Learning how to make money writing lyrics is the dream of every poet with a rhythm in their soul.

I remember sitting in a drafty studio in the Pacific Northwest, staring at a blank notebook, wondering if my metaphors were worth a single cent. The silence of a blank page is heavy. It carries the weight of all your unexpressed emotions and the terrifying uncertainty of your bank account. For decades, I have lived in the trenches of the writing life, navigating the messy, beautiful, and often unpaid struggle of being a creator. I have ghostwritten books, published novels, and felt the sting of rejection that makes you want to burn your manuscripts and take a “real” job.

But here is the truth I learned the hard way: talent alone does not pay the rent. You can be the most profound lyricist on the planet, but if you do not understand the business of music, you are essentially a starving artist by choice. Writing lyrics is a craft, but monetizing that craft is a strategy. Whether you want to write catchy hooks for pop stars or deep, soulful verses for indie folk artists, you need a roadmap. You need to know how to turn your poetic impulses into a sustainable stream of income.

If you have ever wondered how to make money writing lyrics without losing your creative soul, you are in the right place. This isn’t about selling out; it is about setting yourself up so that your art can actually support your life. Let’s look at seven practical, battle-tested tips to help you build your lyrical fortune.

1. Master the Art of the “Hook” and the “Hookup”

In the music industry, the “hook” is the part of the song that gets stuck in a listener’s head for three days straight. As a writer, your ability to craft these earworms is your most valuable currency. If you can write a chorus that feels inevitable yet surprising, you become an asset to any producer or singer.

However, you cannot just wait for a hit to fall into your lap. You must actively seek out the “hookup”—the professional connections that lead to opportunities. This means:

• Collaborating with producers: Producers often have the beats but lack the narrative depth. They are your primary customers.
• Attending songwriting camps: These intensive sessions are breeding grounds for hits and networking.
• Building a “demo” portfolio: You don’t need a full band, but you do need high-quality recordings of your lyrics set to melody so people can hear the potential.

Think of your lyrics as a product. A product needs to be functional. A lyric that is too abstract might be beautiful, but a lyric that is catchy and relatable is profitable.

2. Understand the Complex World of Music Royalties

If you want to know how to make money writing lyrics, you must understand that money comes from two distinct directions: upfront fees and royalties. Many new writers make the mistake of only focusing on the one-time payment. This is a recipe for financial disaster.

Upfront fees (or “advances”) are what you get paid to write the song. While this is great for immediate cash flow, the real wealth lies in the long tail of royalties. These include:

Mechanical Royalties: These are earned every time a song is reproduced, such as on a CD, a vinyl record, or a digital stream on Spotify.
Performance Royalties: These occur when your song is played on the radio, in a club, or during a live concert. This is where the real “fortune” is built over time.
Sync Licensing: This is the “holy grail” for many. This involves placing your music in commercials, movies, or video games. A single well-placed song in a major car commercial can change your entire financial trajectory.

To collect these, you must join a Performing Rights Organization (PRO) like ASCAP or BMI. Without this, you are essentially leaving money on the table for someone else to pick up.

Protecting Your Intellectual Property

Never, under any circumstance, send your lyrics to a stranger without a paper trail. Use digital timestamps and, if possible, register your works. Your lyrics are your property. Treat them with the same ferocity you would treat your physical home.

3. Diversify Your Income Streams

Relying solely on one “big hit” is a gamble that most writers lose. The most successful lyricists are essentially small business owners with multiple revenue streams. If you are struggling with the idea of how to make money writing lyrics, stop looking for one big payday and start looking for five small ones.

Consider these secondary avenues:

• Ghostwriting for others: Just as I have ghostwritten books, many artists need someone to polish their verses without taking the credit. It pays well and keeps your skills sharp.
• Workshops and Teaching: Once you have mastered the craft, teach it. Songwriting workshops for teens or hobbyists can provide steady, predictable income.
• Freelance Lyric Services: Websites like Fiverr or Upwork allow you to take on smaller gigs, such as writing personalized anniversary songs or jingles for small businesses.
• Selling “Type Beats” with Lyrics: If you have a knack for melody, you can sell complete song packages to emerging artists.

Diversity provides a safety net. When the creative well runs dry—and trust me, it will—your other streams will keep the lights on.

4. Build a Digital Presence That Sells

In the modern era, if you don’t exist online, you don’t exist in the industry. You don’t need to be a social media influencer, but you do need a professional digital footprint. When a producer Googles your name, what do they find? Do they find a broken LinkedIn profile, or do they find a polished portfolio?

track

Your digital toolkit should include:

A Professional Website: This is your home base. It should feature your best work, a clear bio, and an easy way for people to contact you.
A Curated Instagram or TikTok: Use these platforms to show the process. Post a video of you scribbling a verse or explaining the meaning behind a metaphor. People connect with the human behind the words.
A Clean Portfolio: Use platforms like SoundCloud or specialized portfolio sites to host your demos. Make it incredibly easy for a busy professional to click “play” and be impressed within thirty seconds.

Don’t overcomplicate this. You don’t need a cinematic production. You just need to look reliable and professional.

