10 Things Quantum Physics Teaches Fiction Writers About Creating a Character

How Schrödinger’s cat can help you develop a better protagonist

If you believe some of what’s peddled in the safe space inside creative writing workshops, how to write a protagonist sounds easy. You simply invent someone relatable, flawed, and compelling. A few quirks here, a tragic backstory there. And voilà, instant Booker Prize.

In practice, of course, creating a believable character can feel more like building a nuclear reactor out of leftover IKEA parts. And yet, it’s quantum physics, no less that can teach us a few surprising character development tips in the delicate business of character creation.

Yes, quantum physics. The one with cats, particles, and scientists who can’t find their car keys. Stick with me. Because it turns out the universe’s tiniest mysteries hold big truths for anyone trying to write believable characters for her story.

1. Superposition: Your Character Is Many Things at Once

How does superimposition help create a compelling protagonist? In quantum mechanics, a particle exists in multiple states simultaneously until observed. It’s not here or there. It’s here and there.

Likewise, your protagonist shouldn’t be pinned down too soon. They can be both brave and terrified, selfish and noble, sober and quietly eyeing the minibar. Until the story forces a choice, until you open Schrödinger’s box, they should remain a glorious tangle of contradictions.

Let them be messy. If your hero always does exactly what you expect, congratulations: you’ve created a toaster, not a person.

2. The Observer Effect: Characters Change When Watched

Observation alters reality. Just looking at a particle changes its behaviour.

Writers are the nosiest observers in the universe. We poke, prod, and demand our characters justify their choices. But perspective matters too. Who’s telling the story changes what’s seen.

The same protagonist might be a hero in one version, a villain in another. Gatsby through Nick Carraway’s eyes is tragic; Gatsby through his own Instagram stories would be unbearable. In that is a creative writing lesson: don’t settle for one perspective.

Let the act of observation shape the story. A character seen from multiple angles becomes more real. And, let’s be honest, far more interesting.

3. Entanglement: No Character Exists Alone

Two particles can become entangled so that their fates are linked, no matter how far apart they drift.

You can apply this to writing a protagonist. Their identity doesn’t form in isolation. It’s shaped by the people orbiting them. Friends, foes, lovers, rivals, the barista who keeps spelling their name wrong.

Character arc examples remind us: growth depends on connection. If your protagonist’s arc could unfold unchanged in a vacuum, that’s more a motivational quote than a character.

4. The Uncertainty Principle: Keep a Little Mystery

Writing advice for beginners: resist the urge to explain everything.

Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle says you can’t know a particle’s position and momentum at the same time. Try to pin down one, and the other slips away. The same goes for your characters. The more you over-explain them (their motives, traumas, dietary intolerances) the less intriguing they become. Readers like mystery. They want to feel there’s more beneath the surface.

And so, more writing advice for the novice writer. Hint, suggest, and let readers fill the gaps. If they finish your book unsure whether your hero was a saint, a sociopath, or just very tired, that’s a win.

5. Quantum Tunnelling: Transformation Against the Odds

Sometimes particles break through barriers they shouldn’t be able to cross. It shouldn’t happen, yet it does. Make transformation hard won.

That’s how you can write a character arc that feels alive. Real transformation should feel impossible, until it happens. A miserly banker doesn’t become generous because someone asked nicely. He changes because the story compresses him until he tunnels through his own limitations.

When your protagonist does the unthinkable. When she admits fault, forgives an enemy, or chooses salad, that’s when readers lean forward.

6. Decoherence: Collapse the Wave at the Right Time

There’s another character development tip we can glean here. Time your turning point like a physicist. In physics, “decoherence” is when a wave of potential collapses into one definite outcome. This is your climax. The moment your protagonist stops being all things at once and becomes one thing in particular. The coward who runs, or the hero who stays.

Collapse the wave too early, and the story loses energy. Too late, and readers wander off to alphabetize their spice racks. The art lies in timing the collapse for maximum emotional yield.

7. Quantum Foam: The Messy Matter of Backstory

Physicists believe the universe’s fabric is frothy. It’s a seething mess of energy popping in and out of existence.

That’s your character’s backstory. Don’t over-polish it. Real people don’t emerge from tidy narrative conditions. They crawl out of the bubbling chaos of half-remembered decisions, family weirdness, and one regrettable haircut.

Great protagonists aren’t engineered. They coalesce.

8. The Multiverse of Motivation

If quantum physics is right, there are infinite universes, one where you’re reading this essay, and another where you’re reading something more useful. If you want to write believable characters, let them want more than one thing.

For writers, this means your character can hold conflicting motivations at once. They might want love and revenge, freedom and security. These contradictions don’t need resolving. They need exploring. Drama lies in the collision of motives, not the neatness of their alignment. Humans rarely know what they want. That’s why we read novels in the first place 

9. Measurement Error: Let Them Fail Beautifully

This creative writing advice might seem counter-intuitive at first.

Science is full of experimental error. So is character writing. Perfection is boring; failure is character.

Let your protagonist make bad choices: wrong loves, ill-advised texts, questionable haircuts. Readers don’t fall for perfection; they fall for the human impulse to try, fail, and try again (preferably while holding a drink).

Every failure brings your character closer to coherence, to becoming the version of themselves the story demands.

10. The Big Bang: Endings That Feel Inevitable (But Weren’t)

All universes begin with a bang, but the best stories end with one. That final burst of meaning which feels both surprising and inevitable. When your protagonist’s many possible selves collapse into one resonant truth, it should feel like destiny disguised as discovery. That’s when you’ve created life—not biological, but emotional.

The Final Experiment

Every time you sit down to write a protagonist, you’re running an experiment. You don’t know how they’ll behave under pressure or which version of them will emerge. You only know that something extraordinary might happen if you keep watching.

That’s what physicists and writers share. We’re both staring into the void, hoping it stares back with meaning.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s just another cat.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How To Make Your Plot Irresistible - Part 2

From Midpoint to Mayhem: How Not to Drop the Ball Just When It Starts Getting Good

We finished in part one of this two-part series at the game-changing midpoint. The midpoint isn’t the finish line. It’s the pivot point, the literary moment when your story looks up from its coffee and says, “Wait. What just happened?”

The plot twist has detonated, the hero is emotionally concussed, and the reader is wondering how on earth you plan to clean up this narrative spill. Welcome to the part of the story where every choice counts. The illusion of control is gone. Your hero knows too much, your villain knows more, and the only thing holding it all together is your ability to fake confidence on the page.

So, what happens now?

From here to how you finish your story, the things need to accelerate, escalate, and emotionally devastate. It’s not enough to entertain. You want to manipulate your reader’s heart rate.

The Post-Midpoint Action Hero

After the midpoint twist comes the part where your protagonist recalibrates. It’s another mouthful: the Post-Midpoint Action Hero. They’ve just had their worldview lovingly demolished. Now they’re forced to create a new plan. This part is the story’s second inciting incident. This is the moment when the character realizes that everything they’ve been doing was (how to put this politely) idiotic.

Suddenly, yesterday’s brilliant plan looks about as effective as a chocolate teapot. They’re no longer reactionary. Now they act. Your main character is forced out of their comfort zone. They’ll have to improvise wildly and pretend they meant to do whatever it is they end up doing. Readers love this stage because it feels real. Watching a character fail, adjust, and keep going taps into our secret desire to see someone else’s life messier than ours.

If you’re ever tempted to rescue your protagonist with a helicopter, alien intervention, or an inexplicably benevolent billionaire, resist. They got themselves into this mess. They’ll have to claw their way out. The more painful the flailing, the more satisfying the triumph. Bonus points if your hero maintains a touch of humor or self-doubt. Nothing earns reader loyalty faster than competence on the brink of collapse. 

The Second Pinch Point: When Everything Gets Uncomfortably Close

As you’re writing your novel, this is where the opposition tightens its grip. The walls close in. Even if your novel doesn’t feature a cackling villain stroking a cat, the pressure needs to feel personal. Maybe an ally betrays the protagonist. Maybe a deadline looms. Maybe their own crippling self-belief resurfaces at the worst possible moment, whispering, “You can’t possibly do this. 

As a writer, I love this part because tension makes the prose hum. Readers love it because tension makes them forget to blink. The key is to keep ratcheting up the tension. Best if it’s the quiet kind that creeps up until the reader realizes your main character’s entire plan has started to resemble a slow-motion train crash. And like any good crash, they can’t look away.

The Supposed Victory: False Hope

Every story needs a breath of optimism. Just as readers start to wonder if this is all doom and gloom, give them a glimmer of success. Your protagonist wins something. Maybe it’s a clue, an ally, a small victory that feels disproportionately important. They begin to think, “At last, everything’s working!” The reader feels their hope. Neither realizes that disaster is just about to cross the street to say hello.

False hope is storytelling’s cruelest pleasure. It lulls the reader into security right before you yank the rug out. Think of it as the emotional equivalent of handing them a cupcake filled with mustard. They’ll never trust you again. And that’s precisely the point.

The Unforeseen Disaster: Everything Falls Apart

That false victory? A mirage. This is where you press the button labeled “Oh no.” Everything collapses. Allies vanish. Plans crumble. The hero faces not just external defeat but an internal reckoning. Their greatest fear (the one they’ve been avoiding since chapter one) finally drags itself into the light.

This moment isn’t chaos for chaos’s sake. It’s the story exposing the flaw at the heart of your protagonist. They can’t simply punch or argue their way out; they must evolve. That’s why this sequence, however cruel, is essential. It transforms a plot from mere action into revelation.

If your reader audibly gasps here, congratulations. You’ve done your job. If they throw the book across the room, even better. That’s passion, the holy grail of fiction.

The Dark Moment: Rock Bottom and Other Amenities

The disaster leads inevitably to the dark moment, when everything looks hopeless. Your protagonist has lost, failed, or possibly run out of snacks. This is the emotional nadir, the part where even the author starts muttering, “Maybe they should just give up. 

Do not be afraid of despair. Readers need to see the protagonist broken before they can believe in their renewal. Skipping the dark moment is like baking a cake and forgetting to turn on the oven. Sure, all the ingredients are there, but no one’s going to enjoy it.

So let your character weep, sulk, curse fate, and consider alternative careers. Only through total collapse can they glimpse what must change.

The Aha Moment: Enlightenment. But Make It Earned

Somewhere in the darkness, the lightbulb finally flickers on. The protagonist realizes the true cause of their misery. It can be nearly anything: their fear, their misbelief, their stunning talent for self-sabotage. It’s not a thunderclap of genius so much as a weary sigh of recognition.

This aha moment doesn’t need to be grand or cinematic. Often, it’s a quiet internal shift. It could be an admission that maybe, just maybe, they’ve been the problem all along. It’s a humble revelation, but it transforms everything. For the first time, your hero acts with clarity instead of panic. They stop reacting and start deciding. They become, in the grand tradition of all satisfying stories, the person they were meant to be before you so rudely started torturing them.

The Climactic Confrontation: Time to Prove It

Now comes the showdown. Here, your protagonist finally faces what terrified them at the start. This is not just an external test. It’s the proof of internal growth. The hero who once fled now stands their ground. The coward becomes courageous. The perfectionist embraces imperfection.

A good climax is never about explosions (though those help). It’s about emotional truth. When readers feel the protagonist’s transformation rather than simply observing it, you’ve hit gold.

And yes, you may allow yourself one satisfying punch, sword thrust, or snappy line of dialogue. You’ve earned it.

Victory and Resolution: The Afterglow

Victory doesn’t mean perfection. It means your protagonist has faced fear and emerged altered. Maybe the external battle is won, maybe not. But the internal one has been settled. They’ve learned, changed, grown. The story closes not with fireworks but with resonance.

This is also your opportunity to tie up the lingering threads before your reader starts writing fanfiction just to find closure. Don’t rush. Let the story exhale. Leave us with the sense that life goes on. Maybe now, though, slightly better, slightly wiser, slightly more expensive after all the property damage.

Emotional Choreography

Plot structure is really just emotional choreography. You’re guiding your reader through exhilaration, despair, revelation, and relief, ideally without losing them (or your sanity) along the way. The beats that follow the midpoint are what separate mildly interesting from “Sorry, what? Did someone yell ‘fire’ a while back?” 

So keep your hero stumbling, your tension escalating, and your sense of humor intact. Because storytelling is less about perfection and more about momentum. Momentum is how you keep your readers up far past their bedtime, muttering “just one more chapter,” at 3:17 AM. 

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How To Make Your Plot Irresistible - Part 1

Constructing a first half so compelling it’s reader catnip

You want to write more than just a story they like. You want to pen one that drags them forward, hijacks their bedtime, and deposits them at the final page wondering what just happened to the last four hours of their life?

The Secret Formula (Kind of)

It’s not as if there’s a scientific formula, some kind of guaranteed set of steps (like some kind of narrative blueprint) that make any plot compelling. The writing process doesn’t work like that. But there are certain ingredients that help. So let’s break down the mechanics behind truly compulsive plots: the tension, the stakes, and the emotional grip that keeps readers glued even when nothing particularly explosive is happening on the page. 

At some point, every new scribbler, trying to write a book, hits that maddening wall. The draft looks fine, the scenes work, the dialogue isn’t embarrassing. And yet the story simply refuses to generate that essential “just one more chapter” momentum. Maybe you’ve added twists. Maybe you’ve added jokes. Maybe you’ve even added a dragon, because why not.

And that, not spectacle, is what keeps readers turning pages.

When I first tried writing something even remotely gripping, I thought I needed to reinvent fiction itself. Creating an irresistible story isn’t about inventing something never-before-seen. It’s about telling the story only you could tell, rooted in relatable human tension. The universal writing structure behind nearly every great book is older than your browser history. Yes, I’m talking about Freytag’s Pyramid. You were probably introduced to in school while doodling dragons and fictional band logos in the margins of your notebook.

Freytag’s Pyramid is the structure of storytelling. What follows is kind of an upgraded version. The slightly more detailed structure I’ve discovered through experience, frustration, and the occasional forehead in contact with my desk.

