Common iKWriter Pitfalls

And how to cut through them.

In this section, we dissect the most frequent missteps iKWriters encounter—and how to sharpen your work until it bleeds with purpose:

  • Constructing the Kill
    Plotting, pacing, and executing a Toe-Tagged Tale that grips from first breath to final body bag.

  • Voices That Haunt
    Crafting immersive dialogue, original scenes, and airtight research that holds up under forensic scrutiny.

  • The Psychological Thread
    Building an emotional and mental connection that feels disturbingly intimate, yet universally relatable.

  • Crime You Can Feel
    Writing fictional violence through a human lens—where motive, memory, and consequence collide.

  • Sealing the File
    Final edits, digital formatting, and submitting a clean, publication-ready draft worthy of the Morgue.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about precision.

✅Plotting, planning, and executing an entertaining Toe-Tagged Tale

  • A forensic guide to building a story that leaves a mark.

    Every story starts the same way: a possibility.
    A voice.
    A body waiting to be discovered.

    There’s no single way to write a great story—especially inside the InnerKiller universe. Some writers carve straight through from opening cut to final breath. Others work in fragments, stitching scenes together like evidence on a board. Some move sentence by sentence, following instinct instead of outline.

    All methods are valid—if the story survives.

    Whether you’re writing a full Toe-Tagged Tale, a short confession, or a flash of violence, experiment freely. Try different voices. Test structures. Break rules. Keep what sharpens the narrative and discard what dulls it. Your material will tell you how it wants to be handled.

    Use the steps below as a guide—not a cage.

    Step 1: Establish the Scene of the Crime (Setting)

    Setting isn’t background.
    It’s an accomplice.

    Treat location the way you treat a character—let it breathe, withhold information, reveal itself slowly. A familiar street can feel sinister with the right lighting. A quiet room can become oppressive if it knows too much.

    Your enthusiasm for a place will bleed onto the page. If you feel it, your characters will respond to it—and the reader will follow.

    Ask yourself, then answer through atmosphere rather than exposition:

    • What season are we in—and what does the weather conceal or expose?

    • What has changed here over time? What no longer exists? What shouldn’t?

    • Is the story shaped by a larger event—disaster, scandal, social unrest—that tightens the clock?

    • What cultural details anchor this moment? Music, clothing, food, media, public fear?

    Research matters here. Precision makes fiction believable. The setting should quietly influence every decision your characters make.

    Step 2: Build Characters Who Don’t Look Away

    A story isn’t just what happens.
    It’s who it happens to.

    Characters are inseparable from events. They aren’t dropped into the plot—they generate it through reaction, obsession, restraint, and collapse.

    Know your character beyond what’s on the page:

    • Their habits.

    • Their history.

    • Their private fixations.

    • The thought they never finish.

    Understand how they move through the world so you know how they fracture under pressure. When the moment arrives—and it will—you should already know what choice they’ll make… even if the reader doesn’t.

    Step 3: Introduce the Threat (Conflict)

    A story begins when the pattern breaks.

    If nothing disrupts the day, you don’t have a story—you have routine. Plot is the moment something intrudes.

    There are two kinds of threat:

    • Internal conflict — the fracture inside

    • External conflict — the danger outside

    The strongest Toe-Tagged Tales often weave both. A character might face a physical enemy while wrestling a vow, a memory, or a moral line they swore never to cross.

    Motivate your character. Then block them. Repeatedly.

    Each obstacle should escalate tension and force a decision. If a scene doesn’t create pressure, it doesn’t belong.

    Step 4: Pull the Thread (Twists & Misdirection)

    Readers expect answers.
    Give them questions instead.

    A great story doesn’t move in a straight line. It doubles back. It lies. It misleads with intent.

    • Plant false leads.

    • Let the reader trust the wrong detail.

    • Make the truth feel obvious—only after it’s revealed.

    Mid-story momentum is where many narratives bleed out. Twists, reversals, and revelations keep the pulse strong. Use cliffhangers without apology. Suspense is not a trick—it’s a promise that something worse is coming.

    In InnerKiller stories, red herrings aren’t decoration. They’re part of the psychological game.

    Step 5: Strip Dialogue to the Bone

    Real people ramble.
    Fictional characters don’t get that luxury.

    Dialogue should always want something. Information. Control. Reassurance. Power. Silence.

    Every exchange is a negotiation—even seduction is a form of dominance.

    Pay attention to:

    • What’s said vs. what’s avoided

    • What’s understood vs. what’s denied

    • The space between words

    That space is subtext—and it’s where tension lives.

    Speech patterns are shaped by class, culture, trauma, and time period. If your story is set in the past, the dialogue must reflect it naturally. Language ages. Use it with care.

    Step 6: Choose Who Holds the Knife (Point of View)

    Point of view answers one question:
    Who is telling this—and why?

    Your options include:

    • First person — intimate, unreliable, confessional

    • Third person limited — controlled, focused, psychologically close

    • Third person omniscient — godlike, dangerous, revealing

    • Second person — confrontational, unsettling, rare but powerful

    You are not required to stay loyal to one POV—some stories demand shifts. Let the material decide. You’ll know when the right POV clicks because the story starts moving faster… and resisting you less.

    POV isn’t technical—it’s moral. It determines what the reader is allowed to see, and what remains hidden until it’s too late.

    Final Note from the Morgue

    There is no single correct way to write a story.
    There is commitment.

    Strong fiction is built through repetition, risk, and revision. Even the most accomplished writers keep practicing—testing new voices, new structures, new dangers.

    Work steadily. Cut ruthlessly.
    And if publication is your goal, stay sharp.

    Every story leaves a trace.
    Make sure yours is unforgettable.

  • Because the first line decides who survives the page.

    Why the Opening Line Matters

    The first sentence is the moment the body bag unzips.

    It’s where the reader decides whether to lean in—or walk away. Before they know the plot, before they trust the narrator, before they commit to the descent, they read one line and make a judgment.

    That line establishes tone.
    It signals danger.
    It tells the reader whether this story knows exactly what it’s doing.

    In bookstores, previews, and digital samples, the opening line is often the only chance you get. A weak first sentence doesn’t mean the story is bad—but it may never be read long enough to prove it isn’t.

    In InnerKiller fiction, the opening line isn’t decoration.
    It’s a promise.

    6 Ways to Write an Opening That Cuts Deep

    A great opening line doesn’t announce itself with “Once upon a time.” It acts. It introduces mood, voice, and threat—sometimes all at once. Below are six approaches that consistently pull readers across the threshold.

    1. Expose the Core Wound (State the Theme)

    Some stories open by revealing the truth they’ll spend the rest of the narrative circling.

    A strong thematic opening distills the story’s obsession into a single, unsettling sentence. It doesn’t explain—it declares.

    Ask yourself:

    • What is this story really about?

    • What belief will be tested, broken, or proven wrong?

    If you can articulate that wound in one line, the reader will feel it before they understand it.

    2. Let Something Feel Wrong Immediately (Strange Detail)

    Disorientation is a hook.

    Introduce one detail that doesn’t belong—something subtly off, uncanny, or impossible. The reader may not know why it matters yet, but they’ll sense that normal rules don’t apply here.

    An odd number.
    A misplaced object.
    A time that shouldn’t exist.

    Strangeness signals danger without explanation—and curiosity does the rest.

    3. Hand the Mic to Your Character (Voice First)

    Sometimes the story opens because the character can’t stay silent.

    A strong voice—bitter, amused, detached, unrepentant—can carry a reader through anything. If your narrator has a sharp perspective, let them speak immediately.

    Tone matters more than information here.
    Attitude builds trust.
    Voice creates intimacy.

    Make us recognize who we’re listening to in the first paragraph—and why we should keep listening.

    4. Show Your Style Without Apology (Narrative Texture)

    If your writing has a distinct rhythm, let it announce itself.

    Some openings pull readers in through cadence alone—short bursts, lush imagery, or deliberate precision. Style can be a promise: this story will sound unlike the others.

    If you have a signature way of seeing the world, let it surface immediately. The opening line is where permission is granted to be bold.

    5. Reveal the End Is Already Coming (Raise the Stakes)

    There’s power in letting the reader know the worst is inevitable.