5. Develop a Niche Identity

Being a “generalist” is a difficult way to make money. While you should be able to write in various styles, having a “signature” makes you much easier to market. Are you the person people call when they need a heartbreaking country ballad? Are you the master of the aggressive, rhythmic rap verse? Or are you the go-to for dreamy, indie-pop metaphors?

When you specialize, you become a specialist. Specialists command higher rates. Instead of being one of a million writers, you become the writer for a specific sound. This makes you a much more powerful recommendation when artists are looking to fill a specific void in their sound.

6. The Importance of Networking (Without Being a Nuisance)

I know, I know. “Networking” sounds like a dirty word. It sounds like handing out business cards in a crowded room while sweating profusely. But in the music industry, networking is simply about building genuine relationships.

The best way to network is to be helpful. Listen to what producers are struggling with. Offer a verse for a track they are stuck on. Be the person who brings good energy to the studio. The music industry is incredibly small; your reputation for being easy to work with will travel much faster than your talent will.

Avoid the “starving artist” trap of being overly transactional. If you only reach out when you want something, people will smell it a mile away. Instead, focus on connection. Great songwriting is often a communal act.

7. Manage the Mental Toll of the Creative Grind

This is the part no one tells you when they talk about how to make money writing lyrics. The pressure to produce “profitable” art can be soul-crushing. There is a profound tension between the need to pay bills and the need to remain authentic. I have spent many nights staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the fear that my best ideas were gone and all I had left were commodities.

You must protect your mental health to sustain your career. If you burn out, your income stops. Learn to separate your self-worth from your latest royalty check. Develop a routine that includes “unproductive” writing—writing just for the joy of it, with no intention of selling it. This keeps the creative engine lubricated.

If you find yourself spiraling into writer’s block or the anxiety of financial instability, reach out to your community. Do not isolate yourself. The struggle is real, but it is much more manageable when shared with others who understand the weight of the pen.

Final Thoughts on Building Your Lyrical Legacy

Building a fortune through songwriting is not a sprint; it is a marathon through a landscape of highs and lows. There will be months where the checks are large and the inspiration is flowing, and there will be months where you feel like you are shouting into a void. The key is to remain disciplined, stay curious, and always keep your business affairs in order.

By focusing on high-quality hooks, understanding your royalties, diversifying your income, and maintaining your professional network, you move from being a hobbyist to being a professional. You are not just writing words; you are building an estate of intellectual property.

So, as you continue to explore how to make money writing lyrics, remember to keep your eyes on both the art and the ledger. Master the craft, but respect the business. If you can do both, you won’t just be a writer—you will be a powerhouse in the music industry.

This post 7 Smart Tips on How to Make Money Writing Lyrics and Build Your Fortune first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

Learning how to make money writing on the internet is a dream that often hits a very cold, hard reality.

I remember sitting in a cramped corner of a coffee shop in Bellingham, staring at a bank balance that looked more like a temperature reading than a livelihood. I had the talent. I had the passion. I had a growing pile of finished manuscripts. Yet, the “freedom” of the digital writing life felt more like a trap of unpaid labor and endless rejection letters. For twenty years, I have navigated the trenches of the writing industry, from ghostwriting books for high-profile clients to seeing my own poetry published in prestigious journals. Along the way, I have seen countless aspiring writers burn out because they followed the wrong advice.

The internet is flooded with “gurus” promising that you can quit your day job by next Tuesday if you just follow a specific set of magic steps. They paint a picture of working from a beach in Bali, sipping coconut water while your passive income streams roll in. It sounds lovely. It also sounds like a lie. If you want to find out how to make money writing on the internet, you need to stop listening to the hype and start looking at the mechanics of the industry. Some of the most common advice circulating online is not just unhelpful; it is actively detrimental to your long-term career.

In this article, I want to pull back the curtain. I want to talk about the myths that lead to burnout and the “tips” that keep you stuck in a cycle of low-paying gigs. Let’s dismantle the overrated strategies so you can focus on what actually builds a sustainable, profitable writing career.

1. The Myth of “Passive Income” Through Blogging

Everyone loves the idea of passive income. You write a post, it sits there, and years later, it earns you ad revenue while you sleep. While it is possible to earn money from a blog, calling it “passive” is a gross misrepresentation of the effort required. A blog is not a set-and-forget machine; it is a living, breathing entity that requires constant maintenance, SEO updates, and fresh content to stay relevant.

The danger here lies in the way people approach how to make money writing on the internet via blogging. They spend months, sometimes years, writing into a void without a single paying client. They focus on traffic numbers instead of revenue. By the time they realize that ad revenue requires massive, expensive traffic to pay even a single grocery bill, they are already exhausted and broke.

Instead of chasing the ghost of passive income, focus on building an active service. Use your blog as a portfolio to showcase your expertise to potential clients. A blog should be your calling card, not your only source of sustenance. Treat it as a marketing tool that demonstrates your ability to engage an audience, rather than a magical money tree.

2. The “Write Everything for Everyone” Strategy

When you are desperate for work, the temptation to say “yes” to every project is overwhelming. A client needs a technical white paper on blockchain? Sure. They need a whimsical children’s story about a sentient toaster? Why not? You need the cash, right?