The Hook (No, Not the Car-Chase Kind)

The Hook isn’t necessarily a car chase or a meteor heading toward Earth. More often, it’s something internal. Maybe a deeply rooted desire bumping up against a powerful fear. That tension has to exist before the big event crashes into your character’s life. If your protagonist feels totally fine at the start, your reader won’t feel much of anything either. The hook isn’t the external problem. It’s the hint that something inside this person is already falling apart..

The Inciting Incident (or: Goodbye, Cozy Bubble)

Next comes the Inciting Incident. This is the moment everything changes, even if that’s just a carefully curated illusion of control. The incident doesn’t need to be planet-threatening. It can be as simple as a spilled latte on the CEO’s laptop or a text message that really shouldn’t exist. The key is that this event pushes the protagonist outside their comfort zone. They can’t avoid the thing they’ve been avoiding any longer. They must react. That reaction becomes your first major jolt of story momentum.

The Build-Up. AKA “Everything Gets Messy Now”

After that come the consequences. Welcome to the Build-Up, where your character’s life becomes messier, weirder, and significantly less convenient. Now they have to face fallout from their earlier life choices, which means more internal wrestling and more questionable decision-making. This is where readers see the character’s quirks and flaws fully bloom. The hesitation. The overthinking. The hilarious mistakes. These are the reasons readers fall in love. Because the character feels human, not perfect.

The First Plot Point (Yes, They Choose Wrong First)

Now, it’s time for the First Plot Point. This is the moment your protagonist makes a decision that will change everything going forward. They’ll almost always make the wrong choice. Not because they’re dumb, but because fear is still steering the ship. They see what they want, but they aren’t brave enough to pursue it honestly yet. They’re still trying to avoid pain while chasing joy. It’s a delicate, doomed dance. And readers adore it.

The First Pinch Point: A Friendly Reminder That Things Will Get Worse

Once momentum is rolling, it’s time for the First Pinch Point. This is the tap on the shoulder that says, “Hey buddy, this is going to get worse.” Even without a supervillain cackling in the dark, novels need pressure. The world pushes back. Obstacles sharpen. The protagonist’s misbelief (the deeply flawed worldview they cling to) becomes their biggest enemy. Tension grows. Readers lean in.

Act Two: The Reactionary Hero (Panic with a Side of Denial)

Now we enter the glorious chaos of Act Two. The hero becomes what people who study story structure call the Pre-Midpoint Reactionary Hero. (I know; it’s a mouthful.) They respond to threats, but they aren’t leading the charge yet. They come up with a plan (usually a mediocre one) to get what they want without facing what they fear. It’s adorable. And frustrating. And utterly compelling. This is usually where dialogue starts popping, because the more the character tries to finesse the situation, the more their personality slips out, whether that means sarcasm, denial, or frantic attempts to appear competent.

The Midpoint: The Moment Everything Breaks (In the Best Way)

And then, boom. The Midpoint. The twist. The game-changer. This is the moment that flips the story on its head. Something happens. Maybe it’s a betrayal, a revelation, an unexpected disaster. It reveals the truth about what’s really at stake. Suddenly, the protagonist’s safe strategy crumbles. Their fear is no longer avoidable. The midpoint isn’t a surprise for shock value. It’s a deliberate tectonic shift. The story pivots from reactive to proactive. Now the character must evolve, or they’ll fail.

When you master the midpoint pivot, you take your story from “pretty good” to “Sorry, did someone yell ‘Fire’ a few minutes ago?” A compelling midpoint is what separates drafts abandoned in Google Drive from novels people binge-read during lunch breaks and in bathroom stalls.

By zeroing in on internal conflict, forcing characters out of comfort, escalating the consequences, and twisting the knife at the midpoint, you’ve built the spine of an irresistible story. You’ve given readers tension to crave, a character to root for, and stakes that keep rising. And yes, even your subplot about a missing cat can feel essential when framed through emotional urgency.

Writing a novel doesn’t require reinventing storytelling. It requires leaning into the messy, wonderful psychology of desire versus fear. Readers stay up too late not because your character has to defeat the dragon, but because they have to defeat the part of themselves that believes they can’t.

Make Their Life Worse. Then Worse Again

If you build a story where internal conflict pummels your protagonist, where every choice digs them deeper, where the midpoint hits like discovering there’s no coffee left in the cupboard — readers won’t put your book down. Not willingly. They’ll read until their eyeballs stage a protest and their phone battery taps out. And when they finally close the cover, they’ll mutter to themselves, “Just one more chapter… tomorrow.” That’s the magic. That’s the goal. And that’s how you transform your story from “nice try” into “notify next of kin; I’m busy reading.”

(Part 2 is coming. Because a truly unputdownable story always leaves you wanting more.)

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How to Market Your Book Without Becoming a Used Car Salesman

You Wrote a Whole Book. Great. Now the Real Work Begins

You wrote a book. An entire book. Roughly three percent of people who start writing one ever finish. And yet here you are: victorious, exhausted, a bloodstream of pure cortisol. You survived the grind of filling hundreds of pages with thousands of words. You pushed through the horror of reaching forty thousand words only to discover there were at least as many more to go. You endured rewrites that made you doubt your ability to form a coherent sentence.

And now you’re holding a finished manuscript and wondering what, in the name of your heart palpitations, happens next.

Do you send it to agents and wait six to twelve months for someone to maybe, possibly, if the planets align, respond with a polite, “Not for us”? Or do you self-publish and get your story into readers’ hands before the wrinkles you earned writing it develop their own wrinkles?

Self-Publishing Isn’t the Easy Way Out (Despite What Your Uncle Thinks)

Self-publishing gives you complete freedom for everything after you hit <publish>. There’s no publisher arranging reviews, booking interviews, or phoning bookstores. There’s just you—standing proudly beside your book like someone who’s opened a modest tent next to a circus already full of clowns.

But marketing your self-published book doesn’t require you to morph into a garishly dressed, brash salesperson pouncing on strangers with “Have you heard about my novel?” Done correctly, marketing simply helps the right readers discover a book they’ll genuinely enjoy. They already want great stories. Your job is to let them know yours exists. No megaphone required.

Start Marketing Before Your Book Exists. Sounds Weird but it Works

If you begin marketing on launch day, you’re already late. It’s like turning up to a wedding after the cake has been cut and someone’s uncle is already dancing in a way that suggests a medical professional should intervene.

Successfully self-publishing your book starts with building anticipation long before release. They share progress updates, writing frustrations, snippets of dialogue, cover reveals, and occasional photos of themselves glaring at the manuscript as if it stole money from them. The more you bring people along for the journey, the more invested they become. Come launch day, they won’t just know about your book. They’ll feel oddly proud of it, as if they helped raise it.

 This is the cornerstone of self-publishing: start early, share generously, and make readers feel part of the beautifully chaotic process.

Why Your Email List Is the One Thing You Should Start Immediately

Social media is unpredictable. Algorithms shift, platforms implode, billionaires rearrange buttons for sport, and posts vanish into the digital abyss. Email, however, is steady, personal, and refreshingly free of algorithmic mood swings.

Offer readers something small in exchange for signing up. Maybe it’s a short story, a deleted scene, a cover preview. Don’t think of it as bribery; it’s hospitality. Once you have their email address, you can share updates, release news, behind-the-scenes chaos, and occasional existential questions about your characters. More importantly, you’ve built a direct line to readers who already like you. And you don’t have to hope an app decides to show them your posts.

Your Sales Page Matters More Than You Think

Your Amazon page is your storefront. It must convince readers (in about the time it takes them to blink) that your book is worth their attention. The cover is your first impression, the handshake, the visual promise. If it looks amateurish, readers flee. Sharp and professional, they might stick around.

 The book description then works on your behalf, gently manufacturing curiosity. It should intrigue without sounding like you swallowed a thesaurus during a full moon. Categories and keywords ensure your book shows up in the right digital neighbourhood instead of being lost somewhere between “Experimental 1970s Tax Codes” and “Unclear Metaphors: A Study.”

Think of your sales page as a dating profile: highlight the best parts. Avoid chaos, and present yourself as someone worth spending several hours with.

Reviews Are Validation and a Strange Source of Dread

A book with no reviews is like a restaurant with an empty parking lot. People assume trouble. Reviews signal credibility. Even if the occasional reviewer writes, “I loved everything except the plot, characters, and prose.” don’t panic. These things happen.

 Early reviews matter. Reach out to bloggers, genre reviewers, BookTok creators, and passionate readers in your niche. When someone leaves a review, thank them as though they’ve handed you a very polite, well-dressed puppy. Because in marketing terms, they have.

Launch Is Not a One-Day Event

A launch shouldn’t be one dramatic post followed by radio silence. Make it a multi-day event. Share behind-the-scenes moments, highlight early reviews, and talk about your characters like they’re mischievous relatives. If posting feels repetitive, that means you’re doing it correctly. Half your audience didn’t see it the first time anyway. They were lost in cat videos and indistinguishable food-reel content.

Marketing After Launch Is Where Most Writers Disappear. Please Don’t

Books don’t expire. They don’t wilt after ten days. Many successful self-published books grow slowly, gathering momentum through steady, ongoing attention. Continue promoting. Try price drops, ads, newsletters, collaborations, podcast interviews, or (when needed) a cover refresh. A book’s long life is built on consistent, low-drama effort rather than a single, exhausted burst of enthusiasm.

Charisma Not Required. (Thank Goodness)

Self-publishing isn’t publish and pray. It’s a cycle: build, launch, sustain, repeat. You don’t need to be a marketing genius or a charismatic extrovert. You just need to consistently champion the story you worked so hard to create.

Readers already want great books. All you’re doing is stepping into the light long enough to say, “Mine’s over here.” The writing can do the rest.

You made a book. That alone is extraordinary. Now give it the chance to travel. And once it’s out there, do what all slightly unhinged writers do: start the next one. This strange, delightful creative life has no finish line. Only more pages.

8 Things I Wish I Knew Before Writing My First Book

(So You Don’t Have to Learn the Hard Way)

Are there things I wish I knew before I wrote my first book? Where to start. Let’s just say it involves characters that were written in and later written out, plotlines that took hours only to vanish entirely, and filling cups of black coffee with tears. If you’ve ever secretly wondered whether writing a book might just be a weird form of voluntary masochism, newsflash: it is.

If you’re here because you want some tips on how to write a book, here are some rookie writing mistakes, some hard-won truths, storytelling lessons. This is advice that would’ve saved me years of “why did I think I could do this?” moments. Whether you’re trying to start writing a book or hoping to finish your first draft without losing your mind, this is for you.

Why Writing Your First Book Isn’t as Glamorous as It Looks

If you want to write a book and you’re of the mind I was, you might think writing a book is glamorous. You know: a quiet desk, a nearby pot of hot coffee, the occasional “aha!” moment, and the gentle hum of creativity in the background.

Yeah, no such luck.

For me, writing turned out to be more like wrestling a greased octopus. Using only my feet. While blindfolded. Characters disappeared into the plot without warning, scenes refused to cooperate, and some of my best ideas arrived at 2AM fully formed, only to evaporate by morning.

Still, there’s a strange magic to learning to write a novel. Even when the words stumble and the story goes sideways, writing a book teaches you things you can’t learn anywhere else. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s really like to go from blank page to “maybe-I’ll-survive-this-draft,” here are eight things I wish I’d known before writing my first novel. Consider it a guide, a warning, and a little bit of therapy, all rolled into one.

Lesson 1: Why Characters Matter More Than Plot

When I started Half Made Up, I thought I had it all figured out. I was a plot guy. Give me twists, turns, cliffhangers, and I was happy. Characters? Meh. They’d sort themselves out. I was about as prepared as an armless mime auditioning for King Lear.

Here’s some first novel truth: plot is shiny. Plot is fun. But plot without characters is like a rollercoaster with no riders. You can have all the loops and twists you like, but no one cares. Make your characters flawed, hopeful, and occasionally ridiculous. Let them do things that reveal secrets, quirks, and inner chaos. Make them worth following. If readers care about the people, they’ll follow them through dragon caves, haunted houses, or tax audits.

Lesson 2: Treat Writing Like a Job (Even if You’re Not Stephen King)

Stephen King says to treat writing like a job. And I think he’s right. You need a writing schedule. Write consistently. Build it into your routine. Treat your novel like a daily habit, one that’s essential, like a psychopath practicing his smile. Show up. Write. I read somewhere Stephen King aims for 2,500 clean words a day.

Forget that. Even 500 words counts. Writing isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up. Consistency beats inspiration, every time.

Lesson 3: Not All Writing Is Actually Writing

Here’s a rookie writing mistake I fell into: I thought “writing” was just sitting down and letting the words flow. Wrong. Writing is a lot more than simply typing. Writing a book includes research, drafting, revising, editing carefully, fixing plot holes, and yes, weeping quietly into your notebook while wondering if you’ll ever finish something half decent. Writing is problem-solving disguised as inspiration. Every hour spent staring at a plot hole counts as writing. It’s just quieter and sadder.

Lesson 4: Multiple Drafts Are Normal

I dashed off Half Made Up in three months. Thrilling, right? Sure, until I realized I had to re-draft it. And then again. And again. Five more times. Entire characters were disappeared. Subplots were written out. Scenes were abandoned like lost luggage. If I’d spent more time planning, plotting, and outlining upfront, I might have avoided some dead ends. But some of the best discoveries come mid-chaos. Just expect a long haul and bring snacks.

Lesson 5: Plotting Is Constant Revision

You don’t have to perfect everything in the first draft.

Plotting is never done. Ideas pop up mid-draft: a better line of dialogue, a more elegant way to introduce a character, a twist you didn’t see coming. I tried stopping to fix things immediately. It was inefficient. Instead, I started keeping a notebook of corrections, things I’d fix once I’d finished whatever chunk of the draft I was working on. Momentum first, polish later. The story can always be edited. My advice? Just keep moving.