    Opening with a glimpse of fate—death, arrest, disappearance—doesn’t spoil the story. It reframes it. The question shifts from what happens to how did it come to this?

    This approach creates dread instead of surprise.
    And dread lingers longer.

    6. Lock the Reader in a Room (Set the Scene)

    Atmosphere can be the hook.

    Use sensory details to create discomfort, claustrophobia, or unease right away. Heat, noise, crowds, decay—setting can act as emotional pressure before a single action occurs.

    The goal isn’t to describe.
    It’s to trap.

    If the reader feels stuck in that opening space, they’ll follow the story looking for air.

    Final Cut

    A great opening line doesn’t ask for attention.
    It demands it.

    There’s no single formula—only intention. Whether you open with voice, theme, dread, or distortion, the line must do one thing clearly:

    Make the reader believe something irreversible has already begun.

    Once they step inside, don’t let them leave.

  • Because every crime needs a place to happen.

    Characters don’t exist in a vacuum.
    Neither does violence.

    Every Toe-Tagged Tale unfolds somewhere—and that “somewhere” is more than scenery. It’s the pressure cooker your characters move through. The room that listens. The street that remembers. The location that either hides the truth… or exposes it.

    A well-built setting doesn’t just hold the story.
    It acts on it.

    Why Setting Matters in InnerKiller Fiction

    Setting gives the reader their bearings—but more importantly, it gives the story weight.

    A strong environment:

    • Anchors the reader in time and place

    • Establishes mood before a single action occurs

    • Shapes character behavior and decision-making

    • Supplies obstacles, symbols, and opportunities

    • Sometimes becomes the antagonist itself

    In InnerKiller stories, locations aren’t neutral. They influence. They witness. They participate.

    A hallway can feel predatory.
    A city can conspire.
    A room can refuse to forget.

    5 Ways to Write a Setting That Feels Alive

    There are endless ways to describe a place—but only a few that make it felt. Use the techniques below to build environments that stay with the reader long after the scene ends.

    1. Engage the Senses—All of Them

    Sight is only the entry point.

    Use sound, texture, smell, taste, and temperature to ground the reader instantly. The stale air of a basement. The metallic tang in the back of the throat. The way old wood feels under nervous fingers.

    Small sensory details create immediacy—and immediacy creates immersion.

    If the reader can feel the space, they’ll believe what happens inside it.

    2. Let the Setting Interfere (Show, Don’t Tell)

    Don’t list a location.
    Let it act.

    If the environment is hostile, show how it resists your characters. If it’s active, show how it changes them. Smoke stains the sky. Machinery hums through dialogue. Weather alters choices.

    Time of day, season, and decay can all be revealed through interaction rather than explanation. The setting should press against the scene, not sit quietly behind it.

    3. Steal From Reality—Then Distort It

    Real places carry built-in truth.

    Use locations you know—or ones you can study—as foundations. A real church, alley, motel, or coastline can ground your fictional world with authenticity. Then bend it. Age it. Corrupt it.

    Just as real human behavior adds depth to characters, real geography adds credibility to your world—even when the story itself veers into the extreme.

    4. Use Metaphor Like a Weapon

    Literal description explains.
    Figurative language brands.

    A hallway doesn’t have to be long—it can feel like a throat. A building doesn’t just crumble—it exhales dust like a dying animal. Metaphors and similes sharpen imagery and load emotion into the environment.

    Choose comparisons that reflect the story’s psychology, not just its visuals.

    5. Cut the Excess—Leave the Impression

    Restraint matters.

    A setting should be memorable, not exhausting. Ten pages of description dilute tension and stall momentum. Focus on the details that matter right now—the ones that influence mood, action, or choice.

    Let the reader fill in the rest.
    Trust them.

    If a place is important, they’ll feel it without being buried under adjectives.

    Final Note

    A good setting doesn’t ask to be noticed.
    It lingers.

    When done right, the reader won’t just remember what happened in your story—they’ll remember where it happened. And sometimes, the place is the most dangerous thing in the room.

  • Transitions are the cuts between crimes.

    A scene doesn’t end because you hit “enter” twice.
    It ends because something changes.

    How you exit one moment—and how you enter the next—controls the pulse of your story. Transitions are the connective tissue of a Toe-Tagged Tale. They decide whether the reader feels dragged, lost, or compelled to keep going.

    Just as the opening line of a story matters, so do the opening and closing lines of every scene. These are the stitches that hold the narrative body together.

    A transition is movement:
    from one place to another,
    from one state of mind to the next,
    from one truth to a more dangerous one.

    What you leave out matters as much as what you show. Especially here.

    Why Scene Transitions Matter

    Transitions serve two purposes at once:

    • They control pacing — how fast the story moves, when it breathes, when it tightens.

    • They orient the reader — without stopping the story cold to explain itself.

    In linear stories, transitions account for the hours, days, or moments you skip.
    In non-linear stories, they quietly re-anchor the reader when time bends or fractures.

    They also signal change:

    • A shift in mood

    • A change in power

    • A different viewpoint

    • A new location

    • A turn in the psychological weather

    If the reader feels disoriented, the transition failed.
    If they feel pulled forward, it worked.

    Scope Check: How Big Is Your Story?

    Use transitions to communicate scale.

    • A story spanning decades should leap cleanly across months and years.

    • A story unfolding over hours should skip only minutes—or seconds.

    Transitions tell the reader how much time has passed without stopping the narrative to announce it.

    What Changed Since the Last Scene?

    Every scene transition should answer at least one question—quietly:

    • Has time shifted?

    • Has location changed?

    • Has perspective moved?

    • Has the emotional temperature altered?

    The reader needs to know—but not be lectured.

    6 Techniques for Seamless Scene Transitions

    1. Enter Late. Exit Early.

    Don’t warm up. Don’t linger.

    Drop the reader into the middle of motion, tension, or consequence—and leave before the moment resolves. Transitions exist so you don’t have to show every step.

    If the danger is already in the room when the scene begins, the reader will lean forward.

    2. Cut on the Wound (Cliffhangers)

    End scenes on instability.

    The final line of one scene should create a question the next scene answers—or complicates. This is especially effective when switching timelines or storylines.

    A clean cut creates momentum. A soft landing kills it.

    Think in terms of cause and echo.

    3. Identify the Mind We’re In—Fast

    The reader should know immediately whose eyes they’re behind.

    Use:

    • A name

    • A distinctive action

    • A line of dialogue

    • A thought only that character would have

    First-person transitions require extra care. Anchor us quickly so the shift feels intentional, not confusing.

    4. Ground the Location Without Stalling

    If the setting changes, signal it early.

    You don’t need a paragraph—sometimes a street name, a sound, or a texture is enough. Sensory cues do this elegantly.

    Let the environment reassert itself before the scene accelerates.

    5. Mark the Passage of Time—Subtly

    Time should be felt, not announced.

    A season changing.
    Light shifting.
    Absence lingering longer than expected.

    These cues allow time to move without breaking immersion.

    6. Reset the Emotional Temperature

    Transitions are ideal for mood shifts.

    A violent scene might cut to quiet restraint. A tense exchange might give way to ritual or control. The opening lines of a new scene should recalibrate the emotional stakes immediately.

    The reader should feel the difference before they consciously register it.

    Final Cut

    Scene transitions are not filler.
    They are precision tools.

    They sharpen pacing.
    They preserve tension.
    They guide the reader through what you choose not to show.

    Handle them with intention, and your story will move like a blade—clean, controlled, and impossible to ignore.

Producing creative content, dialogue & fact-checking research

  • 10 Description Mistakes Writers Should Avoid At All Costs

    When we describe well in our stories, we are firmly entrenched in a character’s viewpoint using action, dialogue, emotion, and the senses to engage our reader’s imagination.

    If we don’t get this right, we risk the problem of having to talk, or worse, thinking heads suspended on a blank canvas. We need to describe our characters and our settings.

    If we don’t get this right, we risk the problem of having to talk, or worse, thinking heads suspended on a blank canvas. We need to describe our characters and our settings.

    When we describe, we need to tell and show. In a good book, telling makes up about 30-40% of the book and shows 60-70%.