This is a recipe for professional stagnation. If you try to be a generalist who knows nothing deeply, you will forever be trapped in the low-paying tier of content creators. High-paying clients do not look for “writers”; they look for subject matter experts. They want the person who understands the nuances of medical writing, legal compliance, or SaaS marketing.

By spreading yourself too thin, you prevent yourself from developing the deep authority required to command high rates. It is much more profitable to be the “go-to” writer for a specific niche than to be the person who writes mediocre articles about every trending topic on Twitter. Pick a lane. Master it. Then, and only then, consider expanding.

Why Niche Authority Matters

• Higher Rates: Experts charge more than generalists.

lack of Competition: Fewer people can write well about complex, specific topics.

• Easier Marketing: It is easier to find clients when they know exactly what you do.
• Client Retention: Clients return to experts they can trust with their brand voice.

3. Relying Solely on Content Mills

Content mills are the digital equivalent of a fast-food franchise. They provide a constant stream of work, but the pay is abysmal, and the quality expectations are often non-existent. Many new writers start here because it feels like a quick way to learn how to make money writing on the internet. It provides immediate gratification, but it comes at a steep cost.

Working for mills teaches you how to write for volume, not for value. You learn how to churn out words to meet a deadline, but you don’t learn how to develop a voice, conduct deep research, or build relationships with editors. Most importantly, you cannot build a brand within a content mill. You are a nameless cog in a massive machine.

Use these platforms only as a temporary bridge if you are in a financial crisis. Do not let them become your permanent home. Your goal should be to transition toward direct client relationships, where you have more control over your subject matter, your schedule, and—most importantly—your pricing.

4. Ignoring the Business Side of Writing

I see so many brilliant writers who treat their craft as a hobby and then act surprised when they can’t pay their rent. Writing is an art, but freelance writing is a business. If you only focus on the prose and ignore the invoicing, the contracts, and the tax implications, you are not a professional; you and your business are both at risk.

Many writers avoid the “boring” stuff. They don’t use contracts, leaving them vulnerable to clients who refuse to pay. They don’t track their expenses, missing out on vital tax deductions. They don’t manage their time, leading to the dreaded “feast or famine” cycle where they have too much work one month and nothing the next.

To succeed, you must embrace the role of the CEO. This means:

• Setting clear boundaries: Define your working hours and revision limits.
• Managing finances: Use accounting software to track every penny.
• Marketing yourself: Spend at least 20% of your week looking for new opportunities, even when you are busy.
• Contractual protection: Never start work without a signed agreement.

5. The “Wait for Inspiration” Trap

There is a romantic, albeit dangerous, notion that great writing only happens when the Muse visits. This mindset is a luxury that professional writers simply cannot afford. If you only write when you feel “inspired,” you will never meet a deadline, and you will never build a reliable income.

The truth is much less glamorous. Professional writing is often about sitting in a chair, staring at a blinking cursor, and forcing the words to appear through sheer discipline. Some days, the writing is beautiful. Most days, it is a struggle against your own resistance. The difference between those who make a living and those who struggle is consistency.

If I waited for inspiration to write my novels, I would have published exactly zero books.

Develop a routine. Whether it is 500 words at 6:00 AM or three hours of deep work every afternoon, create a structure that allows you to produce work regardless of your emotional state. Discipline is the foundation upon which a profitable writing career is built.

6. Overvaluing Social Media Presence

It is easy to get caught up in the “influencer” way of doing things. You see writers with thousands of followers on X (formerly Twitter) or Instagram and assume that popularity equals profitability. While a social media presence can certainly help with brand awareness, followers do not always translate into clients.

I have seen writers with massive followings who struggle to land a single high-paying freelance contract. Conversely, I know writers with almost no social media presence who maintain a roster of high-paying, long-term clients. The difference is that the latter focuses on outreach and networking rather than just broadcasting.

Do not spend all your time crafting the perfect Instagram aesthetic. Instead, use social media to engage with editors, join professional writing groups, and share your expertise. Use it as a tool for connection, not just a platform for vanity. A well-placed, thoughtful comment on an editor’s post is often worth more than a thousand likes on a generic quote graphic.

7. Neglecting the Importance of Self-Care and Mental Health

This is perhaps the most overlooked and most heartbreaking tip. The writing life is lonely. It is isolating. It is a constant cycle of creation and critique. Without a deliberate effort to protect your mental health, the pressure to perform can lead to profound burnout.

I have been there. I have felt the crushing weight of a deadline approaching while my brain felt like it was made of lead. I have felt the sting of a “no” from a publication I worked hard for. If you do not learn how to disconnect, how to move your body, and how to find joy outside of your work, you will eventually burn out and quit.

Writing is an endurance sport. You cannot run a marathon if you are constantly sprinting without rest. Learning how to make money writing on the internet requires a long-term view. That longevity depends entirely on your ability to maintain your mental and emotional well-being. Take breaks. Go for a walk in the woods. Learn to knit something complicated. Anything that reminds you that you are a human being, not just a word-producing machine.

Success in this industry is not about finding a shortcut or a “hack.” It is about building a sustainable practice based on expertise, discipline, and business acumen. It is about moving away from the hollow promises of “easy money” and toward the rewarding, albeit difficult, reality of professional craftsmanship.