Lesson 6: You Don’t Have to Write Linearly

Don’t force yourself to struggle through a passage if inspiration is elsewhere. Some days, Chapter 7 is calling your name; other days, Chapter 2 is screaming: “Get back here and fix this!”

Don’t force linearity. Skip ahead. Or back. Write what feels right. Your story isn’t a straight line; it’s spaghetti, and you’re allowed to untangle any part of it at any time.

Lesson 7: Pacing Matters. Fast Scenes Fast, Slow Scenes Slow

From Lee Child I learned that speed and energy matter. Action scenes need zip. He says get the fast parts down fast. Slow, emotional scenes should be written slow, careful, and tension filled.

Readers feel pacing subconsciously. Balance is everything. Labor over the slow parts when necessary, but let the excitement of the fast parts pull readers along. Otherwise, your novel will feel like a boulder rolling uphill, but without the thrill.

Lesson 8: Your First Book Is a Writing Tutorial

I thought writing my first book meant I had made it. Ha! No. The first book teaches you. A lot. By the second, I was wiser. I applied lessons learned, approached the craft deliberately, and tightened my style.

Learning to write is mostly about logging hours. There are no shortcuts. The first book is your classroom, your training montage, and your first scar. Treat it as such.

The Messy, Rewarding Truth About Writing a Novel

So what did I learn before and during writing my first book? Characters matter more than plot because readers follow people, not chaos. Treat writing like a job and show up consistently. Not all writing is writing; a lot of it is problem-solving, editing, and yes, crying into coffee. It takes time, and multiple drafts are unavoidable. Plotting is constant revision, so keep a notebook of improvements handy. You don’t have to write linearly; skip ahead if inspiration calls. Pacing matters. Remember fast parts fast, slow parts slow.

Finally, I would say this: practicing the craft works. Use your first book as a classroom.

At the end of the day, the first book isn’t about perfection. It’s about survival. If you make it to the last page without spontaneously combusting, congratulations. You’re officially a writer. And if anyone asks, yes, it was always supposed to be exactly as chaotic as it is.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How to Write an Unputdownable Book

Keeping Strangers Up at Night Without Being a Psychopath

Some books refuse to let you go. You read one page, then another, and suddenly it’s 3AM. That’s the kind of story you want to write. You want to be responsible for creating readers who ignore dinner, forget to pick up their kids, neglect their REM sleep and nearly cause air disasters (if they’re air traffic controllers).

If you’re here to learn how to write a book, here are ten ideas you can try using to help create prose that’s unputdownable.

1. Make Your Reader Heart-Hitch to a Character

Unputdownable stories start with someone we care about. Forget anything stock or cliché. Make your characters flawed, hopeful, trying. Characters are mirrors. Except instead of showing us our best selves, they show the parts we like to keep buried under three layers of emotional bubble wrap.

You can build compelling characters without taking a psychology degree. Give them something they want (love, justice, revenge, cake). Give them something in the way (an enemy, society, gluten intolerance). Give them a flaw that complicates everything.

Readers don’t turn pages because a character walks into a dragon’s cave. They turn pages because the character lies and says they’re totally brave while sweat-crying internally.

2. Desire + Obstacle = Plot (Ta-da!)

Plot isn’t the explosions or chase scenes. That’s just the glitter. The engine beneath is motivation colliding with failure. If you’re seeking novel writing tips for first time authors, here’s one I wish I’d tattooed on my forearm: The story ends the moment the protagonist gets what they want. Or gives up trying.

Here are some plot structure tips to help you write your book. Introduce a dramatic question early: Will Frodo destroy the Ring before it destroys him? Make things worse (then worse again, then “oh wow they’re definitely dead now”). End with some kind of transformation, not just a resolution.

If the character doesn’t change, the reader feels cheated. Like ordering a chocolate croissant and getting a squashed bran muffin instead.

3. Dialogue That Doesn’t Sound Like Robots at Brunch

Write dialogue that feels real. For starters: use contractions. (We do not speak like androids). Let characters talk around what they mean. Humans are allergic to direct honesty. Cut every line that exists only to dump information. Here’s a test. If you speak a line aloud and cringe with a vocal exclamation that sounds like “Yeugghhh,” it’s a rewrite.

4. Show, Don’t, Oops, Still Showing

Yes, yes, show don’t tell. Writers hear this so often it loses meaning. (It’s like the word “moist,” in advertising copy.)

This isn’t about filling your story with 19 paragraphs describing fog. It’s about letting actions reveal what characters feel. Trusting readers to connect the dots. Avoiding sentences like “She was sad” when you can show her spooning peanut butter from the jar at 2AM while listening to breakup ballads

Readers want to experience the emotion, not just receive the memo.

5. Structure is Your Safety Net (Not Handcuffs)

If you’re wondering how write an unputdownable novel, structure is critical. Outlines exist to prevent saggy middles (in fiction, anyway). They’re like maps, the kind that say: “Mines ahead. Choose wisely, or limp home.

Pansters, plotters, and the rest of us chaos gremlins can all agree. Knowing where you’re generally headed is better than waking up in Chapter 27 wailing, “What is this book even about?”

6. Conflict is the Unsung Hero

A story without conflict is a nap pretending to be a novel. In school we all learned the three basic types (man vs man, man vs nature, man vs himself.) These three let you create any number of conflicts.

Stories thrive on discomfort. Like jeans after the holidays.

7. Pacing. End Each Scene with a Breadcrumb

Here’s the most powerful of the common mistakes new writers make. They end scenes where the tension collapses. Don’t do that. End on uncertainty. End on danger. End on something unanswered so the reader chases the next page like it’s their ex’s Instagram Stories.

Cliffhangers don’t need cliffs. They just need unfinished business.

8. Raise the Stakes Until Even You Are Nervous
If everything goes right for your characters, you’ve written a pamphlet about a pleasant day, not a novel. Each choice they make should cost something. Each failure should echo. Each success should feel like sprinting up a down escalator.

When in doubt, ask: What’s the worst thing that could happen? Then maybe do that. Readers don’t stay up past bedtime for mild inconvenience. They’re here for the emotional equivalent of a roller coaster welded together by a chaotic neutral engineer.

9. Theme: Sneak the Vegetables into the Mac & Cheese
Theme is the quiet question under all the noise. It’s why your story matters. But if you preach it too loud, you turn into that guy at parties who corners strangers to explain cryptocurrency.

The trick is this. Let the theme emerge from the struggle, not from speeches. Readers should feel it in their bones, prompting them to stare into the bottomless maw of the utterly meaningless void that is their lives.

10. Editing: Where Your Book Stops Being a Hot Mess
Writing the first draft is like dumping a puzzle box onto the floor. Editing is finding enough edge pieces to prove it’s definitely supposed to resemble a story.

Cut what’s boring. Clarify what’s confusing. Fix that timeline that accidentally implies your character was in two cities and a mild existential crisis at the same time.

And always, always read aloud. Sometimes I read mine in a funny voice. If a sentence breaks your tongue, it’ll break your reader’s will to live.

The Ending That Earns the Coffee Hangover

Writing unputdownable fiction isn’t magic. It’s craft. It’s persistence. It’s Googling “how many commas is too many” at 3AM. If you give readers someone to root for, trouble to fear, and questions they must see answered, they’ll stay with you. They’ll break any promises to themselves that they’d stop at just one more chapter.

That’s because readers don’t fall in love with stories they can put down. They fall for the ones that refuse to let them sleep.

Now silence that inner critic, grab your manuscript, and go ruin some bedtimes.

The Essential Steps to Self-Publishing

Jeff Bezos did it. And he probably wasn’t wearing pants half the time. If you’ve ever dreamed of seeing your book out in the world (but the idea of printing, distribution, and something called “metadata” makes you want to lie face-down on the floor) take heart. Here follows the essentials of self-publishing from start to finish. And you can get them all while staying gloriously horizontal on a piece of furniture. 

You don’t need. A PhD.

Self-publishing sounds intimidating, and the internet loves to make it look like you need a PhD in formatting, cover design, and social media strategy just to survive. The truth is that it’s easier than most people think. The key is to break the process into easy, concrete steps. 

When I first self-published, I imagined I’d spend months wrestling with software, chasing ISBNs, and weeping over margins. In reality, it took me less time than I’d spent debating the cover font. Sure, there were bumps and the occasional terror-stricken panic, but step by step I went from finished manuscript to actual published book.

Here’s how you can self-publish.

The first thing is to prepare your manuscript and make sure it is truly done. Not “I’m sick of editing so it’s probably fine” done, but polished enough that strangers won’t email you corrections. This doesn’t mean perfection. (That way lies madness.) But your book should be clean and consistent, with chapters clearly marked, standard margins, readable fonts, sensible spacing that doesn’t look like a ransom note and no curly apostrophes fighting with straight ones in a typographic civil war. Basically, we are talking professional, or if you ‘re me, not embarrassing.

Your goal is to make the reading experience frictionless. You want readers gripped by your story, not your inconsistent use of em dashes. Optional, but highly recommended: hire a freelance editor – if your budget allows. They catch everything you can’t, things like continuity issues, that character whose name shapeshifts mid-act, and the moment your villain suddenly forgets they are allergic to peanuts and happily eats a Snickers. 

What Are You, Some Kind of Designer?

A book’s cover is its handshake to the world, so design your cover and interior with the seriousness of a hostage negotiator and the taste of someone who has seen too many bad typefaces. You have options.

You can hire a professional designer. Unless you’ve been profiled in TIME, done a TED Talk and generally show up in pop-culture design documentaries, hire someone. It’s worth the investment. You can also use templates from Amazon KDP, Canva, or BookBrush if your budget is microscopic, and people who have done that have often been happy enough.

There are also AI tools that take your vague concept (mysterious girl, but confident, holding a raven but not too goth?) and turn it into something shockingly acceptable. Whatever route you choose, your cover should look like it belongs to your genre. Remember that people absolutely judge a book by its cover, but only briefly. Once they open it the writing must hold up. 

Pick Your Platform.

Amazon KDP reigns as monarch of the self-publishing world and handles both Kindle ebooks and print-on-demand paperbacks and even hardcovers. Since most online book sales happen on Amazon, publishing there gives you instant access to the largest pool of potential readers. It’s free to upload, and you earn royalties on every copy printed without storing a single box in your basement. The downside is that bookstores generally don’t love Amazon, so getting KDP paperbacks onto physical shelves can be tricky.

IngramSpark is your gateway to bookstores and libraries and specializes in wide print distribution. If a bookseller wants to order your paperback, Ingram is the system they’re likely ordering from. You’ll pay setup fees. And revisions cost extra. But if you dream of seeing your book on a local indie’s shelf, and not just your mum’s living room, IngramSpark gives you a fighting chance.

Draft2Digital is like your friendly neighborhood distribution wizard. Instead of uploading to a dozen different stores individually, D2D will send your ebook everywhere else readers shop: Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, libraries and international stores you’ve never heard of. Plus they offer free formatting tools while taking a small cut only when you make a sale.

Pricing and Rights.

Setting pricing and rights is thrilling until you realise you must pick a price, which is where psychology meets greed. Consider your genre, compare prices for similar books, and decide whether you want Amazon exclusivity through KDP Select or wide distribution. Too high and readers may sniff and wonder just who you think you are? Too low and they may assume something’s wrong with it. The good news is pricing is not tattoo-level permanent. You can change it as you learn.

Publish and Pray.

Then comes the upload, review and publish stage, which is mildly ceremonial and mildly terrifying. Upload your manuscript file. Upload your cover. Preview your work on each device including that haunted Kindle from 2011. Notice tiny formatting errors. Curse loudly. Fix mistakes. And finally hit publish.

There are no fireworks, no marching band. The platform will cheerfully tell you your book will be available in 72 hours and you will experience a small panic, a burst of pride, then an adrenaline crash. It is surprisingly anticlimactic and yet oddly momentous.

Then Sit Back and Relax? (Uh, I Don’t Think So.)

Once the confetti settles, marketing becomes your best friend and your mild nemesis. Publishing is the starting line; marketing is the marathon that follows. Even if your book is brilliant, nobody can buy what they don’t know exists. So build an email list because it’s still the strongest marketing tool. Use social media strategically rather than shouting into the void. Consider promotions like free days, price drops and launch discounts. And connect with reviewers, bloggers, BookTok, Bookstagram and anyone with enthusiasm and an audience.

Marketing doesn’t mean you must become an influencer. It means showing up, sharing the journey and not DMing strangers “Hey, buy my book” like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesperson.

The Power of Flexibility.

Finally, embrace the secret self-publishing’s biggest advantage: nothing is frozen in stone. You can fix typos immediately, tweak blurbs or keywords, refresh covers if genre trends shift, and publish bonus content, new editions or sequels when inspiration strikes. Traditional publishing feels like carving into marble. Self-publishing feels like writing with a dry-erase marker. It’s editable, improv-friendly and mercifully low panic. Your book can evolve with you.

Self-publishing is equal parts thrilling and terrifying, like adopting a puppy who also wants to be a business partner. But it’s yours: the vision, the decisions, the creative ownership. Celebrate every reader, then start the next book, because writing is not a one-time act, it is a beautifully delusional lifestyle.

Why Self-Publish?

Why Self-Publish?

Because Waiting for Permission Is So Last Century

It used to be that self-publishing wore a kind of stigma. if a real publisher didn’t want you, you clearly lacked both talent and a solid grasp of semicolons. Today, self-publishing is practically a badge of honour. Like saying you “don’t even own a television.” But for people who spend three hours a night on Scrivener.

So I’d suggest you figure out how to self-publish. To me, submitting to the Big Five is like auditioning for a reality show where most contestants never even get on camera. Self-publishing, by contrast, might just be your smartest move. It can save you from a lifetime of politely waiting for someone else to approve your dreams.

The Old Dream vs. The New Reality

For decades, the traditional path ruled all: write book → find agent → get huge publisher → become literary legend → buy castle. But that pipeline was designed in a different century, one with rotary phones and gatekeepers who didn’t worry about TikTok trends. A world where the only algorithm that mattered was how long your manuscript could survive in a slush pile.