    10 Description Mistakes Writers Should Avoid

    1. Being Vague

    Be specific when you write. Don’t write about an expensive car; write about a Porsche. Don’t write about a dog; write about a poodle.

    We add details to describe a character psychologically and socio-economically. We should be specific if we are going to mention details. For example, we should name the brands they use. They tell us who the character is.

    Here are some great details to use in your stories:

    What kind of car do they drive?

    Where do they live?

    Where do they shop?

    Which brands of clothing do they prefer?

    What accessories do they buy?

    Which perfume or cologne do they wear?

    What type of pet do they have?

    2. Not Using The Senses

    Readers want to experience the story. The easiest way for you to allow them to do this is by using the five senses. Tell us what they see, hear, smell, touch, and taste.

    3. Not Using A Viewpoint Character

    The description falls flat if we don’t have a character to interact with our settings. Once you have a viewpoint character, describe what they experience through their senses, body language, thoughts, and speech.

    4. Not Including Descriptions In Dialogue

    We talk about where we are going and what we are doing. We comment on our environment all the time. When your characters arrive at their destination, allow them to comment on where they are, especially if something is different. Use description in dialogue.

    5. Not Thinking About The Genre

    We also need to be aware that genre dictates differences in length, type, details, and description intensity.

    Here are some examples:

    • Romance novels feature exotic, faraway settings loosely written with detailed, sensuous descriptions.

    • Suspense novels feature gritty, more realistic settings, which are intrinsically related to the plot. Descriptions are often crisp and understated, adding to the sense of danger.

    • Historical novels require attention to detail and research. Writers need a wealth of factual information to make the story authentic.

    • Sci-Fi novels generally involve a setting that causes the plot. The basis for science fiction is usually an extrapolation from known scientific facts.

    • Fantasy novels feature detailed settings. World-building and magic are important in this genre. Writers need to create a universe for their characters.

    6. Repeating The Same Words

    If we do our job correctly, our descriptions should form a perfect picture in the reader's mind without interrupting the story's flow.

    As a rule, we should avoid using the same word more than once or twice on a page. If you are describing a prison, mention the word ‘prison’ when your character first enters it or sees it, perhaps once more, but we don’t need to see it more.

    Keep a list of alternative words for more repetitive verbs like walk and run. Don’t use pretentious words you would never usually use.

    7. Making All Our Sentences Seem The Same

    A description is all about creating exciting sentences. Remember that we’re taking our readers on a journey in our books. They will encounter people and places they will never meet. Make it memorable for them.

    Janet Fitch, author of Paint it Black and White Oleander, says the best writing advice she ever received was from an editor who asked her: what is unique about your sentences? In White Oleander, she describes the man who changes everything like this: ‘Barry. When he appeared, he was so small. Smaller than a comma, insignificant as a cough.’ When you think about it, commas can change everything, and doctors always tell you not to ignore a cough.

    Also important: Change the length of your sentences. They should vary. Include fragments, simple sentences, and compound sentences. Introduce white space when you need to increase your pace.

    8. Over-using The Verb To Be

    The two most overused words in the description are was and were. You have to use them sometimes, but they destroy most good sentences.

    Don’t say: Detective Wright was tired. He drove home as the sun was setting.

    Do say: Detective Wright yawned and rubbed his eyes as he drove home. The sun bled into the horizon.

    If you use the second sentence, you are showing, not telling. You are also using the tool of foreshadowing. A detective novel usually ends up with the reader encountering blood somewhere. It fits the genre.

    9. Using Too Many Adjectives And Adverbs

    Use nouns and verbs that paint a picture for your readers. Remember that too many adjectives and adverbs will result in telling.

    Nouns and verbs show. Adjectives and adverbs tell. Try to avoid using adverbial dialogue tags.

    This does not mean you should not use them. Of course, we need them, but don’t use them for the sake of using them. Don’t say ‘green grass’ unless the grass is spectacularly green and must be described. Of course, ‘purple grass’ should be mentioned.

    10. Avoid Abstract Words

    We want to know precisely what a person or a place looks like.

    Saying ‘they lived in poverty is abstract. Telling us about ‘the broken chairs, the pit toilets, and the radio that stopped because the batteries were dead’ is concrete.

    Saying that someone is ‘beautiful’ is boring. It is better to say that ‘men could not take their eyes off her’. Show us the effect of the abstract word on other people.

  • Writing can be entertaining. But it is also more than just putting words on paper. There are many times when research in writing.

    Why Research is Important

    You might wonder why research is essential. In some instances, other areas might not be apparent to a writer. Research is vital because readers will find the flaws in your writing.

    I was reading this book that was okay. It wasn’t great, but I enjoyed it until I got to the part where it mentioned Southern traditions. Not every tradition is the same throughout the South. There are many sub-cultures in the area with vast differences, but they discussed where I grew up. They were describing a location on the other side of the South. I couldn’t finish the book. The lack of research was too evident.

    The research will need to be done in many areas of your writing. As I wrote a scene where EMTs arrived at a scene, I did a pretty good job of describing what happened until a friend of mine read it who happened to be an EMT. She pointed out over a dozen issues that anyone with knowledge would have noted immediately. I had to rewrite the entire scene — this time correctly.

    Little things can make a big difference when it comes to your readers.

    Fiction vs. Non-Fiction

    Is there a difference in researching between fiction and non-fiction? In a way, yes. Both require research, but you don’t have to be an expert.

    Write what you know. Have you ever heard that? It sounds like good advice, but it can be a limitation for a writer.

    Should you be an expert in everything you write about?

    If it is non-fiction, I would say yes. Readers expect you to know what you are talking about. They are looking for your expertise when they read your work. That means you should write what you know. Research is involved, and you should clarify facts, obtain quotes from other experts, or learn news in the newly released area. Even statistics have to be researched to support your writing. The more you explore even the topics you are knowledgeable in, the more you enhance your knowledge and support your words.

    In fiction writing, your research is not as much on the topic, which is the story but on the components of the story. As mentioned above, little things like EMT procedures need to be studied. You should research it if you are not someone of a particular profession.

    • Where is your story set?

    • Do you need to explore the locale?

    • Do you need to look into cultures, superstitions, or technology?

    Writing a story set in the 1950s for anyone who did not live in that time period, you will need to research as the world is vastly different today than it was back then. You don’t need to become an expert in the era, but you must make sure your story reflects the period it was written about.

    _________________

    TIPS ON RESEARCH

    Keep a notebook — Every writer should have a notebook to jot down ideas and take notes for the current and future projects. Our memories are not as good as we think it is. Things are easy to forget as more time and information comes to us. Write down what you discover in your research. Also, write down where you found it, just in case you have to clarify your notes or dig further into a topic. You’ll regret it later if you do. A notebook will become a valuable resource for you.

    Don’t disregard anything — You might think something you read is useless. Yes, it might be for that one story, but it could be necessary for something later, either in that story or a different one. Little things can be helpful. Be a detective and note everything you can.

    Ask experts — Like I asked an EMT about a scene, you should ask someone who is an expert in the area—to write a story with a character from France. Ask someone from France about language, mannerisms, and such. Is there a chef in your book? Talk to an experienced cook.

    Don’t assume — Never assume you got something right that you are not familiar with or have researched. Maybe you write it without research in your first draft, but go back and do your research. Rewrite scenes where you have to. Don’t assume that you got a location right with EMTs. Research it and get it right.

    Use reliable sources — Don’t assume everything you read online is reliable. Anyone can publish stuff out there with no absolute truth behind it. Use reliable sources such as universities, journals, and academic works. You want to be as accurate as possible.

  • You may find it quite difficult to replicate normal speech patterns the first time you write dialogue. This can be compounded by the concurrent challenges of finding your voice and telling a great story overall. Even bestselling authors can get stuck on how a particular character says a particular line of dialogue. However, lackluster dialogue can be elevated to great dialogue with practice and hard work.

    Here are some strategies for improving the dialogue in your work:

    1. Mimic the voices of people in your own life.

    Perhaps you’ve created a physician character with the same vocal inflections as your mother. Perhaps your hero soldier talks just like your old volleyball coach. If you want to ensure that your dialogue sounds the way real people speak, there’s no better resource than the real-life people in your everyday world.