The path is steep, and there will be moments when you want to turn back. But if you focus on building real skills, nurturing professional relationships, and managing your business with care, you will find that the journey is worth every struggle. There is a profound satisfaction in knowing that your words have value and that you have built a life on your own terms. Stop looking for the magic trick and start doing the work. That is the true secret of how to make money writing on the internet.

This post 7 Overrated Tips on How to Make Money Writing on the Internet for Success first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

Learning how to make money writing books on Amazon is often the dream that keeps us typing at 3:00 AM.

I know that feeling intimately. I have spent two decades in the trenches of the writing life, navigating the highs of award-winning essays and the crushing lows of a manuscript that refuses to cooperate. There is a specific kind of heartache that comes with pouring your soul into a story, only to realize you haven’t even covered the cost of your morning coffee with your royalties.

For many, the idea of how to make money writing books on Amazon feels like a mystery wrapped in an enigma. You see the “Best Seller” badges on Kindle storefronts and wonder if there is a secret club you weren’t invited to. There isn’t. But there is a strategy. There is a shift from being just a “writer” to becoming an “author-entrepreneur.”

After ghostwriting dozens of books and publishing my own novels, I have learned that talent gets you in the door, but business sense keeps the lights on. If you want to turn your passion into a sustainable income, you need more than just a good plot. You need a roadmap. Let’s look at the seven strategies that actually move the needle.

1. Master the Art of Niche Research

The biggest mistake I see new authors make is writing exactly what they want to write without checking if anyone wants to read it. While artistic integrity matters, if you are writing a deep-dive historical romance set in a village no one has ever heard of, you might find your audience is non-existent.

To succeed with how to make money writing books on Amazon, you must treat Amazon like a marketplace, not just a library. You need to find the “sweet spots” where high demand meets low competition.

Identifying Profitable Sub-Genres

Don’t just write “Romance.” That is far too broad. Instead, look into “Small Town Regency Romance” or “Grumpy/Sunshine Contemporary Romance.” These specific sub-genres allow you to target readers who are actively searching for exactly what you offer.

Use tools like Amazon‘s own search bar. Type in a keyword and see what the auto-complete suggests. Those suggestions are real human beings typing in their desires. If you can satisfy those specific cravings, you are already halfway to a sale.

2. The Cover is Your Most Important Marketing Tool

I hate to say this to my fellow word-smiths, but people do judge books by their covers. You could have the most profound, soul-shattering prose in the English language, but if your cover looks like it was made in MS Paint by a well-meaning relative, no one will click on it.

On Amazon, your cover is your billboard. It has roughly two seconds to grab a scroller’s attention. A professional cover communicates three things immediately:

• Genre: Does this look like a thriller or a sweet romance?
• Quality: Does this look like a professional product or an amateur hobby?
• Mood: Is the tone dark and gritty or light and whimsical?

If you are on a budget, do not skimp here. Invest in a professional designer. It is much cheaper to pay for a good cover once than to pay for a complete rebrand three months later because your sales have stalled.

3. Optimize Your Metadata for Discoverability

Amazon is essentially a giant search engine. If you want to understand how to make money writing books on Amazon, you have to understand SEO (Search Engine Optimization) for books. Your title, subtitle, and backend keywords are the levers you pull to tell the Amazon algorithm where you belong.

The Title and Subtitle: Your title should be catchy, but your subtitle can do the heavy lifting for keywords. For example, instead of just calling a book “The Silent Woods,” you might use “The Silent Woods: A Gripping Psychological Thriller.”

The Seven Backend Keywords: Amazon gives you seven slots for keywords. Do not repeat words already in your title. Instead, use phrases that readers use. Think about tropes, settings, and character types. If you write about detectives, use terms like “hardboiled mystery” or “police procedural.”

4. Leverage Kindle Unlimited and KDP Select

One of the most powerful tools in the Amazon ecosystem is Kindle Unlimited (KU). This is a subscription service where readers pay a monthly fee to access a vast library of ebooks. As an author, you are paid based on the number of “pages read” by these subscribers.

By enrolling in KDP Select, you grant Amazon exclusivity for your ebook, but in exchange, you become available in the KU library. For many indie authors, especially in genres like Romance, Sci-Fi, and Fantasy, the “page read” royalties can often exceed the revenue from individual ebook sales.

Note: This means you cannot sell your ebook on Kobo, Apple Books, or your own website. This is a strategic choice. For some, the massive visibility of KU is worth the loss of other platforms. For others, the freedom of wide distribution is more important. Decide which path fits your long-term goals.

5. Build an Author Brand, Not Just a Book Series

A single book is a transaction. A series is a business. If you want to find how to make money writing books on Amazon consistently, you need to think about the “read-through” rate. This is the percentage of readers who finish book one and immediately buy book two.

The most successful authors on the platform create interconnected worlds or character arcs. When a reader falls in love with your writing style, you want to make it easy for them to find more.

To do this effectively, you need an ecosystem:

• An Email List: This is your only direct line to your readers. Social media algorithms change, but an email address is yours forever.
• A Lead Magnet: Offer a free novella or a deleted chapter in exchange for an email signup.
• Consistent Release Schedule: Momentum is everything. If you disappear for two years between books, your audience will drift away.