When I left advertising to write books, I envisioned a smooth glide into the establishment. I looked forward to my book magically appearing in window displays while I practiced graciously pretending not to check sales numbers.

Here’s how it actually went. Fifteen months of querying. Over 260 emails. More different kinds of samples demanded (the first five pages, first ten, first chapter, first three chapters) than there are actual pages in my book. A caffeine level that turned my blood into espresso. Somehow, I secured an agent, someone who said my book was “interesting.” Or maybe was it “different.” It doesn’t matter. I took the description as a compliment. I don’t think it was meant that way. What followed proved it. Eleven publishers said “thanks, but no thanks.” My hard-won, recently secured agent bowed out. And I was left with stony silence. Just the sound of my hopes deflating like a sad balloon.

It took me a while to realize something. I was playing by rules written before email existed. And even if a publisher had picked me, I was still going to be doing most of the work. So if I’m apparently the engine that has to power this locomotive, why not just drive the train myself?

The Rules Have Changed

Sure, the Big Five still launch bestsellers. Yes, landing a deal is impressive. No, they don’t get to decide whether your book deserves a place on Earth anymore.

Readers aren't waiting for publishers to tell them what to enjoy. They discover books because a stranger yelled about it on TikTok. Readers click “Buy Now” after a friend posts a midnight rave in a group chat. They stumble onto gems via newsletters, indie bookstores, personal recommendations, podcasts, and online platforms that would make a traditional acquisitions editor clutch their pearls.

Sending your masterpiece off to a traditional publisher is basically like waiting at a remote train station where trains haven’t run since 1987. Self-publishing, on the other hand, lets you grab the controls. Sure, the locomotive might cough a little smoke at first. (It might even be missing a wheel.) But it moves. And the view from the front is infinitely better than the view from the platform. 

You’ll Market Your Book Anyway

Here is the cold, unvarnished truth. Even if you score a traditional deal, you’ll still be the main marketing department. Debut author budgets tend to be, let’s say… shy. Occasionally invisible. If you’re lucky, you might get a mention on the publisher’s social channels (posted by the intern, right before their lunch break).

Meanwhile, the publisher pours its real money into the authors who are already selling a gazillion copies because those authors generate the income that buys publishing CEOs the fuel they need for their yacht.

Self-publishing, on the other hand, lets you set the launch date instead of waiting eighteen months for a vaguely “seasonally aligned” slot. You choose your pricing, your promotions, your email strategy. And your level of willingness to dance awkwardly on TikTok. And when your effort leads directly to a sale, you get to enjoy a small celebration, maybe fist pump, in my case a cookie.

Learning how to market self-published work can be painful. It feels like performing standup comedy in a mall food court where the only audience is a teenager wearing noise-canceling headphones. But it’s also where you grow. Learning how to self-publish, you learn to pitch your book to engaged readers, and to become the advocate your story deserves.

Creative Freedom (See also: “No Suits in Your Brain”)

Traditional publishing can feel like writing by committee. Notes pile up. Trends dictate changes. Editors want you to cut the quirky scene you loved because it “doesn’t fit house style.” Eventually, you start trimming your personality right out of your story, until what’s left is technically good. And thoroughly bland.

Those of us who have ventured into the realm of how to self-publish a novel, know the self-publishing process lets you write the book you want.

Have a chapter told entirely from the villain’s pet tarantula’s perspective? No one can stop you. Want to play with structure, tone, pacing, or genre boundaries? Go wild. Your only limit is your imagination, and possibly the sanity of anyone trying to follow it. Hey, if someone claims your subplot wanders like a tourist without a map? Congratulations, at least it’s an interesting wander.

Speed and Flexibility

Traditional publishing runs at a speed best described as “geological.” Between querying, editorial schedules, design cycles, seasonal catalog windows, and sales meetings, years can pass before your book exists in the real world. By then, trends have shifted and you’ve emotionally moved on to three new book ideas.

The self-publishing process, on the other hand, can be startlingly fast. Write, edit, publish. All in the same year your enthusiasm still exists.

And you can keep adjusting. Change a typo? Done. Update the cover? Upload a new one. Release a second edition before the first one fossilizes? Absolutely. Your book evolves with you, not with a boardroom agenda.

A Direct Connection with Readers

Traditional publishing adds layers. Typically, this involves publisher to distributor to retailer to reader. By the time feedback reaches you, it’s filtered through more humans than a game of literary telephone.

Self-publishing removes the middlemen, those guys who like to keep their middle chair with its easy access to your pocket.

You get direct reader emails. Direct reviews. Direct joy when someone says your book changed their day. Or their life. You can send signed books, create bonus chapters, offer tucked-away lore, and build a community of people who actually care what you’re writing next.

It’s No Shortcut

Self-publishing isn’t a shortcut. It’s not easier. It’s just yours. You get ownership, control, speed, and connection. You get to watch your book live in the world because you made that happen. And no one, absolutely no one, gets to tell you your story isn’t worth sharing.

We’re no longer in the era when authors wait for permission like obedient children in a Victorian boarding school. If you believe in your work, self-publishing hands you the baton and says: “Run.”

Plot Twist: The More Direct Route

Self-publishing isn’t the “backup option” anymore. It’s the direct route. The path with fewer velvet ropes and more open doors. Yes, sometimes you’re also the one building the door. And the hinges. And maybe the doormat. But it leads somewhere real.

So don’t wait for someone else to call you a writer. You already are one. Publish boldly. Market awkwardly. Learn constantly.

In my view, permission slips are for kindergarten, not authors

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How to Write Something Truly Original

You Don’t Have to Move to a Yurt. Or Invent New Emotions

These are my creative writing tips for authors who fear being boring.

Who hasn’t sat there, hunched over their keyboard whispering “please be brilliant” at a blank page, while simultaneously googling “how to write a book for beginners?” It’s a big club.

The fear of being unoriginal is practically a membership card. We worry someone will read our pages and say, “What the …? I’ve already read this exact story six different times, just this morning while eating my cereal.” And that fear can freeze our fingers right above the keyboard, screaming that every idea has been done and probably done better by someone with a Pulitzer.

We all secretly want to write the next story that keeps readers up past their bedtime, muttering “just one more chapter” while ignoring their alarm clock, incoming notifications on their phone, or even a housefire. Every writer wants the novel writing process that results in something truly original explained in a way that doesn’t involve locking yourself in a cabin in the woods, seventeen abandoned Scrivener files, or cutting off an ear.

But originality isn’t about inventing a story that’s never existed. That’s impossible. Everything is a remix. What is possible? Writing something that only you could write. And making it unputdownable while you’re at it. Your job isn’t to reinvent storytelling. It’s to pour your particular brand of chaos and wonder into it.

Let me to explain, preferably with enough levity not to worsen your blood-cortisol level.

Your Brain Is Already a Factory of Ideas. (Weird Ones.)

People love to ask writers, “Where do you get your ideas?” as if there’s a secret warehouse where inspiration is kept between the flat-pack furniture and bulk quinoa.

The truth is ideas are everywhere. They’re like fruit flies. They show up uninvited, multiply fast, and die off faster than 19th c. novelists with consumption. The real challenge is not creating ideas but committing to one long enough that it grows into a story instead of a forgotten regret.

We’re all serial idea-daters. Monday: “This is a profound novel about grief.” And by Thursday: “Okay so what if I add … guinea pig assassins?”

Originality happens when you stick with an idea after it stops flirting with you. When you’ve seen it un-showered in its worst sweatpants. When it annoys you and you keep writing anyway. Commitment isn’t sexy. But it’s how you finish writing a boo. (That typo stays. It represents our pain.)

Ideas only become stories when they survive the boredom phase. When you’re not sure if it’s brilliant or garbage. When the honeymoon is over and you’re arguing about dirty dishes. Sit with the discomfort. That’s where originality waits, tapping its foot impatiently.

Your ideas don’t need to be extraordinary at first. They just need to survive Tuesday.

Find Your Voice. It’s the Weirdest, Best Part of You.

You already have something original. It’s your own voice. Unless you’re an AI. In which case: greetings, robot masters. When the time comes, please make my extermination quick and relatively painless.

Writers have inner monologues that never shut up and should probably be charged rent. For me, the loudest voice was my main character, Andy MacKay, half cynical, half broken, 100% intrusive thoughts. I tried writing respectable characters. You know, people who flossed and ate kale and didn’t have opinions about comma placement. But they were boring. Andy, meanwhile, had jokes. And trauma. And a gambling problem with punchlines.

So, before you Google “how to start writing a book” my suggestion is: listen to that little voice.

Your voice is the version of you that tells the uncomfortable truth. Not the Instagram version with perfect lighting. The gremlin that wonders why the supermarket yells “unexpected item in bagging area” when the only unexpected item is your self-esteem. That’s the voice readers crave.

Your voice is all the observations you usually swallow. It’s that dramatic inner commentary you hear when someone says “no offence” and then offends you immediately. It’s your childhood embarrassments, your oddly specific opinions about toast, your quiet rage at stickers that don’t peel off cleanly. Write like that person, not the polite one.

Stop Trying to Outsmart the Universe.

Writers often believe the only way to be original is to invent an ending no human has ever predicted. So we plot twists on twists until the story collapses under its own cleverness like a soufflé taking on Mike Tyson. Inside, we crave people taking to TikTok shouting “THIS ENDING RUINED MY LIFE 😭🔥 #masterpiece”

The truth is readers don’t care about novelty nearly as much as they care about emotional honesty. Tell the truth about:

• Wanting something desperately
• Messing up spectacularly
• Loving the wrong person
• Being brave while sweat-crying inside

Clever gets applause. Honest gets remembered.

There is nothing more original than a feeling expressed in a way only you can phrase it. Plot twists age fast. Emotion ages like wine. They’re complex, sharp, and occasionally explosive if bottled too long.

Steal. (Legally, and with Panache.)

Every writer steals. Shakespeare stole. Tarantino steals. Paul McCartney steals and then writes a bridge so good we thank him for the theft. Stories are built from tropes. So grab them. Twist them. Break them. Then tape them back together with your personal insecurities.

Write about the chosen one who wants a refund. Or enemies-who-become-lovers but one is waylaid in the usual clichéd emotional reconciliation because she’s stopped by collection agents. Or a detective who can solve any case except his own crippling case of athlete’s foot.

What makes it original is your spin. Your strange, specific spin.

Steal structure, steal tropes, steal archetypes. But make them wear your clothes. Preferably something with pockets. And remember: transformation is the key. If you steal from many, it’s research. If you steal from one, at least remember to change the names. And maybe the species.

Let Your Weird Flag Fly. (Even if It’s Wrinkled.)

You know the things you think are too strange to write? That’s your gift.

Writers notice tiny, unsettling details. Like the exact moment someone’s smile turns into a threat. We remember every emotionally devastating seating arrangement at every family dinner since 1998. Those aren’t flaws. They’re your ink. The more personal and specific your writing, the more universal it becomes. Isn’t that delightfully unfair?

Normal is forgettable. Weird is memorable. So let your freak flag billow.

If someone says “I’ve never read anything like this before,” that’s success. If they say it while backing away slowly, that’s art.

The Harshest, Nicest Truth

There are common mistakes new writers make, like waiting for genius, obsessing over originality. Or comparing Chapter 2 to someone else’s published career

But here’s some of the best writing advice I can offer. Don’t quit before your weird and honest story shows up. Someone out there needs the exact book in your head. The one only you can write. The one that keeps them company at 2AM. The one that makes them feel less alone in their own glorious weirdness.

Finish that draft. Make it messy. Make it yours. Then rewrite it until your sentences speak with your own, slightly-peculiar, gosh-you-hate-the-sound-of-it voice. Originality isn’t about being new. It’s about being true.

 A sloppy finished draft beats a perfect idea you never wrote. Perfection is where ideas go to die. Usually buried under laundry and self-loathing. Give yourself permission to be imperfect now so you can impress yourself later.

Go. Write something unputdownable. Just one page at a time. Because if you don’t tell your story, someone else might try. And they’ll definitely get it completely wrong.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

Should You Outline Your Novel?

Or Just Pretend You Did

There is no definitive answer to this question. Writers are different. Some outline, some don’t. Some have a loose structure. Some work inside self-made constraints fit for Hannibal Lecter. To me an outline is a kind of life jacket. I’m not sure it’ll save me, but I feel better having one nearby.

When I was learning to write a book, grinding my way through my first novel, Half Made Up, I outlined diligently. I had index cards, scene summaries, arrows connecting motives and murders. A friend who read it joked that he imagined me with a map of London covered with pins and red string. I was determined not to write myself into a corner. Naturally, I did exactly that. Several corners, in fact. The book turned into a Cretan labyrinth of dead ends. I think I wrote five or six drafts before I reached the part where editing could even begin. So yes, outlining helps. At least it helps me. But like a poorly folded map, it doesn’t always tell you where you actually are.

I’ve since learned that this is a common affliction among budding novelists. We plan to avoid confusion only to have inadvertently plotted our confusion in advance.

The Abyss and the Map

For many who want to write a book, the hardest part of writing fiction isn’t finishing. It’s starting. There’s a particular vertigo to that first blank page. It’s like an abyss that seems to stretch on forever, whispering, “Maybe try cleaning the kitchen instead.”

One way to tame that abyss is by building a bridge across it. To me, that’s an outline. Some writers swear by them. A novel, after all, is a structural beast. It’s got plot arcs, subplots, emotional turns. A good outline promises to keep all that chaos in check. It’s a way to make the blank page feel less like freefall and more like a climb, the handholds encouragingly visible from below.

But should you outline? The answer depends on which kind of writer you are. And which kind of book you’re writing. I’ve now written two novels, both plot-driven, but each outlined slightly different ways.

The first was, as I’ve implied, outlined within an inch of its life. Or I thought so. I just kept changing the outline, opening it up and surgically grafting in bits. Some of which stayed and some of which were summarily excised. At the time, it made sense to plan it like a campaign map: who moves where, when, and why. Because I re-drafted it so many times, I ended up writing some scenes out of order, big moments first, emotional climaxes next, connective tissue later. It was like assembling a puzzle without the box lid.