    2. Mix dialogue with narration.

    Long dialogue runs can dislodge a reader from the action of a scene. As your characters talk, interpolate some descriptions of their physical postures or other activities in the room. This mimics the real-world experience of listening to someone speaking while simultaneously taking in visual and olfactory stimuli.

    3. Give your main character a secret.

    Sometimes a line of dialogue is most notable for what it withholds. Even if your audience doesn’t realize it, you can build dynamic three-dimensionality by having your character withhold essential information from their speech. For instance, you may draft a scene in which a museum curator speaks to an artist about how she wants her work displayed—but what the curator isn’t saying out loud is that she’s in love with the artist. You can use that secret to embed layers of tension into the character’s spoken phrases.

    4. Use a layperson character to clarify technical language.

    When you need dialogue to convey technical information in approachable terms, split the conversation between two people. Have one character be an expert and one character be uninformed. The expert character can speak technically, and the uninformed can stop them, asking questions for clarification. Your readers will appreciate it.

    5. Use authentic shorthand.

    Does your character call a gun a “piece” or a “Glock”? Whatever it is, be authentic and consistent in how your characters speak. If they all sound the same, your dialogue needs another pass.

    6. Look to outstanding examples of dialogue for inspiration.

    If you're looking for a dialogue example in novels or short stories, consider reading the great books by Mark Twain, Judy Blume, or Toni Morrison. Within the world of screenwriting, Aaron Sorkin is renowned for his use of dialogue.

    7. Ensure that you’re punctuating your dialogue correctly.

    Remember that question marks and exclamation points go inside quotation marks. Enclose dialogue in double quotation marks and use single quotation marks when a character quotes another character within their dialogue. Knowing how to punctuate dialogue correctly can ensure that your reader stays immersed in the story.

    8. Use dialogue tags that are evocative.

    Repeating the word “said” repeatedly can make for dull writing and miss out on opportunities for added expressiveness. Consider replacing the word “said” with a more descriptive verb.

    • Use someone’s name that you don’t personally like. (for example, a bully, a hater, a horrible boss, a stalker, a dick pic sender, etc.)

    • Consult the phone book. Grab a random name from the phone book to get yourself started.

    • Grab a baby name book.

    • Use a random name generator.

    • Pay homage to famous names from a book or movie.

    • Make use of root meanings.

    • Don't get hung up on finding the perfect name.

  • 1. Use the dictionary.

    Dictionaries contain definitions of words, their usage, and their origins. All this information can help you decide if a given the word is the right word to use in the section of text you're working on. Dictionaries are available in both hard-copy and online formats; you can use both forms.

    Use the dictionary to help you communicate better with your readers, not to inject fancy words into your writing that send them to the dictionary to understand what you're trying to say. Use less-familiar words that readers can figure out the meaning of from the context in which the terms are used.

    Specialized dictionaries exist for specific industries that have their jargon, such as information technology, the law, or medicine. If you write a particular type of fiction, such as medical thrillers, police procedures, or science fiction, you should get a dictionary devoted to specialized terminology alongside your general dictionary.

    2. Familiarize yourself with the thesaurus.

    A thesaurus lists synonyms, grouping words and phrases together that have the same or similar meanings. Printed thesauruses are organized in 1 of 2 ways, either in dictionary fashion or with an index in the front, listing categories and code numbers for each subtopic, followed by the synonym groups that fall under those categories and code numbers. Online thesauruses feature a search field into which you type the word or phrase you want to find a synonym for and then list the synonyms grouped by the particular connotation (shade of meaning) of the word you typed.

A general yet relatable mental connection

  • You don't have to be a therapist to know mental health is a hot topic. And for a good reason.

    How can you create trustworthy mental health content when the need is high and therapists are busy and burnt out?

    What's appropriate to say? What should you avoid?

    Whether you're writing blogs, creating videos, or posting to social media, read on for some do's and don'ts to guide you when writing about mental health.

    Writing about mental health: THE DO'S.

    If your editorial calendar planning includes mental health content, you're already on the right path to building positive mental health awareness. Here are some recommendations for writing about mental health in a trustworthy, clinically accurate, and positive way.

    Do start with a goal for your mental health content.

    Before putting pen to paper (or, more likely, fingertips to keyboard), start by outlining the purpose of your piece. If your goal is to have readers identify with someone's experience and seek help, consider telling a patient story. And if you want to educate about symptoms and dispel stigmas, you could create blogs, infographics, or physician interviews focusing on a specific mental health condition. By starting with a purpose, you'll know when the content veers away from your goal and may need editing or a new approach to stay focused.

    Do use credible sources.

    As mental health professionals' workloads and waitlists increase, they have less time to serve as subject matter experts. Even if they have the time, many professionals' are burnt out as the demand for their skills grows.

    You can create clinically accurate content by starting with credible sources. As you know, our favorite search engines don't rank results based on credibility. So, you'll have to be discerning.

    Professional organizations often lead the charge in creating awareness and conducting research in their area of focus.

    Do include details on how to get in touch with professional help.

    Even when you use good sources, your mental health posts are never a substitute for medical advice. While mental health content provides general information, every person with mental health issues is unique and needs individualized care. Always include resources for people seeking mental health help, whether the contact information for a professional or instructions on what to do in a particular scenario.

    Writing about mental health: THE DON'TS.

    As we continue to build more significant mental health awareness in our communities, we want to inform, not offend. The Mental Health Foundation found that people with mental health issues face discrimination, making it difficult to find work, maintain long-term relationships, live in decent housing, and be socially active.

    Words are powerful tools. They can help dismantle mental health stigmas that affect people's well-being. Here are some ways to avoid perpetuating harmful mental health stereotypes in your content.

    Don't limit people's identities to their mental health.

    People are not their diseases. For example, instead of saying, "she is obsessive-compulsive," use "she has obsessive-compulsive disorder." Likewise, instead of saying "the mentally ill," refocus on "people with mental illness."

    Don't turn people into victims.

    Mental health content should create awareness, not pity. If you use words like "suffers from," "victim of," and "battling," you suggest that people with mental illness are victims. Instead, keep it neutral and clinically accurate by focusing on the facts: "he has schizophrenia."

    Don't use derogatory phrases.

    Words like "crazy" and "insane" may still find their way into the common vernacular, but they have no place in your mental health content. They are derogatory terms about mental health that you should avoid in all your content, not just mental health posts.

    —

    These do's, and don'ts can guide you through creating thoughtful mental health content for even the trickiest topics. You can write confidently by starting with the essential elements — a defined goal, solid sources, and directions for help — and avoiding harmful language.

  • Problems caused by a lack of connection to a character:

    • Their voice isn’t distinct. It always sounds different or never sounds truly authentic to the character.

    • The character has nothing to do with or gets “lost” in scenes/conversations.

    • The character is unemotional, melodramatic, or expresses emotions arbitrarily or inconsistently.

    • You don’t enjoy writing them.

    A common reason for the lack of connection is under development in a few key areas of characterization:

    • Their motivation – The emotional driving force behind their goal. This may be the desire to shift from one “state” to another: from powerless to powerful, from lonely to loved, etc.

    • Their false belief – Something the character believes about themselves, other people, or the harmful world. For example, “the only way to be powerful is to put yourself above others.” This is what changes to create the character arc (if an arc is present in the story).

    • Their key traits – Positive traits built from motivation and negative traits built from false belief. These are tangible/identifiable traits that impact their actions and interactions with others. In other words, the outward manifestations of their motivation and false belief.

    Solutions to try:

    • Write out the motivation, false beliefs, and key traits. Start with the information you know and then brainstorm or extrapolate what you don’t know.

    • Write out two key emotional scenes – the scene of backstory that created their false belief and the scene within the novel that has the highest level of emotion associated with the false belief or motivation.

    • Look at photographs that emotionally resonate with you to help establish a connection to the character, then redo the previous two exercises.

    • Make the character more similar to you by giving them a false belief or motivation that you find easier to relate to.

  • We know the five senses the human body uses to receive information – sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. But how can you incorporate each into a story, helping bring your writing alive?