6. Use Amazon Advertising Wisely

Organic reach is wonderful, but it is rarely enough to sustain a full-time writing career. Amazon Advertising (AMS) allows you to place your book directly in front of readers who are looking at similar titles.

I have seen authors burn through hundreds of dollars in a single weekend by targeting keywords that were too broad. If you target “Mystery,” you are competing with Stephen King. You will lose. Instead, target specific authors or specific sub-genres.

The Goal: You want your Advertising Cost of Sales (ACoS) to be lower than your royalty margin. If you make $2.00 per book, and you spend $1.50 in ads to get that sale, you are profitable. It is a game of math, not just art.

7. Embrace the “Writer’s Struggle” with Resilience

Let’s get real for a moment. There will be days when the words won’t come. There will be months when your sales look like a flatline. I have been there, staring at a blank screen, feeling like the entire concept of how to make money writing books on Amazon was a cruel joke played on me.

Writing is a lonely, grueling profession. The mental health aspect of being an indie author is often overlooked. You are the editor, the marketer, the designer, and the accountant. The pressure to perform can lead to burnout faster than any 9-to-5 job I have ever held.

When you feel that weight, remember that writing is a marathon, not a sprint. Be compassionate with yourself. Take breaks. Go for a walk in the woods or knit a complex pattern to clear your head. The most important skill you can develop is not just writing—it is the ability to keep going when things get difficult.

Success on Amazon doesn’t happen overnight. It is built through a thousand small, disciplined decisions. It is about researching, refining, and refusing to quit.

If you stay focused on your readers, optimize your metadata, and treat your writing like the professional endeavor it is, you will find your way. Learning how to make money writing books on Amazon is a journey of both creativity and commerce, and while the path is rarely straight, the view from the top is worth every difficult chapter.

This post 7 Amazing Tips on How to Make Money Writing Books on Amazon first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

Today I bring you How to Research for a Book: 7 Methods That Actually Work. And yes, these are 7 methods I’ve used, so I know what I’m talking about. If you’ve ever sat down to write a novel and realized you don’t actually know how a detective dusts for fingerprints — or what a medieval blacksmith’s shop smells like — you already understand why research matters. Knowing how to research for a book is one of the most underrated skills a fiction writer can develop. I learned this the hard way when I wrote a chase scene set in Tokyo without ever checking a subway map. My beta reader, who lives there, had notes. A lot of notes.

So let’s talk about it. Whether you’re writing fantasy, historical fiction, or a contemporary thriller, research is what separates a flat story from one that pulls readers in and makes them forget they’re reading at all. In this post, I’m breaking down seven practical ways I approach research for a book — and how you can use them to write fiction that feels real.

Why Bother Researching Fiction at All?

I get this question more than you’d think. “It’s made up, Emily. Why does it matter?” Because readers can tell. Even in a fantasy world with dragons and floating cities, there’s an internal logic that needs to hold together. Research gives you the raw material to build that logic.

Think about it this way: your imagination is the engine, but research is the fuel. Without it, you’re running on fumes — and your story will feel thin. With it, you have the confidence to write scenes that breathe.

1. Research Your World Before You Build It

World-building is one of the most exciting parts of writing fiction, and it’s also where learning how to research for a book pays off the fastest. I don’t care if your setting is 14th-century France or a colony on Mars — grounding your world in real details makes it stick.

When I was working on a story set in a coastal fishing village, I spent a week reading about tidal patterns, boat repair, and the economics of small-scale fishing. Did all of that end up in the book? No. But it showed up in the texture of the writing — in how a character tied a knot, or how she talked about the weather.

Start with the basics of your setting: geography, climate, economy, daily routines. Then go deeper. Look into the kinds of food people eat, the tools they use, the sounds they hear at night. These sensory details are what turn a backdrop into a place your reader can walk through.

2. Dig Into Psychology for Stronger Characters

Characters are where your story lives or dies, and research can make the difference between a cardboard cutout and someone who keeps readers turning pages at 2 a.m.

I’ve found that reading about psychology — even casually — gives me a much better handle on motivation, trauma responses, attachment styles, and the messy ways people actually behave under pressure. For one of my characters who struggled with grief, I read personal essays and memoirs from people who’d lost someone suddenly. That research didn’t just inform the character’s arc; it changed the entire tone of the book.

You don’t need a degree in psychology to do this. Start with accessible books like The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker or Attached by Amir Levine. Read interviews. Browse forums where people share lived experiences. Just be respectful and remember you’re there to listen, not to mine someone’s pain for plot points.

3. Get the Facts Right (Even in Fantasy)

Nothing pulls a reader out of a story faster than a factual error they happen to know about. If your character is a surgeon, you need to understand basic operating room procedure. If she’s a lawyer, you should know what a deposition actually looks like — not just what you’ve seen on TV.

This is where targeted research comes in. When I figure out how to research for a book that involves specialized knowledge, I usually follow a three-step process: I start with a broad overview (Wikipedia is fine for this, don’t @ me), then I read a couple of more detailed sources, and finally I try to find someone who actually works in the field and ask them a few specific questions.