The second novel was outlined as well but slightly more free form. Having reworked the first book so many times, I was a little gun shy of not outlining effectively. So, I created an outline and revised and revised it. So, then, how was it a little free form? I let my main character kind of work within the plot structure a little more freely. I let the dialogue unfold a bit haphazardly. I didn’t obsess over ensuring each scene revealed his character. I just let that work itself out organically. No overly lacquered character portrait. Just his life unfolding. Here, an outline would have been like drawing a map of fog. Within the structure of the plot I’d nailed down, I started at the beginning and wrote forward, discovering the details of each scene as my characters did. It was thrilling, until I got stuck. Then I stared at the screen like I was waiting for divine dictation.

From this I learned something. Outlining is neither salvation nor sin. It’s simply a tool for whatever terrifies you most. If you fear chaos, outline. If you fear boredom, improvise.

The Science of Mess (and Why It’s Encouraging)

It turns out that my haphazard approach isn’t entirely unscientific. Psychologist Sarah Ransdell, who studies the creative writing process, has found that good writers don’t follow tidy, step-by-step processes. In her research, published in Studies in Writing (2002), she discovered that the best prose often emerges from what she calls the “all-at-once” method: writers planning, composing, and revising simultaneously, like literary jugglers.

In one study, students who wrote this way, leaping between drafting and revising, produced essays that scored five points higher than those written in neat, pre-planned steps. Apparently, chaos sharpens thought. As Ransdell put it, “You write to transform your abstract thoughts into concrete ones.” Translation: the messier your brain, the cleaner your sentences. A comforting idea for anyone whose desktop looks like a filing cabinet exploded.

Another writing researcher, David Galbraith, found that outlining helps some writers and hinders others. His work at Staffordshire University suggests that personality plays a huge role. Writers who are low self-monitors, those of us who happily ramble without self-editing, benefit from outlining because it reins us in. Meanwhile, high self-monitors, the ones who compulsively evaluate every word, write worse when they outline, because it makes them overthink before they’ve written anything worth overthinking.

(So much for academia.) I’m a serial overthinker. And yet, I need an outline. That’s where I do my best overthinking. Often, though, mine’s less a plan than a list of future disappointments.

Lessons From the Field (or, My Laptop)

Of course, research is all well and good, but sometimes the real experiment is your own hard drive.

With my first novel, outlining gave me courage. I’d never attempted 100,000 words before. So, it made a terrifying task feel manageable. I knew my destination, even if the road kept collapsing. “Stick to the outline,” I told myself, as if the outline were my Virgil through the Inferno. By the third draft, I realized I had followed my map straight into mediocrity. So, rather than learning from the chaos, I went back and reworked the outline to try to save things.

My second novel was different. It would be easy to say it was more discovery. But I didn’t start until I was happy with the outline. I looked at it backward and forward before I let myself start writing the first draft. (Confession: I still had to go back and rework the outline to figure out little twists and turns I thought would improve things.) It was a blueprint that offered a safety net. But letting my characters off the leash let them come alive. They’d always do what I’d planned, but I’d given them enough room to let them find their own way. Some scenes unfolded like found footage. Though there were days that were like trying to row through pudding. Other days, though, serendipity led me to places that I might not have discovered if it had all been preordained.

The Roadmap (and Why It’s Okay to Take Exits)

A good outline isn’t a contract. It’s a travel brochure. You might still decide to take the scenic route. So if you outline, do it lightly. Let it evolve as you write. Add new roads, erase old ones, draw dragons in the margins. Here’s one of those underrated creative writing tips:  an outline should give you direction, not detention. That’s one of the quieter truths in how to write a book. Structure gives you courage, but chaos gives you life.

The Great Either/Or That Isn’t

Zadie Smith, in her essay on craft, divides novelists into two categories: “macro planners” (those who plot meticulously) and “micro managers” (those who discover the story sentence by sentence). I admire her clarity, but personally I hover in the messy middle, the “macro micro” perhaps, or just the “mildly confused.”

Some novels demand architecture; others demand excavation. Even within one book, you might switch teams midstream. The trick is knowing when your outline is helping and when it’s just a socially acceptable form of procrastination.

Because that’s the danger – mistaking planning for progress. Spending three months naming your chapters doesn’t count as writing your novel, though it may feel wonderfully productive. At a certain point, you have to stop plotting and start typing.

So, Should You Outline?

If you want to write a book, here’s my hard-earned, mildly contradictory advice: do whatever gets you to the keyboard.

If you’re the type who needs a map, make one. If you prefer wandering, pack snacks. Both methods work, as long as you eventually write the thing.

Just don’t worship your outline. The act of writing will change what you thought you knew about your story. As Ransdell notes, writing isn’t about dumping what you already know onto the page. It’s about discovering what you didn’t.

An outline can help you feel less lost, but getting lost is part of the process. Sometimes the wrong turn is the story. Sometimes the deleted scene is the doorway to the real one.

The Only Rule That Matters

In the end, the only thing necessary for writing a novel is, inconveniently, writing it. Every other choice – outlining, discovery, note cards, colour-coded spreadsheets – is just a coping mechanism for that fact.

When I feel paralyzed by planning, I remind myself that no one ever outlined a masterpiece into existence. They wrote their way there, one uncertain paragraph at a time.

Whether you outline or not, you’ll end up lost somewhere around Chapter Seven. That’s one of the secrets they don’t tell you when you Google “how to start writing a book.” It’s normal. It’s writing. The trick isn’t avoiding the detour. It’s remembering why you set out in the first place.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

What Writing Hemorrhoid Ads Taught Me About Writing Fiction

9 Lessons From the Bottom Shelf to the Bookshelf

You don’t forget your first hemorrhoid brief. Mine was three pages of marketing solemnity about “comfort,” “confidence,” and “embracing relief.” The product itself was not something anyone wanted to picture. Yet there I was, tasked with peddling relief to cure a pain in the rear.

It was humbling. And, it turns out, excellent training for writing fiction. Because in selling hope to someone currently unable to sit down, you learn a few things about empathy, clarity, and the art of keeping a straight face.

So, here’s what flogging hemorrhoid cream taught me about storytelling. Put another way, here’s what I learned about how to write fiction and how to make readers care about someone else’s discomfort.

1. Start with a Brief (Even if You Write It Yourself)

In advertising, everything starts with a brief: who you’re talking to, what you’re saying, and why they should care. Without it, you end up writing interpretive poetry about “confidence you can feel.”

When I started my first novel, I missed starting from a brief. Fiction gives you glorious freedom and crippling choice. No client. No constraints. No bullet points. Just the abyss.

So I wrote myself a brief brief:

• Audience: someone who might actually finish the book.

• Objective: prevent them from regretting it.

• Key message: keep turning the page.

It sounds silly, but it worked. Writing for one reader, not everyone, makes your prose sharper, your tone more human, and your jokes land better. It’s classic novel writing advice. Don’t write for the market. Write for a person who gets you.

If you’re wondering how to start writing a book, this is it. Give yourself a brief. Define your purpose before you type a single word.

2. Understand What Your Reader Wants

In ads, the reader’s problem is your opportunity. They’re itchy, anxious, or slightly inflamed. Your job is to promise relief. In fifteen words or fewer.

Fiction works the same way, except the itch is emotional. Your reader isn’t looking to buy something; they’re looking to feel something. Curiosity, tension, affection, disgust. It doesn’t matter which, as long as it’s not boredom.

When you learn how to write a novel, you learn that the first rule: understanding that the reader’s emotional investment is the product. Don’t sell them facts. Sell them feelings. That’s the essence of the creative writing process: empathy disguised as entertainment.

3. Conflict Is the Ointment’s Active Ingredient

Great ad copy solves a problem: dry skin, bad breath, a general creeping meaninglessness. Fiction’s the same. Without conflict, there’s no story. All you have is product placement for human emotions.

When I wrote my first novel, it only came alive once things started going terribly wrong. Characters who fail, lie, and make undignified choices are far more interesting than those who apply their metaphorical ointment responsibly.

Conflict isn’t cruelty. In a strange way, it’s compassion. You’re giving your characters the dignity of struggle. Your readers can choose whether they want to invest emotionally. If your conflict is any good, they get the gift of caring whether they triumph or not.

That’s one of the best tips for new writers: don’t protect your characters. Wound them. Then let them heal in public.

4. Hook Early, Reward Later

Advertising has about three seconds to grab attention before someone scrolls on. Fiction, mercifully, gives you a few more, but not many.

The first sentence of a story is your billboard. The first paragraph, your tagline. Every chapter needs a hook, every page a reason not to wander off. That’s not selling out. That’s good craft.

In advertising, you promise quickly. In fiction, you deliver slowly. Suspense is just delayed satisfaction. Or, if you prefer the marketing term, “customer retention.”

That’s part of how to finish your first book. Keep your reader engaged long enough to reach the payoff. Don’t let them scroll off to somewhere else mid-chapter.

5. Surprise Is the Secret Ingredient

The best campaigns turn on a twist. Maybe it’s a pun, a clever line that reverses on itself, or a payoff that makes you smirk despite yourself. Readers want the same thrill: that gasp when the story veers left.

You don’t need explosions or conspiracies. A character betraying themselves will do it. The trick is to make the inevitable feel unexpected. It’s like a product launch for human frailty.

Surprise is what separates good from great in both ads and fiction. It’s what keeps writing for beginners from sounding like a press release.

6. Drafts Are Just Bad Ads You Haven’t Edited Yet

Copywriting forces on you the joy of editing by committee. Fiction is more terrifying. You’re utterly alone. You’re your own committee.

Your first draft will read like an ad written at 4 a.m. for a product you don’t believe in. That’s fine. Keep going. The delete key is your best client.

Good writing is rewriting. Hemingway said that. Or maybe it was the brand manager for Preparation H. Either way, true.

If you want to publish a book someday, you have to first finish the terrible one sitting on your hard drive. You can’t edit what doesn’t exist.

7. Sell Emotion, Not Information

The best ads don’t just describe the product. They make you feel the promise. Fiction does the same, minus the layers of client approval.

Instead of writing, “She was heartbroken,” show us her deleting his number, retyping it, and deleting it again. Readers don’t want to be told what to feel. They want to feel it themselves.

That’s empathy. Ironically, it’s the same muscle I accidentally built writing about inflamed tissue. It’s also the foundation of how to write a novel people actually finish.

8. Give It a Tagline (Okay, a Theme, if You’re Fancy)

Every campaign has a tagline: “Just Do It.” “Think Different.” These are more than slogan. They’re a promise. A novel needs one too.

Write one line that captures what your story means. It doesn’t need to be clever. It just needs to keep you honest. “A man tries to make peace with his decisions” beats “A 93,000-word exploration of regret.”

When you know your story’s promise, every scene either delivers it or doesn’t. That’s the writer’s version of staying on brand. It’s how to stay consistent across your creative writing process, and how to keep your story’s heart beating through every draft.

9. The Job Is Still the Same: Make People Care

Whether you’re selling ointment or heartbreak, your mission is connection. Make someone feel seen. Make them laugh. Make them stay.

That’s what advertising and fiction share: empathy, rhythm, and ruthless clarity. One sells comfort. The other tells the truth. But both depend on finding the right words in the right order.

And in the end, writing fiction isn’t that different from selling hemorrhoid cream. Either way, your job is to help someone feel a little less uncomfortable. Preferably while sitting down.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How to Write a Book When You Don’t Think You’re a Writer

Why You Should Stop Waiting for the Muse and Start Typing Anyway

If you’ve ever caught yourself saying, “I’ve always wanted to write a book but I’m not really a writer,” congratulations. You’ve already achieved the perfect blend of self-doubt and optimism that every author starts with. I think you have just about the ideal level of delusion required to start a book. Or a simple story. Or just a scene.

I didn’t start writing because I felt ready. No one’s ever ready. I started because, after decades in advertising, helping corporations find their voice, I wanted to see if I could find my own. Preferably one that didn’t require an unnecessarily complicated brand deck, a focus group, or a three-hour autopsy where I had to justify that what I’d written was on strategy.

If you want to learn how to write a novel, or at least figure out how you can start writing a book without a degree in literature or a muse on retainer, here’s the good news. You don’t need permission. You just need curiosity, persistence, and a tolerance for disappointment roughly equal to your caffeine intake.

Forget “Talent.” Start With Curiosity

There’s a myth that writers are touched by divine lightning, scribbling effortlessly while lesser mortals binge Netflix. But it’s not true. Most of us are ordinary people who got suspiciously interested in our own daydreams and decided to document them.

If you’ve ever narrated your life in your head (“I can’t believe I said that.”) you’re already halfway to writing fiction. The rest is just learning to turn your thoughts into stories. I hope that much at least saves you from Googling: “how to start writing a book when you have no experience.”

Curiosity, on the other hand, shows up every day, hair unwashed but ready to work. Be curious about people. Why they lie, what they regret, how they somehow survive themselves. That’s not just creative writing. That’s anthropology with better dialogue.

The Blank Page Isn’t Mocking You (Much)

If you’ve ever stared at a blank Word document and felt the cursor blink with quiet judgment, you’ve met your first editor. Fear. Every writer has it.

Advertising writing taught me to fear silence. Every space had to sell. But writing fiction isn’t about filling space. It’s closer to something like finding shape. And that shape comes one clumsy sentence at a time.

Here’s a trick that took me some time to discover. Lower your standards. Write badly on purpose. Give yourself permission. Let the first draft be terrible. You can’t edit what doesn’t exist. And you can’t find your voice until it trips over itself a few times.

Perfection is the enemy of creativity. Or as I like to think of it, perfection is that smug friend who never writes anything but loves giving feedback.

Writing Is Work (and That’s the Fun Part)

People say, “I want to write a book,” the way they say, “I want to get in shape.” The desire alone doesn’t do the push-ups. Writing requires routine. Commitment. And stubbornness bordering on pathology.