    SIGHT

    Probably the most straightforward sense to write about. The writer will highlight what the character sees, whether the character is walking down the street or when inside a building. It’s OK to draw attention to the cracks in the pavement. But it might be significant to show how the cracks mirror the (fractured) paths in the character’s life.

    SOUND

    I love the sound of rain. I find it calming, especially if I don’t have to go outside. In a sense, sound can work exceptionally well in setting a scene. It will help create an ambiance as to what unfolds. If your character is lost in a forest, the slightest sound might make them on edge. A walk on the beach, with the waves lapping against the shore, will create an altogether different mood.

    SMELL

    This is a more effortless sense to write than you think. Back to the beach, as mentioned earlier, what smells will permeate the air? Chances are it’s the smell of the saltwater and the seaweed lining the shore. We can all recall the smell of certain things, whether a good or unpleasant experience. When writing about smells, the writer recounts them on the page.

    TASTE

    The same applies to taste. I love the taste of strawberry jam, but I wouldn’t thank you for a drink with ginger. So, bringing taste to life on the page is very much character-dependent – how the taste, real or imaginary, gives a greater understanding of a character’s feelings.

    TOUCH

    How do characters react when they touch something or when someone touches them? Paper cuts are quite common in an office, but they can undoubtedly sting. Again, it comes back to feelings. If your character is having a bad day, something as “trivial” as a paper cut might intensify the situation. Call me an old fool, but there is nothing more romantic than holding hands with your loved one – the reassurance it can give you. And when it’s not there – the longing for its return.

    ________________________

    The next time you write, let your character’s experiences come to life on the page through the five senses.

  • If you are ruminating or overthinking something related to your writing career, try these seven steps to get over it and get back to writing!

    1. Become more aware of your thoughts.

    Until you understand how overthinking works, you will likely do it without realizing it, so the first step is to become more aware of your thoughts.

    What are you thinking about? And how much have you been thinking about that lately? Once you realize you’re overthinking something, you can take steps to distract yourself.

    2. Label ruminating thoughts as harmful.

    When you catch yourself overthinking something, realize you’re hurting yourself and your writing progress. Then write down some ruminating thoughts so you can see them more clearly.

    If you got yet another rejection of your story, for example, your thoughts might be, I can’t believe this happened again, or this story must be a piece of crap. Whatever your thoughts are, write them down.

    3. Change your thoughts into good questions.

    Once you see your unproductive thoughts, it’s time to change them into questions your creative brain can answer. Using the examples above:

    Change, I can’t believe this happened again too. What can I do to increase my odds of acceptance? Or What are my other options with this story?

    Change, this story must be a piece of crap. How can I get more feedback on my work?

    The goal is to break yourself out of the destructive pattern of overthinking the situation. Give your brain a real problem to solve, and let it think about that for a while.

    4. Change how you talk to yourself.

    Most writers don’t talk very nicely to themselves. Changing your language can keep you from negative thoughts and help prevent rumination.

    Have some compassionate statements when you experience a problem or a setback. Examples may include: “I’m trying my best” or “I’m progressing at a rate that’s right for me.”

    5. Distract yourself.

    To stop overthinking, the best approach is to distract yourself. Do something else as soon as you realize you’re repeatedly thinking about the same thing. Call a friend, pull up some funny cat videos, write the thoughts down and put the paper aside, play a fun video game—anything that will get your mind onto something else.

    Realize you may need to do this several times a day at first, mainly if you’ve become overthinking, so have some distracting activities ready. Take some crosswords or word searches with you, clean your desk or working area, keep some editing projects handy, etc.

    6. Start meditating.

    Yes, it’s a standard recommendation, but it works. Meditation teaches you how to let your thoughts go without reacting to them and can help you become more aware of ruminating thoughts.

    Meditation doesn’t have to be complicated. Set a timer for 10 minutes, light a candle, and stare into the flame. As your thoughts rise, let them go and return your concentration to the flame. You’ll have to do this repeatedly, but the more you practice, the easier it will become.

    7. Learn how to play again.

    If you’re overthinking your writing, you’ve probably become too serious about it. You’re worried too much about “getting it right” or “being a good writer.” These thoughts block creativity and can easily encourage rumination.

    It would be best to remember what it was like to have fun writing. Start a brand new project—one that you can feel free with. It doesn’t matter if this piece is good, it will sell, or any of those things. Start a story with which you can have fun, and let your creative self come out and play.

    Stop Thinking and Start Writing

    Writers can get too caught up in all the advice about how we should write. Sometimes, we need to chuck all that and write. Stop thinking. It tends to be overrated, anyway.

  • 1. Write with purpose and be flexible. It's essential to have a game plan in mind. There's much to be said for well-thought-out character outlines and scene summaries. I have plenty of them on hand. But sometimes, it is just plain OK to hit the keyboard with reckless abandon, with no destination in sight. Crank up the radio and channel the inspiration that fell in your lap earlier in the day.

    Have fun with it.

    Be crazy.

    Don't edit.

    2. Play with different genres. I know writers hear all the time to "pick a genre and stick to it." Wise advice, to be specific when building a platform and readership, but when it comes to just you, your writing space, and your imagination, feel free–better yet–to take the liberty to play around with different story ideas, periods, and locations.

    3. Get critiqued. And I don't mean by anybody. Your mom, aunt, or grandma do not count. Because one of those ladies might think that Daisy Lou Starlight is an excellent name for your heroine. *hand to forehead*

    Get critiqued by someone (better yet, several someones) who knows the ins, outs, ups, and downs of good writing. Yep, it'll sting. I think it's supposed to—kind of like a challenging workout. You might not feel great while in the middle of that seventh treadmill mile, but your body will thank you later. So will your story and your editor. And mind you, not all critique groups (or critique partners) are created equal. Equipped with a bit of discernment and a learner's heart (read that last part five times), you will find your writing and storytelling grow in ways you never thought possible.

    4. Learn from what you read. Didn't you like that last beach flick? Thought that mystery was some of the most powerful writing ever? Don't just put the book aside with a satisfied sigh (or fling it at the wall). Let it marinate. Shoot, take notes if you want to. I typically analyze everything I read, and when a line stands out to me as being unique, I take a moment to figure out why and how. What makes it so special? What's the writer doing here? It's not just luck. It's a craft. And if a storyline isn't doing it for you, study the characters–is something about them bugging you? Is the plot just going nowhere? Too many pet phrases? Take note of your writing on what to avoid and what to embrace.

    To take things one step further, if a book has a substantial impact on me–whether good or bad–I sometimes look it up on amazon and read some reviews. This helps me gain a little outside perspective. Maybe readers agree with me, maybe not. But it's helpful to know what others think. What makes them tick? It could be the same readers who rate your story one day. So their opinions carry a good bit of weight.

    5. Learn from the pros. Last but not least. I've recently chatted with other writers about my journey toward publication (which is getting close! But that's another post). Anywho, the best advice I can give is to READ BLOGS. Yes, read blogs by the pros. Agents. Editors. Authors. You name it, and if it is good, read it, study it and see how you can apply it to your writing and career. Think of it as a free creative writing and marketing education.

✅Writing fictional crime with a relational experience

  • Plus one truth every InnerKiller writer needs to hear.

    Believable crime isn’t about shock value.
    It’s about consequence.

    If a murder scene feels staged, convenient, or emotionally hollow, the reader will feel it instantly—even if they don’t know why. Authenticity is what keeps the illusion intact. Precision is what keeps it terrifying.

    Below are the principles that separate performative violence from crime that lands.

    1. Know How Death Actually Happens

    People don’t simply “die.”
    They resist.

    Death occurs when the central nervous system fails—either because the brain shuts down the heart and lungs, or the heart and lungs fail and starve the brain. In practice, this is messy, slow, and unpredictable.

    • Stabbings take time and effort.

    • Strangulation is difficult.

    • Poisons are rarely clean or quick.

    • Victims don’t stand still and cooperate.

    If you’re writing murder, understand how hard it is to end a life. The struggle matters. The resistance matters. The realism lives there.

    2. Be Careful with Time of Death

    No one dies at exactly 10:05 PM unless someone was watching the clock.