You’d be surprised how willing professionals are to help writers get things right. A fifteen-minute conversation with a nurse, a mechanic, or a park ranger can give you the kind of detail you’d never find in a textbook.

4. Use Language Research to Write Better Dialogue

Dialogue is tricky. It needs to sound natural without actually being natural — real conversations are full of ums, tangents, and incomplete thoughts that would drive a reader crazy on the page. But it also needs to reflect who your characters are, and that means doing some homework on how people actually talk.

If your story is set in a specific region or time period, spend some time studying the local dialect, slang, and speech patterns. For a project set in 1970s Brooklyn, I listened to old radio interviews, watched documentaries, and read oral histories. It wasn’t about copying the dialect word for word — it was about understanding the rhythm and attitude behind it.

Even for contemporary settings, pay attention to how different age groups, professions, and social circles communicate. A teenage barista and a retired military officer are not going to use the same vocabulary, and getting those distinctions right makes your dialogue pop.

5. Research Cultures With Respect and Depth

If you’re writing characters from a cultural background that isn’t your own, research isn’t optional — it’s a responsibility. And I mean real research, not a quick Google search and a couple of stereotypes dressed up in nice prose.

I approach this by reading works by authors from that culture first. Fiction, nonfiction, poetry, essays — whatever I can get my hands on. Then I look for cultural guides, documentaries, and academic sources that go beyond surface-level customs. I also try to find sensitivity readers who can flag things I might miss.

The goal isn’t to become an expert on someone else’s experience. It’s to write with enough understanding and care that your portrayal feels honest rather than exploitative. That takes time, humility, and a willingness to revise when you get something wrong.

6. Let Research Spark Your Plot Ideas

Some of my best plot twists have come straight from research. History is full of bizarre true stories that are stranger than anything I could dream up. Scientific discoveries, unsolved mysteries, obscure legal cases — all of it is fair game when you’re looking for narrative fuel.

When I’m stuck on a plot, I’ll often take a detour into a topic that’s loosely connected to my story’s themes. If I’m writing about power dynamics, I might read about historical rebellions. If I’m exploring loneliness, I might look into the psychology of isolation. These tangents almost always give me something I didn’t know I was looking for.

Keep a research journal or a dedicated folder in your notes app. When you stumble across a fact or story that sparks something, write it down — even if you don’t know how it fits yet. You’ll thank yourself later.

7. Research Settings to Write Scenes That Feel Alive

Description is one of those things that can go very right or very wrong. Too little, and your reader is floating in a void. Too much, and they’re skimming paragraphs. The sweet spot? Specific, evocative details — and those come from research.

If you can visit the place your story is set, do it. Walk around, take notes, pay attention to what you smell, hear, and feel. If you can’t visit, lean on travel writing, photography, and documentaries. Google Street View is also surprisingly useful for getting a feel for a neighborhood’s vibe.

When I wrote a scene set in a mountain village during winter, I watched hours of footage from similar places. I read blog posts by hikers who’d been caught in snowstorms. I looked up what kind of birds you’d hear at that altitude. That level of specificity is what makes a scene land — and it all comes from knowing how to research for a book properly.

Practical Tips for Organizing Your Research

Before I wrap up, a few things I’ve learned about managing the research process itself, because it’s easy to fall into the rabbit hole and never come back out:

• Set a time limit. Give yourself a defined research phase before you start drafting. You can always go back for specific details later.
• Use a system. I keep a Notion database with tags by topic, but a simple folder structure works too. The point is being able to find things again.
• Separate “need to know” from “nice to know.” Not every interesting fact belongs in your book. Keep the extras in your notes and stay focused on what serves the story.
• Cite your sources. Even for fiction, keep a record of where you found information. It’s useful for fact-checking and for answering reader questions later on.

Start Researching, Then Start Writing

Learning how to research for a book isn’t about becoming a scholar or spending months in a library before you type a single word. It’s about building a habit of curiosity — asking questions, digging into the answers, and letting what you find shape your story in ways your imagination alone couldn’t.

Every book I’ve written has been better because of the research behind it. The worlds feel more real, the characters make more sense, and the plot holds together under scrutiny. That’s not a coincidence. So the next time you sit down to write, take a little time to look things up first. Your readers — and your story — will be better for it.

This post How to Research for a Book: 7 Methods That Work first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

I used to think I was good at writing dialogue. Then I read my early drafts out loud and realized every single character sounded like me — a slightly anxious woman in her late twenties who uses too many dashes. That was a rough afternoon. But it was also the moment I started taking dialogue seriously as a craft, not just something that happens between the plot points. If you’re trying to figure out how to write realistic dialogue, the first thing to accept is that it’s a skill you build, not a gift you’re born with.

Dialogue does a lot of heavy lifting in fiction. It reveals character, moves the plot forward, creates tension, and sets the tone of a scene. When it works, readers barely notice it — they’re just inside the conversation. When it doesn’t, everything feels stiff or fake, and the reader disconnects. So let’s talk about what makes dialogue feel real and where most of us go wrong.