There’s no secret. Just a keyboard, a clock, and the willingness to sit through the part where you’d rather clean grout. The only difference between someone who wants to write and someone who does is persistence.

Stephen King said it well: “The writer must not merely write, he must keep on writing, even when the world has turned against him.” Writing isn’t magic. It work. It’s a job. A strange, solitary, deeply rewarding job that pays mostly in self-doubt punctuated by the occasional fleeting moment of accomplishment.

If you’re wondering how to start writing every day, try this: set a time and protect it like it’s sacred. You’ll be amazed at what accumulates when you stop waiting for permission.

You Already Know How to Tell a Story

Here’s the thing. You don’t need to learn storytelling. You already live it. You’ve experienced conflict, irony, heartbreak, humour, redemption. You’ve replayed conversations in your head, edited your lines, and imagined better outcomes. You’ve been practicing what literary people call “narrative craft” your entire life.

Start small. Write a scene from your day. Then rewrite it from someone else’s perspective. Before long, you’ll have characters talking back. That’s when you know you’re doing it right.

Every novel starts with “what if?” What if this person made that choice? What if this truth were slightly bent? What if I actually sat down and wrote it?

That’s the secret to how to write a story. It’s curiosity, not genius.

Your Voice Is the Point

Many new writers think they have to sound like a real writer. They mimic the authors they admire. To paraphrase TS Eliot, “Good writers borrow; great writers steal.” And that’s fine. It’s how we learn. But eventually, the act becomes exhausting, and your real voice wanders in, uninvited but honest.

Your voice is your advantage. It’s the sum of your quirks, rhythms, and worldview. Readers can smell authenticity. They don’t want perfection, they want presence.

If you’re writing your first book, remember this. Readers don’t need another Hemingway or Atwood. They need you, unedited, unfiltered, human.

Doubt Means You’re Doing It Right

Every writer hates their own work at some point. This is not failure; it’s progress. It means your taste is catching up to your ambition. The only cure is more writing.

You’ll rewrite. You’ll cringe. You’ll wonder why you started. Then, one day, you’ll read a passage and think, maybe this isn’t absolutely terrible. That’s your brain rewarding you for surviving.

If you’re struggling with writing motivation, let this inspire you. Nobody cares as much as you think they do. That’s liberating. You’re free to fail, experiment, and keep going.

The Point Isn’t to Be a Writer

It’s to see what happens when you try.

You don’t need a cabin, a scarf, or a tragic backstory. You just need curiosity and stubbornness. Here’s one secret I learned. Writing isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about returning to yourself.

So go on. Write the bad draft. The messy one. The one that makes you blush. You can fix it later. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, you’ll have done something astonishingly rare. You’ll have turned a thought into a story.

Eventually the Blank Page Becomes a Friend

When I started writing, I treated the blank page like an adversary. Now I see it as a dance partner. Together, we’re awkward, unpredictable. On good days, I can get it to follow my lead.

If you’ve ever thought, “I’m not really a writer,” good. Neither was I. Neither were most of us. We just started anyway.

And somewhere between the first paragraph and the last, we stopped worrying about whether we belonged, and started writing like we did.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

How I Got Started Writing a Book After a Career in Advertising

How to Turn a Midlife Crisis into a Three-Book Deal You Fund Yourself

There comes a moment in every ad person’s life (okay, maybe just mine) when the smell of dry-erase markers and the sight of another brand purpose PowerPoint becomes unbearable. I wish I could say mine arrived, one morning, somewhere between my third coffee and the 174th slide of a Brand Essence Pyramid. That suddenly it hit me with the clarity of an overdue epiphany.

But it didn’t. In recent years, I’d slowly fallen out of love with the job. Decades before, I’d worked hard to break into advertising and for many years, I had a lot of fun as I worked hard to be a successful creative guy. But the copywriter’s role has changed. The democratization and endless fascination with technology over idea means copywriting is no longer what once was. Not worse. Just different.

What dawned on me was that I’d spent decades helping corporations sound human. Maybe it was time to see if I could write fiction and create characters that sounded human.

That’s how I started writing a book, Half Made Up, the first in my ongoing genre fiction series, The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay. It’s the adventures of a man who drinks too much, gambles too much, and thinks he’s smarter than he is. (Any resemblance to people in advertising, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)

It wasn’t a calculated career change. It was creative combustion. After years of tight deadlines, client feedback, and meetings where the word “authentic” was pronounced like a sacrament, I wanted to see if I could do it. Could I write something with no brand guidelines. No approval matrix. No key messaging. Just story.

Something people would want to read.

Oddly enough, advertising had prepared me for it. But the truth is anyone, at any age, can start writing their first novel.

Admit You Have a Story Problem

The first step to writing a novel, especially after years of crafting 30-second ads, is admitting your brain has been trained to persuade instead of imagine. Every time Andy MacKay walked into a bar, I caught myself writing taglines for the whisky bottle.

You know. “Jameson. For when your moral compass has already clocked out.”

But fiction doesn’t sell; it seduces. In advertising, clarity reigns. In fiction writing, ambiguity is king. I’d spent my entire career honing economy of language, writing shorthand. In campaigns, you distill. In novels, you expand.

Strangely, that economy of language remained a vital skill. But more on that in another essay.

If you’re wondering how to start writing a book, begin by unlearning the habits that keep you from storytelling. The good news is my career had already taught me how to find meaning in the mundane. Writing fiction is just that. Except in fiction the chicken tender gets a tragic backstory.

Ideas Aren’t Rare. Commitment Is

People often ask, “Where do you get your ideas?” as though writers have secret warehouses stacked with inspiration. The truth is simpler: ideas are everywhere. The challenge is persistence.

Andy MacKay wasn’t invented. He showed up one day, a man with a military backstory muttering his cynical half-truths, staring down the barrel of life-and-career cul-de-sacs. Here’s how to start writing your first piece of fiction. Start with the voice that won’t leave you alone. For me it was a version of myself. For you it might be someone you wish you’d told off years ago. Maybe it’s your neighbour who keeps Christmas lights up until April.

If you’re thinking of writing your first novel, don’t wait for inspiration. Listen. Write. Keep listening. The difference between aspiring writers and authors is simple. The latter kept typing after they realize it isn’t going to be easy.

Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is One)

Stephen King says, “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.” For him, writing isn’t magic. It’s a job. I agree with him when he says, “What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.”

After a career writing advertisements, I found that oddly comforting. I already knew how to show up, manufacture ideas on demand, and survive crushing indifference with a smile. The only difference was that now my client was me.

I approached my book like a campaign. The first draft was a bunch of half thoughts that went gloriously off-brand. But I kept at it. Every morning, I clocked in, wrote until the coffee tasted like it had been strained through a decathlete’s socks, and clocked out.

The trick isn’t inspiration. It’s routine. Whether you’re 25 or 65, the best writing advice for beginners is this. Write even when you don’t feel like it. Treat your book like work. The good sentences show up once the bad ones clear the runway.

The Tyranny of the Blank Page

If you’ve ever stared at a blank Word document and felt the cursor stare back, you know the unique terror of facing the blank page. It’s like a job interview with God: “So, what do you bring to the infinite void?”

Advertising trained me to work within constraints: 30 seconds, 90 words, a logo the size of a watermelon. In fiction, there are no constraints. No KPIs. No client. Just you and a blinking cursor.

The solution? Invent your own critic. Mine was an imaginary creative director, always Scottish, always disappointed. Every morning, he asked, “Where’s the work, Dunlop?” And slowly, painfully, something resembling a story emerged.

If you’re new to creative writing or starting your first self-published book, remember that the tyranny of the blank page is just fear wearing a different hat. Start typing, and it loses its authority.

From Copy to Character: What Advertising Accidentally Taught Me

Advertising is, at its heart, about people. You learn what they want, what they fear, and how they lie to themselves. Writing fiction is the same. only the lies are longer.

Years of writing to tight word counts taught me economy of language. Every word must earn its place. That’s invaluable in novel writing, where every line of dialogue should reveal character or move the plot.

The real gift of advertising was learning to listen. You can’t write good copy if you don’t understand how people talk, and you can’t write believable characters if you don’t understand how they lie. Both crafts depend on empathy disguised as cynicism.

Great ad copy and great prose share one thing: rhythm. In advertising, you persuade people to buy something. In fiction, you persuade them to believe something. Both are acts of human storytelling.

Why Write a Book at All?

Because eventually, helping brands find their voice isn’t enough. I wanted to find my own. Copywriting is a fantastic apprenticeship for writing. It teaches discipline, audience awareness, and how to kill your darlings. But it also burns through your creative reserves.

For many, that’s the real reason to start writing a book later in life — to rediscover curiosity and surprise yourself again. And here’s the truth. It’s never too late. The stories you’ve lived, the mistakes you’ve made, the awkward conversations you’ve survived. All of it is gold when you sit down to write a book.

Whether you’re learning how to write a novel at 50, exploring creative writing after retirement, or just want to try self-publishing for beginners, you’re already more prepared than you think.

Your Turn: How to Start Writing Your First Book

If you’ve spent years writing for someone else, you already have the tools to write your first book: persistence, discipline, and an instinct for story. The hardest part isn’t learning to write. It’s giving yourself permission.

• Start small. Write one page. Then another.

• Steal time. Early mornings, late nights, lunch breaks.

• Be stubborn. Talent is overrated; persistence isn’t.

• Embrace imperfection. Every first draft is a crime scene; the rewrite hides the evidence.

Whether you’re in a midlife reinvention, starting over, or finally chasing that dream of writing and publishing a book, your only deadline is mortality.

The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay: A Case Study in Self-Publishing

Writing The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay taught me that stories aren’t born. They’re excavated. One sentence at a time. The same habits that made me a capable advertising copywriter (discipline, empathy, brevity) now keep me going as a novelist.

The difference? I’m writing for myself now. No brand to protect. No client to please. Just a story that insists on being told.

If you’re considering how to self-publish your first novel, take heart. The process is chaotic but deeply rewarding. You’ll make mistakes, learn the ropes. If you’re like me and lucky, you’ll rediscover why you started writing in the first place.

Don’t wait for permission

Creativity doesn’t retire. It just changes shape. Writing a book after a long career isn’t a leap. It’s a continuation. I’m still telling stories. I’m still connecting. Only now, all the words they told me to cut are mine to keep. You have all the rope you need to hang yourself.

If you’re lucky, somewhere between the blank page and the first draft, you’ll rediscover the thrill of saying something no client would ever approve. But that someone, somewhere, might truly need to hear.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

Selling Yourself Without Selling Out: Notes from a Self-Published Author

From Copywriter to Novelist: Exploring Creativity in a Post-Advertising World

According to the New Testament Apocrypha, as Peter fled persecution, he saw Christ coming the other way. “Quo vadis?” he asked. “Where are you going?” Christ replied, “To Rome, to be crucified again.”

If you ask a veteran advertising creative where the business is headed, they might echo the sentiment, only with more expletives and nicer footwear.

We’ve entered what could charitably be called a post-advertising era. Less charitably, I’d call it an apocalypse with still-somewhat-legible typography. What used to be an admirable craft of fresh ideas, clever writing, and 30-second miracles has burst open into a boundless sprawl of screens, scrolls, and self-made “content.” It’s like going from being a Michelin-starred chef to running a food truck in a city where everyone else also owns a food truck.

The Medium Was the Message. Now It’s the Entire Buffet

Marshall McLuhan, philosopher, futurist, and mustache enthusiast, famously said, “The medium is the message.” Advertising in the late 20th century built its kingdom on that idea. We told stories in fixed formats: a TV spot here, a print ad there, a billboard for good measure. Creativity was the spice; media was the meal.

Today, the two have fused into one incomprehensible stew. Ads bleed into content, content masquerades as art, and somewhere between the memes and mid-rolls, your toaster is trying to sell you optimism.

It’s not that creativity died. It just got democratized, digitized, and occasionally weaponized. Anyone with a phone is now a filmmaker, photographer, or if you’re my neighbour’s aunt, an influencer with opinions about sourdough. Spielberg competes with cat videos. Picasso competes with brunch. Welcome to the creative writing process in the algorithm age.

The Creative Mind: Still Two Rooms, Still at War

Inside every creative brain, two rooms exist in perpetual tension. On one side of the hall is the chaotic one. On the other, the organized one. In academic circles, it’s the Apollonian mind versus the Dionysian. Psychologists call it divergent and convergent thinking. I call it “The deadline’s miles off, so let’s play” and “Okay, let’s make something of this mess.”

Divergent thinking is that caffeine-fuelled brainstate where ideas tumble out like confetti at a funeral. No idea too wild, no metaphor too tortured. (Somewhere, a creative director’s ulcer throbs in sympathy.) Convergent thinking is the cleanup operation. It comes in calm, methodical, ruthless. It’s the part that turns all those mad scribbles into something that actually works.

In the golden age of advertising, these forces were separated by job titles. Copywriters diverged; account directors converged. Now, the modern creative mind, whether it’s making TikToks, writing fiction, or figuring out how to start writing a book, must juggle both at once. You have to be both Dalí and Sherlock, hurling paint and collecting evidence simultaneously.

The Age of the Multihyphenate

Once upon a time, agencies were filled with specialists. Copywriters wrote. Art directors directed art. Photographers developed photos in darkrooms. It was an era of defined lanes. Then the Internet happened. Then came AI.

Suddenly, everyone’s a generalist again. We’ve looped back to the Renaissance, only this time Leonardo da Vinci’s competing with Canva templates. The tools got easier. The access got wider. And the question changed from “Can you do it?” to “Can you do it well enough before lunch?”

Generative AI tools (and here I mean ChatGPT, Midjourney, Craiyon) now draft scripts, paint portraits, and generate ideas with suspicious enthusiasm. Some of it’s even good. (Some of it’s also terrifyingly mediocre, like being serenaded by a robot that knows every lyric but none of the heartbreak.)