    Time of death is an estimate based on postmortem changes:

    • Body cooling (algor mortis)

    • Muscle stiffening (rigor mortis)

    • Blood pooling (livor mortis)

    • Skin color changes (pallor)

    • Decomposition

    Drugs and toxins alter these processes. Cocaine accelerates them. Carbon monoxide delays them. A smart forensic character won’t commit to a precise minute—only a range.

    Precision here builds credibility. Guesswork destroys it.

    3. Understand Who Gets Access to the Scene

    Crime scenes are controlled environments.

    No wandering detectives.
    No civilians hovering over bodies.
    No casual contamination.

    Only essential personnel enter—and they’re suited up in PPE. The old trope of a detective smoking over the corpse belongs in fiction history, not believable crime writing.

    Respect the perimeter.

    4. Get the Language Right

    Details matter more than you think.

    A 9mm pistol is not a revolver.
    A body on its back is not “prone.”
    Words mean specific things.

    Terminology errors pull readers out of the story faster than bad dialogue. Research. Double-check. Use beta readers. Credibility is fragile.

    5. Crime Labs Are Slow—Painfully Slow

    Forensics is not instant gratification.

    Evidence waits in queues. Labs are overloaded. Results take weeks, months—sometimes longer. No friendly phone call speeds things up. Favoritism gets people fired.

    If your DNA comes back in an hour, your story just lied.

    6. Use Investigative Tools Intelligently

    DNA and fingerprints are only part of the arsenal.

    Real investigations use:

    • Informants

    • Wiretaps and bugs

    • Undercover work

    • Surveillance

    • Psychological profiling

    • Polygraphs

    • Digital forensics

    • Entomology (yes, bugs matter)

    Avoid psychics. They don’t solve cases—they derail them. Nothing kills believability faster than supernatural shortcuts masquerading as investigation.

    7. Engage All Five Senses—Especially Smell

    Violence is sensory.

    Sight is obvious. Sound builds tension. Touch grounds reality. Taste creeps in when fear rises.

    But smell?
    Smell is memory’s trigger.

    Describe it. Let it linger. Let it ruin clothes, rooms, and people. A decomposing body doesn’t just look horrific—it changes everyone who encounters it.

    That’s where immersion lives.

    8. Write Dialogue Like Humans Actually Speak

    Crime is not polite.

    Cops swear. Criminals swear. Medical professionals swear. Women swear. A lot. That’s reality.

    The trick is balance:

    • No profanity feels fake.

    • Too much becomes noise.

    And don’t censor with symbols. If a character would say it, let them say it. Sanitized language breaks character trust.

    9. Build Characters, Not Archetypes

    The most believable criminals and investigators are never just one thing.

    Good people have dark edges.
    Bad people can be funny, charming, or broken.

    Give your characters contradictions. Give them flaws. Give them lives that extend beyond the case.

    Cases don’t just get solved.
    They change the people working them.

    10. Respect the Science of Storytelling

    Crime writing isn’t just technical—it’s neurological.

    Readers keep turning pages because tension releases chemicals in the brain. This is craft, not accident. Understanding narrative psychology matters as much as understanding autopsies.

    If you haven’t read Wired for Story by Lisa Cron, you should. It will permanently alter how you approach storytelling.

    Bonus Truth (From Joseph Wambaugh)

    “The best crime stories aren’t about how cops work on cases.
    They’re about how cases work on cops.”

    That’s the difference.

    Anyone can describe a crime.
    Only good writers show what it costs.

    Final Note

    Authentic crime doesn’t glorify violence.
    It respects reality.

    When you honor the science, the psychology, and the human toll, your scenes won’t just feel real—they’ll stay with the reader long after the page goes dark.

  • Because death should leave a mark—on the page and the reader.

    Readers respond to death because it’s irreversible.
    Once it happens, nothing in the story can ever be the same.

    A well-written death can devastate, enrage, or satisfy—but it should never feel hollow. From the writer’s side, death scenes are difficult for a reason: they require restraint, intention, and emotional honesty.

    Below are the principles that turn a death from spectacle into consequence.

    1. Make the Reader Care—Before the End

    A meaningful death begins long before the final moment.

    If the reader isn’t invested in the character’s existence, their absence won’t matter. Depth, contradiction, motivation, and history all accumulate toward impact.

    Develop the character so thoroughly that their death feels like a loss—not a plot device.

    And never kill a well-built character just to force emotion. Readers can tell the difference.

    2. Or Make the Reader Want Them Gone

    Not every death is meant to be mourned.

    A well-crafted antagonist can generate relief, triumph, or grim satisfaction when they fall. The key is authenticity. The reader must believe the damage this character caused—and feel the weight of its end.

    The reaction matters more than the emotion.
    Grief and relief are equally valid outcomes.

    3. Show the Fallout, Not Just the Moment

    Death doesn’t end when the body stops.

    What makes a death meaningful is its effect on those left behind—especially the protagonist. Shock. Guilt. Rage. Emptiness. Relief.

    Reactions reveal relationships.
    Silence can be louder than screams.

    Every death should carry personal and practical consequences that ripple through the story. If nothing changes afterward, the death didn’t matter.

    4. Resist the Urge to Overplay It

    Grief doesn’t need fireworks.

    Overwritten death scenes—full of melodrama, clichés, or extended monologues—often feel manipulative. Readers don’t want to be told how to feel. They want space to feel it themselves.

    The long, convenient deathbed confession is a frequent offender. If the character can deliver paragraphs of exposition, they’re not dying—they’re stalling the story.

    Let the emotion arise naturally. Trust the reader.

    5. Don’t Kill for Shock Alone

    Shock fades. Meaning lingers.

    Unexpected death can be powerful—but only when it serves the story. Killing characters purely to surprise readers often feels cheap and erodes trust.

    The same applies to graphic detail. Violence, blood, and gore have their place—but only when they deepen understanding or reveal something essential about a character or world.

    Ask yourself:

    • Does this detail add insight?

    • Or is it here just to provoke a reaction?

    Be honest.

    6. Keep It Uncertain—Not Obvious

    Foreshadowing should whisper, not shout.

    If you telegraph a death too clearly—through excessive future dreams, sudden emotional spotlighting, or ominous speeches—you rob the moment of its impact.

    Subtle preparation strengthens payoff.
    Obvious signals deflate it.

    The reader should feel the inevitability after it happens, not before.

    7. Write From a Place That Feels—Then Leave It Safely

    Emotion transfers.

    If the death scene doesn’t affect you while writing it, it likely won’t affect the reader. Accessing real grief, fear, or loss can create powerful work—but it can also be draining.

    Go there intentionally.
    Then step back out.

    Protect your mental health. Dark writing demands recovery, too.

    Final Note

    A meaningful death is never about the act itself.
    It’s about what it costs.

    When written with care, death reshapes the story’s landscape and leaves an absence the reader can feel. That’s the goal—not tears, not shock, not spectacle.

    Just truth.

  • A controlled descent into obsession, ritual, and consequence.

    There are real serial killers—and then there are the ones that live in fiction.

    The fictional kind are everywhere. They don’t stay locked in history books or court transcripts. They stare back from pages and screens, refined into something sharper, more intimate, and far more personal. They are designed to be felt.

    And while no two great serial killer stories are the same, many of them follow a familiar psychological rhythm—not a formula, but a pattern. One that allows the writer to stop worrying about structure and focus instead on what matters most: the killer’s mind, the hunter’s fractures, and the cost of proximity to evil.

    Below is that pattern—refined for InnerKiller storytelling. Use it as scaffolding, not a cage.

    Step One: Establish the Protagonist Before the Hunt Begins

    Before the killer enters the frame, ground us in the life that’s about to be disrupted.

    Show your protagonist in their “before” state—training, working, surviving, pretending everything is manageable. This character might be an investigator, a witness, a survivor, or someone about to be framed—but at this stage, they are untouched.

    Ignorance is the calm before contamination.

    Step Two: Introduce the Pattern of Unsolved Crimes

    The story tightens when the protagonist becomes aware of something unfinished.

    A string of killings.
    A repeating signature.
    A pattern no one wants to name yet.