Realistic Dialogue Isn’t the Same as Real Speech

This trips up a lot of writers, especially early on. If you’ve ever transcribed an actual conversation, you know that real speech is a mess. People interrupt themselves, trail off, repeat words, say “um” fourteen times, and go on tangents that lead nowhere. Put that on a page and your reader will lose patience fast.

The trick with how to write realistic dialogue is creating the illusion of natural speech without the clutter. You want the rhythm and feel of a real conversation, but tighter. Every line should be doing something — showing us who the character is, advancing the scene, building tension, or landing a joke. If a line of dialogue isn’t doing at least one of those things, it probably doesn’t need to be there.

I think of it like editing a home video into a film. The raw footage is real, but it’s boring. The edited version feels real because someone made smart cuts.

Character Voice Is Everything

If you can swap two characters’ dialogue and nobody would notice, you have a problem. Each character should have a distinct way of speaking that reflects who they are — their background, education, personality, emotional state, and relationship to whoever they’re talking to.

A retired Marine doesn’t talk like a nineteen-year-old art student. A nervous person hedges and qualifies. A controlling person interrupts and redirects. Someone who grew up wealthy might be casually specific about things a working-class character wouldn’t mention at all.

When I’m developing a character’s voice, I ask myself a few questions:

• How educated are they, and do they lean into it or downplay it? Some people with PhDs talk casually on purpose. Some people without degrees use formal language to be taken seriously.
• Are they direct or indirect? Some characters say exactly what they mean. Others talk around things, and the real meaning lives in what they don’t say.
• What words would they never use? This one’s underrated. A tough, practical character probably doesn’t say “exquisite.” A shy teenager probably doesn’t deliver monologues.
• How do they behave in conflict? Some people get loud. Others get quiet. Some deflect with humour. The way a character argues tells you more about them than any description.

I keep a short voice sheet for each major character — just a few bullet points on their speech patterns, pet phrases, and verbal tics. It sounds fussy, but it saves me from writing six characters who all sound like variations of the same person.

Genre Shapes How Your Characters Talk

Dialogue doesn’t exist in a vacuum — it lives inside a genre, and each genre has its own expectations for how characters speak. Ignoring those expectations won’t make your writing fresh. It’ll just make it feel off.

In literary fiction, dialogue tends to be more layered and subtext-heavy. Characters might say one thing and mean another, and the reader is expected to pick up on the gap. In thrillers, dialogue is usually sharper and faster — short exchanges, high stakes, less room for reflection. In romance, dialogue carries a lot of emotional weight and often does double duty as both conflict and intimacy.

Fantasy and sci-fi come with their own challenges. You might be inventing slang, formal speech registers, or entirely new ways of communicating. The danger there is creating dialogue that sounds so constructed it pulls the reader out of the world you’ve built. Even in a made-up language or culture, the underlying emotion needs to feel human.

Read widely in your genre and pay attention to how the authors you admire handle conversation. Not to copy them — but to understand the range of what works within your genre’s expectations.

Time Period and Setting Change Everything

This is where a lot of writers either shine or fall apart. If your story is set in 1940s London, your characters can’t talk like they’re texting in 2025. But the opposite mistake is just as common — writing period dialogue that’s so stiff and formal it sounds like a museum exhibit rather than a living person.

When I ghostwrote a novel set in the 1960s American South, I spent a lot of time listening. Old interviews, radio recordings, documentaries with archival footage. I wasn’t trying to replicate the dialect exactly — that can come across as caricature if you’re not careful. I was trying to absorb the pace, the turns of phrase, the way people moved between formal and informal depending on who they were talking to.

For historical settings, a few practical guidelines I follow:

• Avoid obvious anachronisms. A Victorian character saying “okay” will pull a knowledgeable reader right out of the scene. Do a quick check on when common words and phrases entered the language.
• Don’t overdo the period flavour. You don’t need every sentence to sound archaic. A light touch — a phrase here, a speech pattern there — goes further than trying to make every line sound like a history textbook.
• Focus on formality levels. In most historical settings, people were more formal with strangers and authority figures than we are now. Getting those shifts right matters more than nailing specific vocabulary.

For contemporary settings, pay attention to how different communities actually talk. Regional slang, generational language, professional jargon — these details ground your dialogue in a real place and time without you having to spell it out.

Subtext: What Characters Don’t Say

The best dialogue has a layer underneath the words. People in real life rarely say exactly what they feel, and your characters shouldn’t either — at least not all the time. Learning how to write realistic dialogue means getting comfortable with the space between what a character says and what they actually mean.

Think about a couple fighting about whose turn it is to do the dishes. On the surface, it’s about dishes. Underneath, it’s about feeling unappreciated, or power dynamics, or the fact that one of them is checked out of the relationship. The dialogue stays on the dishes. The subtext tells the real story.

I was ghostwriting a scene once where two business partners were having lunch, and on paper, the conversation was polite — compliments, small talk, plans for the future. But one of them had just found out the other was trying to push her out of the company. So every polite line was loaded. “I love what you’ve done with the new office” became a completely different sentence when you knew the context. That scene got more reader feedback than almost anything else in the book, and it was all subtext.

A few ways to build subtext into your dialogue:

• Let characters avoid the topic. The thing they won’t bring up is often the most important thing in the scene.
• Use actions between lines. A character who says “I’m fine” while shredding a napkin is telling you two different things at once.
• Create information gaps. When one character knows something the other doesn’t, every line becomes charged.