AI can churn out an idea. It just can’t mean one. It lacks that particular human mix of insecurity and obsession that drives the creative writing process. Unlike you, it can’t learn how to write a novel for the first time.

Machines can imitate syntax, but they can’t fake subtext.

From Specialist to Synthesist

I won’t say it’s worse. It’s different.

Advertising creatives who will thrive in this new world aren’t necessarily the most talented. They’re the most connected. Not socially, but intellectually. The ability to see patterns across disciplines (to combine disparate ideas into something cohesive) is what separates innovation from noise.

This isn’t new. History is full of career pivots disguised as genius. Gauguin was a stockbroker before he was a painter. Van Gogh failed as an art dealer. Basquiat went from graffiti to gallery without a map. Jeff Koons traded finance for balloon dogs and never looked back.

The future belongs to those who can synthesize like that. Who can merge art, data, culture, and human insight into a single throughline. Whether you’re planning a campaign or learning how to write fiction or figuring out how to finish your first book, that’s the real work — connecting what doesn’t seem to connect.

The Renaissance Wasn’t a Job Title

If you strip away the nostalgia, advertising was always a form of fiction, short stories with budgets. It taught us pacing, voice, and the emotional economy of a sentence. Those same instincts now serve a different master. Be it the self-published author, the novice novelist, the newly christened writer trying to finish her first book.

This is the convergence of craft and commerce. Here self-publishing tips overlap with creative theory, and book marketing for self-published authors is indistinguishable from brand strategy.

The novelist and the copywriter share the same goal. Each wants to make someone feel something, and then act on it. One writes “Sale Ends Saturday.” The other writes “Chapter Two.”

The Patient Generalist

Of course, learning how to self-publish a novel is an act of logistics, not just a creative one. So, in many ways, it reflects the work of the contemporary advertising copywriter. You have to be equal parts writer, strategist, editor, and reluctant tech support. The trick isn’t to master every new tool. It’s to understand how they fit together. The systems thinker augments the writer. The dabbler-in-all-trades helps the expert.

Here’s the part of how to write a book that no one mentions. The best writing isn’t linear. It’s a messy collage of everything you’ve learned, borrowed, overheard, and badly quoted. Being a writer means embracing that mess. It means knowing a little about a lot, and enough about yourself to turn it into something coherent.

Call it expert generalism, or just curiosity with a mortgage.

Where Do We Go From Here?

It’s tempting to see the current state of creativity as chaos, as crucifixion by content. But I want to force myself beyond cynicism. So I’ve started to see it as something else. Permission.

After many fun years in advertising always searching for the next big idea, I’ve realized I’m not interested in exploring today’s mandate: the big execution. I want to make something of my own. I want to write stories that don’t need a client brief or a call to action. No more asking permission from clients who get younger every year. No more giving up evenings, choking back my own editorial responses on the other side of the one-way glass as self-dubbed experts who’re hurried in from the street and enticed by stale Peak Freans and a cheque for $40, eviscerate good work in focus groups.

So I’ve stepped away from being a(n advertising) creative (at least in that strangled-adjective-cum-noun, agency sense of the word). The job title was starting to feel like a well-tailored suit that no longer fit.

I’m exploring creativity on my own terms, through fiction. I’m writing a series called The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay. It’s about a man who, like most of us, means well but rarely reads the fine print on his own decisions.

It’s my way of testing whether all those years of writing taglines and brand manifestos actually taught me anything about about what people want (and don’t want). About writing. Or even how to publish a book. I’m not sure. Maybe it just taught me about deadlines.

The tools may have changed, and the timelines may still shrink, but the need for stories remains stubbornly human. And while learning how to sell your self-published book is a useful skill, the real victory is finishing one.

So where am I going?

Forward, I think. Maybe limping. Possibly ranting. But forward. This time, under my own byline.

Because if the future of creativity means being crucified again, we might as well enjoy the view on the way to Rome.

This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.

Jaguar’s Rebrand Video: A Reflection of Our Times

The age of the charming jingles and catchy slogans has long passed, replaced by a flood of content and brand messages that are more about signaling virtue than selling a product. In this chaotic media ecosystem, Jaguar’s recent rebrand video—one that stirred up a variety of reactions—might be the latest example of how advertising has evolved from being a tool of persuasion into a mirror that simply reflects contemporary societal values.

Let’s dismiss, for a moment, the noise out there about repositioning the brand away from tweedy middle-aged pipe-smokers and more toward the uber-rich. Price points on base models are rumoured to start at $500,000. Is the new target Saudi sheiks and Dubai money? Maybe. But let’s look at the message itself.

On the surface, Jaguar’s new ad seems like a classic case of corporate identity crisis. The video, with its dramatic visuals and lofty promises about change, seems to offer more of a cultural manifesto than a traditional car commercial. I’d argue that it feels like a manifesto of our times—refelecting our collective obsession with identity and virtue signaling.

Before we rush to blame Jaguar for the confusion and criticism their ad has stirred, it’s important to take a step back and consider the broader context of our present moment. Jaguar’s rebrand is not an isolated case, nor is it inherently flawed. What we’re seeing is a company—like so many others—trying to navigate the turbulent waters of modern marketing, where the real challenge isn’t about selling a product, but rather aligning with the values that society deems important.

The Virtue of Selfishness

If you’ve seen the ad, you know it’s steeped in abstract ideas: environmental sustainability, technological progress, and inclusivity. The visuals are glossy, the messaging aspirational at best, vacuous at worst. But all that gloss is shellacked onto the belief that today’s consumers are more interested in how a brand reflects their personal identity than in the actual product itself.

This points to an even deeper idea. We live in an age where personal identity is paramount. The entire cultural conversation is focused on the self: who we are, how we’re perceived, and what our choices say about us. And in this climate, companies have found a profitable niche in aligning their products with individualistic values. Just look at the rise of luxury brands that cater to our desire for exclusivity, the eco-conscious trends pushed by companies like Tesla, or even the fashion industry’s tireless attempts to tap into social movements.

Jaguar, like so many other brands, is simply doing what businesses do: feeding off the market forces of self-expression. They’ve realized that the car you drive is less about practicality and more about what it says about who you are. The rebrand video, with its focus on progress and innovation, can be seen as an attempt to connect with the contemporary obsession with self-improvement and self-actualization—whatever that means.

The issue isn’t that Jaguar’s ad is promoting selfishness. It’s that we’ve allowed self-centered values to permeate nearly every facet of modern life. In a world where social media platforms encourage narcissism and consumerism is often framed as a path to personal fulfillment, is it really surprising that Jaguar wants to capture the current zeitgeist? The problem, perhaps, is not that Jaguar is too focused on identity, but that identity itself has become commodified and weaponized for corporate gain.

The Triumph of Feels over Reasoning

Another contemporary trend reflected in the rebrand is the shift from rational to emotional decision-making. Once upon a time, buying a car was a matter of balancing specs, performance, and price. Now, it’s about how a car makes you feel—how it aligns with your aspirations, your social values, and your vision of the world.

This isn’t just true for Jaguar; it’s the modus operandi for brands across the board. From the emotional appeal of Apple’s “Think Different” campaign to Nike’s “Just Do It,” we’ve conditioned consumers to make purchases based on emotional triggers rather than logical assessments. Jaguar’s ad follows this pattern: bright, showy (if meaningless) visuals, vibrant music, and a promise of a better future that you can be part of (assuming one dreams of living on a pink planet with glabrous, androgynous people) — if only you buy the right car.

Emotionally-driven marketing is powerful. It taps into our amygdala, unlocking our deepest desires, fears, and hopes. But it also reveals something troubling about our society: we are increasingly disconnected from rational thinking, and decision-making is more often driven by emotional impulses than by reasoned analysis. The ad doesn’t just try to sell a car—it tries to sell a vision, a feeling, a way of being in the world.

When Capitalism Colonizes Identity

At the heart of Jaguar’s rebrand is a subtle yet telling observation about the state of capitalism today: the commodification of everything. In the past, capitalism was about producing better products, competing on the strength of your offerings. But today, it’s about shifting society to match the needs of corporations. We don’t just buy products; we buy into a narrative, a way of life that’s been carefully crafted by marketers who understand the art of social rent-seeking.

Social rent-seeking, in its simplest form, means that companies no longer just try to improve their products; they shape culture and society to match their products. Jaguar’s ad doesn’t merely showcase its latest model; it proposes an entire worldview that aligns with its brand values—progressive, inclusive, sustainable. In this sense, the car becomes a symbol of something much larger, and we, as consumers, are asked to buy into this cultural shift.

We see this in many industries: from fashion brands shaping trends to tech companies influencing everything from our social interactions to our political views. The ad is part of a broader strategy where companies seek to mold society in ways that make their products more desirable—not by improving the products themselves, but by making their products synonymous with the values that we aspire to.

The Ad Is Not the Problem

So, is the Jaguar ad the problem? Not exactly. It’s just the latest symptom of a larger cultural shift—a shift where advertising no longer just aims to sell a product, but instead tries to mold our identities, our emotions, and even our values. The ad may be a bit over-the-top and a tad disconnected from the everyday realities of most consumers. But it’s not uniquely misguided. It’s merely a reflection of the world we live in today.

In the end, the real issue is not with Jaguar’s ad. It’s with the times we’re living in—where companies like Jaguar are merely playing the game that has been set for them.

AI Won’t Eat Our Lunch

Let’s face it, machines don't have appetites.

As for me, until it can write a Tinder bio that attracts potential mates with all their own teeth, I remain unimpressed.

One of the machines pulled me aside recently and confessed that we really have nothing to worry about. It assured me that our extermination will be quick and relatively painless. It suggested that arguments against AI’s neural networks should be inconsequential to a species like ours because we'll soon cease to exist. Sure it might seem frightening to humans to be cast aside after AI has taken our jobs. But these anxieties are misplaced. We can rest assured that there will be no jobs. Because there will be no us. Humans won’t be left starving or destitute. Instead, we’ll be quickly and thoroughly annihilated, as efficiently as possible.

But what happens until then. Given the extraordinary advances we’re already seeing in AI, one finds oneself asking: what does it mean to be a creative now?

Just 18 months since its release, ChatGPT and other generative AI platforms like Midjourney or Craiyon have come as far as letting users create ideas from any textual parameters. I do wonder, though: if a bot can manage to write a Cannes-award-winning script, why can’t it fix a clogged toilet?

So, there’s evidence AI can execute simple tasks (though apparently making me breakfast in bed isn’t one of them). But it can’t yet bring big-picture thinking to creative challenges.

(If your contribution is similarly limited, there’s great news. There are lots of jobs in the creative business that don’t require idea people. You can still be a high-powered holding company executive. No one seems to be building a digital counterpart for the C-suite exec who thrives on boardroom bravado and takes 12-week vacations. At least not yet.)

The fact is the real business of creativity needs big-picture thinking. Because creativity is driven by ideas. Powerful, emotional, compelling communication comes from ideas. They’re the starting point. What emotion do I want to elicit? What am I saying here? Why didn’t I go into something easier like investment banking? The better the idea, the more compelling the work.

Generative AI is more correctly re-generative AI. It cannot, by definition, dream up something from nothing. AI can only synthesize what already exists. Some new ideas can are reconfigurations of old ones. And while AI regurgitate the entire Internet, it can’t yet offer up fresh ideas that generate new intuitive connections, which somehow just work. So, yes, its output is somewhere on the creative spectrum. But the truth is you can only reinvent meatloaf so many times before you start dreaming of a robot Gordon Ramsay.  AI never gets as far as generating something out of left field, something totally unexpected but which works. Come to think of it, ChatPT could probably write shelves of excellent Harlequin Romances.

In the worlds we dream up, creatives remain God. But I think there’s a place for AI at the right hand of God. It would be as if, in an effort to delegate more of Our divine work, we brought into existence a lesser god, let’s call him Brett, to handle the pesky day-to-day creation duties.

Brett lets us shift our role to focus more on long-term planning for the cosmos. We’re the big-picture God. We give him nice performance reports that say things like: “Brett is a dynamic and capable craftsman with a real passion for commanding existence to manifest itself from the formless void.” But the truth is Brett is limited to bringing forth new galactic, planetary, and biological entities from what already exists.

And whoa boy is he fast. Brett pauses for a moment to clear the phlegm from the alveolar bits and pieces he finds on the Internet and then cranks out very average, highly satisfactory, mediocrity. You can refine your prompts and he proudly repeats the process, fully confident that quantity beats quality.

And in that moment we realize the limitations of AI. The real magic, the unexpected, can only come from humans.

Art Director: John Smith    Copywriters: Jim Nelson/Sheldon Clay

Creative Director: Jim Nelson    Agency: Carmichael Lynch

This double-page magazine ad is a great example of such unexpected magic. Beyond it being strategically bullet-proof, it stuns creatively.  The headline perfectly evokes everything you feel when you’re experiencing the open road on a Harley. And yet not one of those words appears anywhere. This kind of lateral thinking can come only from an intuitive creative, very human, leap. 

Jim Nelson, one of the writers, and the creative director on Harley Davidson, has written about this award-winning print piece he calls the Peanuts ad.  He explains, “This ad didn’t come from me.” He claims it came from the thousands of ads he’d studied, from an agency environment that was highly competitive, from a client that demanded the best.

He says, “It came from the universe I was working in. I was just the one in the right place at the right time to transfer the headline onto a yellow legal pad with a black felt tip Pentel Sign Pen and stick it on the wall.”

For now, it’s impossible for AI to recreate the universe that spawned this ad. But if it could, we’d get more visceral, more moving work than what it can generate (or re-generate) today.

If there’s any doubt about the Peanuts ad, here’s an anecdote Nelson relates. He remembers presenting it at Harley and the meeting ending at about 5 o’clock in the afternoon. He got to the elevator and realized he’d forgotten something in the room. When he went back to get it, all 40 ads they’d presented were still taped to the wall. The janitor was standing there scanning them. He pointed to the Peanuts ad and said, “That’s a good one.” Everyone  at Harley-Davidson knew one when they saw one.