    This is often delivered through exposition—but disguise it as obligation. A meeting. A briefing. A request that feels routine… until it isn’t.

    Step Three: Plant the “Unrelated” Thread

    Every great serial killer story hides its answer in plain sight.

    Introduce a subplot that seems separate from the murders. A consultation. A side assignment. A character the protagonist is told to engage for entirely different reasons.

    This thread will matter later. It always does.

    The reader doesn’t need to know why yet—but they should feel its weight.

    Step Four: Introduce the Institutional Obstacle

    Every investigation has friction.

    This character enforces rules, protocols, egos, or politics. They slow things down. They demand obedience. They believe the system is more important than the truth.

    They are rarely evil—but they are dangerous in their own way.

    Step Five: Form the Dangerous Relationship

    Serial killer thrillers thrive on intimacy.

    This relationship doesn’t need to be romantic. In fact, it’s more effective when it isn’t. What matters is mutual recognition—respect, curiosity, manipulation, or shared darkness.

    This bond often isolates the protagonist from the official investigation or puts them at risk of betrayal.

    Once formed, it cannot be undone.

    Step Six: Reveal the Protagonist’s Core Trauma

    The killer doesn’t just hunt victims—they probe weaknesses.

    At some point, the protagonist’s past is exposed. A wound. A shame. A memory they thought was buried.

    This trauma doesn’t exist for sympathy—it exists because it explains why this character can’t walk away.

    Step Seven: Introduce Evidence That Doesn’t Fit—Yet

    Clues begin to surface that feel irrelevant, frustrating, or misleading.

    A name.
    A location.
    A detail no one else takes seriously.

    This evidence will later snap into focus—but for now, it destabilizes the investigation and the protagonist’s confidence.

    Step Eight: Accept Help from Someone Who Wants Something

    Assistance always comes at a price.

    Whether it’s insight, profiling, or access, the helper has an agenda—and they’re not hiding it. The protagonist must decide whether the truth is worth the cost.

    It usually is.
    Until it isn’t.

    Step Nine: Introduce the Latest Victim

    The story escalates when the killer acts again.

    A new body.
    A disappearance.
    A ticking clock.

    Sometimes the victim is anonymous. Sometimes they are named and personal. Either way, this event forces urgency and reshapes the investigation.

    Step Ten: Undermine the Protagonist from Above

    Authority interferes.

    A superior dismisses a lead.
    Orders are given to stand down.
    Information is withheld.

    This moment isn’t about humiliation—it’s about isolation. The protagonist is now alone with their instincts.

    Step Eleven: Let the Evidence Accelerate

    Now the clues begin to connect.

    One detail leads to another. A pattern emerges. The story gains momentum and clarity—until it almost feels solved.

    Almost.

    Step Twelve: Return to the First Victim

    Serial killers start close to home.

    The first murder—the one everyone glossed over—is usually the key. When revisited, it reframes everything.

    This is the moment of revelation.
    The realization that the killer didn’t just choose victims…
    They chose familiarity.

    Step Thirteen: Misdirect the System

    Just as the truth becomes visible, the official investigation veers off course.

    A false suspect.
    A bad address.
    A confident mistake.

    The system is certain it’s right.
    It isn’t.

    Step Fourteen: The Protagonist Goes Alone

    While everyone else follows the wrong path, the protagonist follows the quiet one.

    A detail no one else believes matters.
    A place no one thinks is relevant.

    This choice leads them directly to the killer—sooner than anyone expects.

    Step Fifteen: The Confrontation

    Now it becomes intimate.

    Mind against mind.
    Body against body.
    Darkness, confusion, panic.

    The killer has prepared. The protagonist is outmatched—but refuses to stop.

    This isn’t about justice.
    It’s about survival.

    Step Sixteen: Resolution

    The killer is stopped—captured or killed—often after being given a chance to escape and refusing it.

    Victory comes at a cost.

    It always does.

    Step Seventeen: Return to a Changed World

    Life resumes—but nothing is the same.

    The protagonist steps back into routine with new knowledge, new scars, and a deeper understanding of what they’re capable of facing.

    The killer may be gone.
    The damage remains.

    Final Truth

    There is no perfect formula.

    But there is a psychological architecture that works—one that prioritizes obsession, vulnerability, and consequence over spectacle.

    The best serial killer stories aren’t about monsters.

    They’re about what happens when someone has to stand close enough to one to stop them—and what that proximity leaves behind.

✅Content finalization, digitizing, and final draft submission

  • 10 ways to cut deeper, cleaner, and without mercy.

    Writing isn’t finished when the draft ends.
    That’s when the real work begins.

    In the InnerKiller universe, rewriting isn’t polishing—it’s interrogation. You lay the story out under harsh light and ask it hard questions. What survives stays. What doesn’t gets cut.

    Every great Toe-Tagged Tale is rewritten. Sometimes brutally.

    Writing Is Rewriting (Whether You Like It or Not)

    The first draft is instinct.
    The rewrite is intent.

    Rewriting means returning to the body of your work and deciding what still deserves to live. That might mean tightening a single sentence—or removing an entire chapter that no longer serves the story.

    This is where good writing becomes dangerous.

    What Rewriting Really Is

    Rewriting isn’t proofreading.
    It’s reconstruction.

    It’s reshaping scenes, reordering events, deepening motives, sharpening tone. It’s admitting that now—now—you finally understand what the story was trying to be.

    A serious rewrite produces a new draft, not a cleaner version of the old one.

    Why Rewriting Is Non-Negotiable

    When you’re drafting, you’re discovering. You don’t fully understand the story until it’s already on the page.

    Rewriting lets you use hindsight as a weapon:

    • You see the patterns.

    • You recognize the weak links.

    • You find the story’s true spine.

    This is where surprises emerge—and where the narrative finally takes shape.

    10 Ways to Rewrite Like a Professional

    1. Walk Away From the Body

    Distance creates clarity.

    When a draft feels flat or wrong, step away. Days. Weeks. Sometimes longer. You need to forget the effort you put into it so you can see what actually works.

    Familiarity breeds blindness.

    2. Break It Open—Then Reassemble

    Don’t be gentle.

    Expect your first draft to need serious reconstruction. Most rewrites aren’t about better sentences—they’re about better order, better pacing, better focus.

    Move scenes. Cut sections. Rewrite beginnings. Rebuild characters. Let the idea evolve if it needs to.

    Breaking the story is often how you save it.

    3. Read It Like a Stranger Would

    Pretend you didn’t write this.

    Read as:

    • Your ideal reader

    • A skeptic

    • Someone who doesn’t owe you kindness

    Notice where attention drifts. Where confusion creeps in. Where the tension dies. Don’t chase perfection—chase engagement.

    4. Invite the Right Eyes In

    Feedback is inevitable. Choose wisely.

    You want readers who:

    • Understand the genre

    • Aren’t impressed by effort alone

    • Will tell you what’s not working

    Other writers and editors are ideal. Listen to their notes—not as commandments, but as data. Try suggestions. If they fail, you’ll learn why.

    Sometimes the wrong note leads to the right solution.

    5. Don’t Obsess Over the Same Wound Forever

    There’s a difference between rewriting and stalling.

    If you keep circling the same weak spot without progress, step back. Over-editing can drain the original energy from a story.

    Refine—but don’t sterilize.

    6. Interrogate the Language

    Once the structure holds, zoom in.

    Line-edit for:

    • Awkward phrasing

    • Inconsistent tone

    • Overwritten passages

    • Dialogue that runs too long

    • Exposition that explains instead of reveals

    If a character suddenly behaves out of character, that’s a red flag. Trust your discomfort—it’s usually right.

    7. Color-Code the Crime Scene

    Turn rewriting into strategy.

    Use color to track confidence:

    • Green — solid, sharp, finished

    • Yellow — uncertain, needs review

    • Red — broken, weak, or disposable

    Your goal is simple: eliminate red, clarify yellow, protect green.

    Seeing the story visually helps you prioritize.

    8. Ask Ruthless Questions

    Use this checklist during revision:

    • What is the central question driving this story?

    • Where does pacing collapse?

    • What scenes don’t serve the core narrative?

