Write whatever comes to mind—no editing, just capture.
4.2 “Portable Writing Kit”
Item
Reason
Moleskine or pocket notebook
No batteries, instant start.
Pen with comfortable grip
Reduces friction, encourages flow.
Noise‑cancelling earbuds or a “focus playlist”
Helps mute external chatter without isolating you completely.
Offline writing app (e.g., iA Writer, Ulysses)
No internet needed, lightning‑fast launch.
A small “prompt card”
Pre‑written prompts or story seeds you can pull out on the spot.
Having these items in your bag means you can start right away when the perfect (or imperfect) moment appears.
4.3 “Environmental Anchors”
Assign a type of writing to a specific place.
Coffee shop → Brainstorming & outlining
Bedroom → Personal journaling
Commute (standing) → Sentence‑level micro‑writing
When you walk into that space, your brain already knows the mode you’ll adopt, reducing decision fatigue.
4.4 “Time‑Boxed Distraction Buffer”
If you’re at home and the distractions are relentless, schedule a distraction buffer: a 10‑minute period where you intentionally check emails, make a snack, or scroll social media before you sit down to write. Once the buffer ends, you’ve already satisfied the urge to wander, making it easier to stay focused on the task.
4.5 “The ‘Waiting‑Room Narrative’ Exercise”
Observe: Look around—people, sounds, smells. Jot down three concrete details.
Imagine: Assign each detail a character, a conflict, or a memory.
Write: In 10 minutes, craft a short scene that weaves those three elements together.
This exercise turns idle observation into a storytelling engine and can be repeated wherever you wait.
5. Real‑World Example: From Surgery Waiting Room to Published Short Story
Two hours before my knee‑replacement surgery, I was hunched on a plastic chair, the fluorescent lights buzzing above. My mind raced with “what‑ifs,” and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air.
I pulled out an empty notebook and wrote:
“The surgeon walked in, a quiet man with hands that trembled like the leaves outside the window…”
That snippet grew into a 2,500‑word short story titled “The Quiet Hands”, which later won a local flash‑fiction contest. The waiting room’s pressure gave the narrative urgency; the physical constraints forced me into concise, vivid prose; the ambient sounds became the rhythm of my sentences.
Takeaway: You don’t need a quiet home office to create award‑winning work—you just need to recognize the creative potential of every circumstance.
6. Final Thoughts: Embrace the Unpredictable
The answer to the headline question isn’t a simple “yes” or “no.” The place you’re in does influence what you write and how much you produce, but not in a deterministic way. It acts as a catalyst, a set of constraints, and a source of sensory fuel.
If you love the quiet of home, schedule deep‑work blocks and protect them fiercely.
If you thrive on the hustle of public spaces, use them for brainstorming, outlines, or short‑form writing.
If you’re stuck in a waiting room, treat that time as a gift—a forced pause that can sharpen focus and spark authenticity.
The ultimate skill isn’t to “find the perfect spot,” but to adapt—to read the environment, to decide what kind of writing it invites, and to have a toolbox ready for any scenario. When you can turn a sterile surgery waiting room into a launchpad for your best story, you’ve mastered that art.
Action Checklist
☐ Pack a portable writing kit (notebook, pen, earbuds).
☐ Set a daily mini‑commitment timer (5‑minute bursts).
☐ Practice the Waiting‑Room Narrative exercise once this week.
☐ Schedule a distraction buffer before your next home‑writing session.
Give yourself permission to write wherever you are. You may be surprised at the quality and quantity that emerges when you stop hunting for the “perfect” space and start harvesting the creativity that’s already hiding in the moments you thought were just downtime. Happy writing!
In the beginning, we tend to write ourselves into the stories we write, and also, the various other characters are a collection of traits of people we have known in the past and present.
The trick is with those other people not to make them too much like their real-life counterparts, or you may spend the rest of your life in litigation.
I know there are parts of me in my characters because people I know who have read my stories tell me how much they are like me. The problem with that is I didn’t realise I was doing it.
But, to emphasise, the story is not about you.
Unless it is an autobiography.
I have thought about writing the story of my life, but it’s so boring; the best use of my book would be to read it just before going to bed.
What is probably more interesting would be the story of my family, traced back to the mid-1700s, and they are a very interesting bunch. To me, it seems that people who lived a hundred years ago had far more interesting lives than we do these days.
Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back
Find a “Metaphorical Lens”
Play with Form to Force Freshness
Use “Defamiliarisation”
Invite the Reader to Participate
Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 