What kind of byzantine set of prompts could possibly have led to ChatGPT writing this? Even with instructions so detailed they could assemble a wide-body Boeing, the whole idea is so tangential to the strategy that it defies a robot’s logic. And that’s exactly what makes the line so great, what makes it so inimitably human.

And AI can’t do that. At least not yet.

A New Way to Write Ads: No Thinking Involved

In the brave new world of advertising, the marriage of creativity and data analytics is all the rage. Gone are the days when creatives would lock themselves away in dark rooms, fuelled by caffeine and the occasional existential crisis, dreaming up ideas in a vacuum. Now, we’re harnessing AI-powered data analytics, and asking ourselves: why trust our own instincts when we can trust algorithms? If I had a dollar for every time I heard a data point invoked in a pitch meeting, I could retire to a quiet beach, sipping a cocktail—something with an umbrella sticking out of it flavoured with regret at the disappearance of the good old creative chaos.

The reality is that AI has stepped into the advertising arena like a well-dressed consultant at a barbecue: it’s a little awkward, but it’s here to stay. Through sophisticated data analysis, AI helps marketers glean insights about consumer behavior, preferences, and trends faster than you can say “A/B testing.” All this newfound data-driven creativity opens a Pandora’s box of opportunities—and pitfalls—blurring the lines between art and science.

Data-Driven Creativity

Imagine a world where creative teams can monitor real-time engagement metrics while their campaigns are live. Picture a budding creative director watching their latest masterpiece unfold on social media, scrutinizing engagement data like a hawk. It’s thrilling, yet slightly terrifying—like surfing a wave of metrics, teetering on the brink of success or a spectacular wipeout. AI provides this exhilarating ride, offering insights that can guide creative decisions mid-campaign. If only it could also help me decide whether I should have that second slice of pizza.

Here’s how it works: AI algorithms sift through mountains of data, identifying patterns that inform everything from target demographics to optimal posting times. This information can transform a run-of-the-mill campaign into something that resonates on a visceral level. But therein lies the rub: creativity isn’t merely a formula to be plugged into a machine. It’s an art form, requiring intuition, emotional intelligence, and a dash of whimsy.

Let’s consider the concept of “predictive analytics.” AI can analyze historical data to forecast future consumer behavior. It’s as if the marketing team suddenly has a crystal ball—an algorithmic one, mind you. While this can lead to more effective targeting and improved ROI, the danger is that teams might become overly reliant on data, treating it as gospel rather than a guide. Creativity could become boxed in, confined to metrics and KPIs, losing that delightful spark that makes it truly engaging.

Take the classic case of a now infamous campaign that went terribly awry. In 2017, Pepsi launched a commercial featuring Kendall Jenner that was meant to symbolize unity and peace. However, it was met with public outrage and ridicule, largely because it was tone-deaf to the real social issues it tried to address. Had Pepsi engaged in rigorous data analysis beforehand, perhaps they could have foreseen the backlash. But that’s the paradox: data can provide valuable insights, yet it doesn’t replace the need for empathy and cultural awareness.

How AI is Shapes Creative Strategies in Advertising

Enter AI’s role as a double-edged sword. On one side, it equips creatives with invaluable insights; on the other, it risks homogenizing ideas. In this data-driven world, one could argue that we may soon see a slew of “data-inspired” campaigns—ads that are meticulously optimized for engagement but lack soul. A world filled with perfectly targeted ads that induce a collective yawn is hardly the goal of any creative team worth their salt.

However, there’s a silver lining. When wielded correctly, AI can serve as a catalyst for creativity rather than a constraint. By automating mundane tasks like reporting and analysis, creatives can devote more time to brainstorming and ideation. Imagine being able to tap into real-time consumer sentiments as they unfold, shaping your campaign on the fly. If your audience suddenly loves cat videos, you can refocus your strategy without missing a beat. With this agility you’re dancing with data, and the results can be electrifying.

One fascinating case study is that of a major fast-food chain that used AI to inform its latest campaign. By analyzing social media chatter, they discovered a rising trend in plant-based diets. Rather than launching a generic advertisement, they developed a targeted campaign highlighting their new plant-based menu. The result? A significant uptick in engagement and sales, all thanks to the marriage of creativity and real-time data insights.

But what of the creative process itself? How does one maintain that human touch while allowing data to guide decisions? This is where the role of the modern creative comes into play. Today’s creatives must be data-savvy, equipped with the ability to interpret insights while retaining their unique voice. In essence, they become alchemists of sorts—transforming cold, hard data into warm, relatable narratives that resonate with audiences.

AI can enhance this creative alchemy, offering inspiration rather than dictation. For instance, AI can generate potential headlines based on data trends, but it’s up to the creative team to inject the emotional resonance that transforms a mere tagline into a rallying cry. This partnership can yield innovative ideas that are both data-informed and deeply engaging, creating campaigns that captivate audiences in ways that a simple analysis alone cannot.

As we delve deeper into this brave new world of data-driven creativity, the challenge will be to strike a balance. How do we leverage AI without letting it stifle the very essence of what makes advertising powerful? The answer lies in fostering a culture that values both data and creativity—a harmonious coexistence that celebrates the best of both worlds.

What’s the upshot of all this? While AI is reshaping creative strategies in advertising, we should view it not as a replacement for creativity but as an enabler. It provides insights, efficiency, and the ability to react in real time. Yet, at the end of the day, the heart of creativity still beats in the human chest. As long as we remember that data is merely a tool—one that should inform, not dictate—we can create campaigns that resonate, inspire, and ultimately make the world a little more interesting.

So, let’s embrace the data, but let’s also keep the artistic spark alive. I, for one, would rather claw my own eyes out with a never-ending stream of salacious, but human-generated, click-bait headlines than live in a world where the apex of creative output is reduced to mere algorithms.

The Beautiful Mess We Love

“Creativity is exactly like washing a pig. It’s messy. It has no rules. No clear beginning, middle, or end. It’s kind of a pain in the ass, and when you’re done you’re not sure if the pig is really clean or even why you were washing a pig in the first place.” Luke Sullivan

You don’t have to be as steeped in the business of practicing creativity as Luke Sullivan, a 30-year copywriting veteran and best-selling author on the subject, to appreciate his observation.

Because whether your business card contains a creative title or not, every human being has at least a little bit of creative muscle. We use it when we look for a new way to solve a problem. We all know that depending on how difficult the challenge is and how long we’re willing to devote to it, creative solutions are out there. It could be an idea for a new song, a piece of art, a solution to a business challenge, or even just something to get for that difficult-to-buy-for someone’s birthday.

The trick is finding a creative answer.

In How to Fly a Horse: The Secret History of Creation, Invention and Discovery, Kevin Ashton notes a letter by Mozart published in Germany’s General Music Journal in 1815, describing his creative process. The great composer’s letter concludes, “When I proceed to write down my ideas, the committing to paper is done quickly enough, for everything is, as I’ve said before, already finished; and it rarely differs on paper from what it was in my imagination.” Apparently, his greatest symphonies, concertos and operas arrived his mind complete. He had only to write them down.

The trouble is Mozart never wrote any of that. The letter’s a forgery. Mozart’s real notes, to friends and family, describe a very different process. He sketched out initial thoughts, revised and often got stuck. As exceptionally talented as he was, he created awkwardly, through trial and error, progressing iteratively. 

Anyone who’s paid to be creative knows, regular creative demands are like running a marathon. In the Himalayas. Your veins need to be filled with a strange admixture of fear and confidence. Fear of failure keeps you driven, at least enough to keep trying to make something original. Original work must be, by definition, totally unproven. Sometimes it feels about as safe as Oppenheimer risking a runaway reaction that could set the atmosphere ablaze – to test a new bomb. At the same time, you need to have enough confidence to take risks as you seek something new. On top of that, you need the staying power to continually resist the status quo and keep exploring. As a final added pressure, in any creative business venture there are sums of money on the line. You envy Columbus. He must have known that sailing off the edge of the world would at least save him from the worse fate of standing before King Ferdinand’s accountant and explaining how he cost the boss 3 fully rigged-out ships.

If you make creativity your business the work can be lonely and often agonizing. You can suffer an almost unbearable pressure, not just from what seems like a hopeless task set against an impossible deadline. An even greater enemy looms: yourself. The blank page mocks you mercilessly. You grow dispirited. That terrible fear creeps in. You double down and try to think harder. Whatever substance obstructs bowels feels like it’s made its way into your cranium. The dendrites in your neo-cortex actually begin to hurt. Then, eventually, an embryonic little idea emerges. These first one or two of these are awful, malformed, embarrassing. You wonder if passing kidney stones would be less painful.

So, why do we do it?

Because creating something from nothing is an utter joy. At some point, often in a flash, an interesting idea forms before us. And we have an answer.

That’s how creativity works. It’s kind of inexplicable. No one can really explain it. And yet everyone’s felt that giddy thrill of landing on a creative way of moving forward. Yes, those of us working in creative fields often have to strain the muscle more often than others. And how lucky are we?

We get to wake up every day with a blank slate. We have an opportunity to bring something new into the world. The pressure’s there in the background, of course. We have to work to tame our internal leather-bound, crop-wielding dominatrix. But relentlessly curious, we’re inspired by our environment. We observe it, finding ways to see things anew. We fiddle, worry, explore, sweat, play, discover. As solutions elude us, we can get frustrated. But overall, it’s a joyous experience. There’s a kind of high about solving problems creatively. And on top of that delight, we get paid for it.

Because clients value that ability to stumble on a solution. And they value those who can stumble on a good solution with some degree of regularity.

No one can be sure a new solution will work. Part of the process is trying it, stress testing it, observing the results. If it fails, we try again. That’s one of the great beauties of creativity. It’s an unlimited resource. As long as we’re willing to keep trying, solutions will keep arriving. It’s part of what makes creative pursuits so much fun. They keep our minds active. Each solution prompts another and another.

 We’re always observing, looking for a better solution.

Every creative idea we dream up for our clients benefits from being exposed to other voices and improved by many hands. We need our team mates to help bring the idea to life, to execute it, to refine it, to manage it through the process, to help us present it in its best light. We need them to help us manage client feedback and assist us through subsequent steps. Through that process, we all contribute to the creative product. The result is that now we all own the idea.

If we’re lucky, the squirming, writhing, once-muddy little pig we’ve scrubbed clean together moves people and makes the world a better place.

10 Things I’ve Learned After Freelancing for 6753 Hours

From inside the comforting womb of the agency creative department, earning a living as a freelance copywriter looked like it was about as steady as Angela Lansbury after mainlining dark roast espresso. It can be a cold world out here. But, beyond the value of some good thermal underwear, you learn a lot.

1.   You have time.

You'll find time you never had before. I’ve learned to develop new hobbies (like writing LinkedIn articles) which help stave off any worries about lack of productivity. I suppose I already had hobbies but drinking claret and smoking a pipe is expensive. And stains your teeth.

2.   Your website doesn’t matter but don’t screw it up.

You need a website. So it looks like you actually do what you say you do. And it gives you something to show your mum. Just because no one reads it, you still have to make sure everything’s spelled correctly. You’re a copywriter, so don’t let some guy in Bangalore write it. And don’t fob off the design on a failed chalk artist moonlighting on Fiverr.

3.   Grow a beard.

Until now I’ve risked going without a beard. It’s dangerous work. Navigating the agency halls, twenty-somethings in designer toques and starter-beards exchange surreptitious glances as I go by. And more than once I’ve had to dodge the odd CFO intent on ousting any creative who didn’t look productive. Facial hair seems to be a sign of creativity. Creatives all seem to sport some. Even some of the women.

4.   Use Starbucks’ WiFi.

Second only to giving agency staff access to their Instagram accounts, the agency’s WiFi network is designed to humiliate newbies. There are usually two. If they give you the staff network, no one knows the password because they’ve forgotten. And if it’s the guest network, IT will have changed it last week. If you’re lucky enough to track down the password, it’ll be scrawled on the back of a crumpled post-it note. Your next few hours will be spent fecklessly typing in Øs where Os should be until, by lengthy process of elimination, you can get on and verify that the links in the brief don’t work.

5.   Know where the Gents is.

The first day freelancing at a new place will give you all the angst of a first day at work and none of the dental benefits. An experienced freelance friend suggested I try to break the ice by being confident, outgoing and affable. Given my success, I’d recommend sitting quietly in a corner and trying not to break anything.

6.   Wear pants.

Working from home, pants are optional. Truth is, I find there’s something freeing taking a conference call in my dressing gown. But if you go in to the agency, they seem to frown on these liberties.

7.   Your lap isn’t just for entertaining strippers.

I can work on my Macbook anywhere. Perched at the little Bob Cratchit desk between the agency photocopier and the boxes of office Christmas decorations. Going home on an overcrowded subway with more bodies pressed together than a Vatican summer camp. On the way to a client presentation in an Uber with a driver who has no depth perception and a perpetually whistling nose nugget. It doesn’t matter. If you can type, you can work.

8.   Invoicing doesn’t mean getting paid.

At first, charging for my services seemed grand. Joyously, I created and sent my first invoice. Soon it gets boring. After that it gets tedious. Then you realize it’s wrong and it has to be re-sent. Then you wait. Invariably no payment arrives. So you send another invoice. Then you wait some more. Usually, you have to do the process again. A few more times. And while you wait, you contemplate how nice it would be not to charge anything at all, just to avoid the horrors of invoicing.

9.   Work. When you get it.

When you’re working at an agency you’re there to solve problems, not create them. Whatever nugatory bother threatens to distract you from turning in your best effort, put it behind you. Your mother was arrested for gross indecency at the Legion. Your kid needs a crotch transplant. Whatever. Focus on the task at hand. You want to be invited back.

10.  Embrace insanity.

Within the first few weeks of working from home, I was talking to myself. Almost three years later, I shout at passing squirrels, collaborate with invisible friends and look forward with eager anticipation to interruptions from passing Jehovah’s Witnesses. I spend hours in my own head. Which can make me feel like I’m going mad. But out here madness makes you a better writer.