    • What needs strengthening?

    • What needs to be cut entirely?

    • Does the ending earn its existence?

    Answers here often trigger the most important revisions.

    9. Read It Aloud—And Listen

    Your ear catches what your eyes forgive.

    Reading aloud exposes:

    • Clunky rhythms

    • Repetitive phrasing

    • Dialogue that sounds false

    • Sentences that trip over themselves

    Don’t rush this. And don’t do too much at once—or you’ll stop hearing the flaws.

    10. Print It. Touch It. Mark It.

    Screens lie.

    A printed draft slows you down and mimics the reader’s experience. You’ll notice pacing issues, tonal shifts, and structural problems you missed before.

    Pen-in-hand editing changes how the brain engages. Use it.

    Final Word from the Morgue

    Rewriting is where writers are separated from dabblers.

    It takes patience. Discipline. And the willingness to cut something you once loved because the story demands it.

    The goal isn’t perfection.
    It’s precision.

    Interrogate the draft.
    Refine the kill.
    Then send it back into the world sharper than before.

  • Apps That Turn Handwritten Notes Into Digital Evidence

    Some writers outline in notebooks.
    Some draft in margins.
    Some scribble scenes like confessions they’re not ready to type yet.

    That doesn’t make the work less serious—it makes it raw.

    These tools exist to move your handwriting out of the shadows and into a clean, editable digital format without losing momentum. Think of them as evidence scanners: they capture what you wrote in the moment and translate it into something you can refine, edit, and submit.

    Below are reliable apps that convert handwritten text into searchable, editable files using OCR (optical character recognition). No retyping. No guesswork.

    1. Pen to Print

    Best for scanning handwritten pages without a stylus

    Pen to Print converts handwritten notes—letters, notebooks, margins, even blackboard writing—into editable digital text. You can photograph handwritten pages or import images from your device and turn them into searchable documents.

    It supports over 50 languages and works without an Apple Pencil, making it ideal for writers who prefer pen-and-paper drafting. Converted text can be shared, stored, or uploaded to the cloud.

    Devices: iPhone, iPad, Android

    2. Evernote

    Best for archiving ideas and searchable notes

    Evernote’s built-in camera and OCR allow you to capture handwritten notes and make them searchable within your archive. It supports typed text in 28 languages and handwritten text in 11 languages.

    This is a strong option for writers who want their handwritten brainstorming, outlines, or research notes stored alongside digital drafts.

    Devices: iOS, Android, Windows, Mac

    3. GoodNotes 5

    Best for handwritten notebooks that stay organized

    GoodNotes 5 turns handwritten notes into searchable content and stores them in clean, well-organized digital notebooks. It’s especially useful for writers who sketch scenes, timelines, or story maps by hand.

    Text becomes vector-based, allowing for smooth scaling and editing, and the built-in search can locate handwritten words across all notebooks.

    Devices: iPhone, iPad

    4. Notes Plus

    Best for writers who annotate everything

    Notes Plus allows handwriting-to-text conversion, audio recording, image insertion, and document annotation. Handwritten notes can be converted into DOC or PDF formats, making them easy to export and submit.

    It integrates photos directly into documents and supports Apple Pencil for precision writing.

    Devices: iOS

    5. Text Scanner (OCR)

    Best for speed and multilingual recognition

    Text Scanner converts handwritten or printed text into digital form in seconds and supports over 150 languages. You photograph the text, and the app processes it immediately.

    It also offers text-to-speech functionality, useful for proofreading drafts aloud—though the voice is synthetic.

    Devices: iOS, Android

    6. Notability

    Best all-in-one paperless workspace

    Notability combines handwriting recognition, document creation, and multimedia integration. You can mix handwritten notes with images, text, web pages, and audio in a single document.

    It supports multi-note viewing and automatically syncs to iCloud, making it ideal for writers managing multiple projects at once.

    Devices: iOS

    7. Microsoft OneNote

    Best for cross-platform consistency

    OneNote converts handwritten notes into searchable text and integrates seamlessly with Microsoft’s Office ecosystem. It works well with stylus input and supports everything from quick notes to diagrams and illustrations.

    If you already use Word or other Microsoft tools, this is a natural extension.

    Devices: iOS, Android

    8. Adobe Scan

    Best for clean scans and professional PDFs

    Adobe Scan offers strong OCR capabilities backed by Adobe’s document ecosystem. It converts handwritten notes into searchable PDFs or JPEGs and integrates smoothly with other Adobe tools.

    The app is free and reliable for digitizing handwritten drafts or research notes.

    Devices: iPhone, iPad, Android

    9. WritePad for iPad

    Best for longhand writers who want control

    WritePad allows handwriting recognition via finger or stylus and supports customizable recognition rules and commands. It’s well-suited for writers who prefer drafting entire passages by hand before converting them.

    Devices: iOS

    Final Note

    Handwriting is instinct.
    Digitizing is discipline.

    Use whatever method gets the words out of your head—but make sure they end up somewhere you can refine them. These tools don’t replace writing. They preserve it long enough for you to sharpen it.

    Every draft deserves a clean record.

  • This is where the file gets sealed.

    By the time you reach the final draft, your story already has a pulse.
    You’ve built the plot.
    You’ve carved the characters.
    You’ve uncovered something worth saying.

    Now comes the hardest part: deciding what survives.

    Editing a final draft can feel disorienting—especially when your own inner critic gets there first. But the goal isn’t to protect the story as it exists. The goal is to finish it properly.

    A final draft isn’t about small fixes.
    It’s about making sure every element belongs.

    Don’t be afraid to dismantle what you’ve built. That’s how you make it stronger.

    Use Your Outline Like a Case File

    Most writers abandon the outline once the story starts flowing. Don’t.

    Your outline becomes invaluable during editing. It shows you what each chapter was supposed to do—and whether it actually did it. Revisit it while revising:

    • Summarize each completed chapter

    • Mark unresolved threads

    • Flag ideas you intentionally postponed

    • Note where momentum slows or logic bends

    Leave room in the outline for evolution. Some ideas need time to mature before they earn their place. Track them. Revisit them. Let the outline guide the final structure.

    Be Willing to Change the Story’s Purpose

    Sometimes the most powerful edit isn’t a sentence—it’s the direction.

    As you pull the story apart, you may discover a stronger version hiding underneath. A shift in motive. A reaction that lands harder. A single choice that reframes the entire narrative.

    You control how the reader responds.
    Small changes can radically sharpen impact.

    If altering the story’s purpose makes it more dangerous, more honest, or more resonant—follow it.

    Protect the Voice That Makes It Yours

    Readers recognize voice before they recognize plot.

    Your final draft should sound unmistakably like you, even when written through someone else’s eyes. Consistency matters. Rhythm matters. Word choice matters.

    Those recurring quirks—the phrasing, the cadence, the way you observe—aren’t accidents. They’re fingerprints. Don’t polish them away.

    A clean draft that loses its voice isn’t finished. It’s erased.

    Know Exactly Who You’re Writing For

    Writing the story is only half the job. Finishing it means understanding the reader it’s meant for.

    Ask yourself:

    • Who is this story speaking to?

    • What do they expect—and what do they want challenged?

    • Does this deliver clarity, not confusion?

    Study the genre. Read comparable work. Pay attention to how audiences respond—not to imitate, but to understand the conversation you’re entering.

    Specificity builds trust. Vagueness breaks it.

    Read Like a Reader. Edit Like a Surgeon.

    Before you start cutting, read the draft straight through—off-screen if possible. No notes. No judgment. Just experience it.

    Then go back in with precision.

    You’ll often find the real issues aren’t on the surface:

    • A thin backstory

    • An underdeveloped motivation

    • A struggle that needs weight

    • A character who hasn’t earned their choices yet

    This is where depth is added—not by decoration, but by excavation.

    Final Word

    There is no universal definition of a “perfect” final draft.

    But there is a finished one—where every scene serves a purpose, every voice is intentional, and nothing remains because you were afraid to remove it.

    No matter how strong the first version looks, there’s always more beneath it.

    Cut deeper.
    Refine further.
    Seal the file only when the story can no longer argue back.

Did we miss anything?

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