Common Dialogue Mistakes (and How to Fix Them)

After years of writing and editing other people’s manuscripts, I’ve seen the same dialogue problems come up again and again. Here are the ones that bother me the most — and the ones that are easiest to fix.

Using Dialogue as an Info Dump

This is when characters tell each other things they would already know, purely for the reader’s benefit. “As you know, Sarah, our company was founded in 1987 and has grown to over 500 employees.” Nobody talks like that. If both characters already know something, find another way to get the information across — narration, a flashback, a document, anything but one character lecturing another on shared knowledge.

Too Many Dialogue Tags

“Said” is invisible to readers. “Exclaimed,” “proclaimed,” “queried,” “retorted” — those are not. Use “said” and “asked” for the vast majority of your tags, and let the dialogue itself carry the emotion. If the line is written well, you shouldn’t need the tag to tell the reader how it was delivered.

Even better, replace some tags with action beats. Instead of “I can’t do this anymore,” she said sadly, try “I can’t do this anymore.” She set her ring on the counter and walked out. The action does more work than any adverb.

Every Character Sounds the Same

I touched on this earlier, but it’s worth repeating because it’s so common. If you’re not sure whether your characters have distinct voices, try this: cover the dialogue tags and see if you can tell who’s speaking from the words alone. If you can’t, you need to spend more time developing individual voices.

Dialogue That’s Too On-the-Nose

Real people don’t narrate their emotions. “I’m angry because you betrayed my trust and now I feel like I can’t rely on anyone” is a therapy statement, not a line of dialogue. In a heated moment, a character is more likely to say something cutting, deflect, or shut down entirely. Let the behaviour show the feeling.

Forgetting That People Interrupt and Overlap

Clean, turn-taking dialogue where each person waits politely for the other to finish feels artificial, especially in tense scenes. People interrupt. They talk over each other. They finish each other’s sentences or cut someone off mid-thought. Using em dashes to show interruptions and ellipses to show trailing off adds a messy, human quality to your conversations.

The Read-Aloud Test Still Works

I know it sounds old-fashioned, but reading your dialogue out loud is still the single best way to catch problems. Your ear picks up things your eye misses — awkward phrasing, unnatural rhythms, lines that are too long, moments where the conversation loses energy.

When I’m deep in revisions, I’ll sometimes read scenes aloud using different voices for each character. It feels ridiculous and I would never do it with anyone else in the room. But it works. If a line makes me stumble or cringe when I say it, it’s getting rewritten.

You can also use text-to-speech software if reading aloud isn’t your thing. Hearing a robotic voice read your dialogue can be oddly clarifying — if it sounds stiff coming from a machine, it’ll sound stiff on the page too.

Write Dialogue That Earns the Reader’s Trust

At the end of the day, learning how to write realistic dialogue comes down to paying attention. Listen to how people around you actually talk — at coffee shops, in meetings, on the bus. Notice the rhythms, the interruptions, the things people say when they’re nervous versus when they’re confident. Then take all of that and compress it, shape it, and put it in the mouths of characters who feel specific and alive.

Good dialogue is invisible. The reader doesn’t stop to admire it — they just believe it. And that belief is what keeps them inside your story, turning pages, invested in people who only exist on paper. That’s the whole job.

This post How to Write Realistic Dialogue Your Readers Will Believe first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

I need to tell you something embarrassing before we start. When I was nineteen, I spent two full years worldbuilding for a fantasy novel. I drew maps. I invented languages. I wrote a 40-page document on the political history of a fictional empire going back 600 years. And I never wrote the book. Not a single chapter. Because by the time I was done building the world, I realized the world didn’t fit the story I wanted to tell. The world had become the project, and the actual novel — the characters, the conflict, the thing a reader would care about — had disappeared somewhere behind a mountain range I’d named in a language I’d made up.

So when someone asks me how to do worldbuilding in a story, my first answer is always: make sure you still have a story. That’s not a joke. It’s the most important thing I can tell you, and it took me two wasted years to learn it.

Do You Actually Need Worldbuilding?

Before you start sketching maps or inventing customs, ask yourself a blunt question: does your story require it?

Not every book needs worldbuilding. If you’re writing contemporary fiction set in a real city, you don’t need to build a world — you need to describe one that already exists. Your job there is research and observation, not invention. Same goes for most literary fiction, memoir, and realistic genres. The world is already built. You just need to render it well.

Worldbuilding becomes necessary when your story takes place somewhere that doesn’t exist — or in a version of reality that’s been significantly altered. That covers a lot of ground:

• Fantasy — from epic secondary worlds to urban fantasy where magic sits alongside modern life
• Science fiction — whether you’re on a space station, a terraformed planet, or a near-future Earth reshaped by technology
• Dystopian and post-apocalyptic fiction — the rules of society have changed, and the reader needs to understand how
• Historical fiction with speculative elements — alternate histories, steampunk, magical realism layered over real events

If your story falls into one of these categories, yes, you need worldbuilding. But the amount you need is probably less than you think — and that’s where most of us get into trouble.

Start With the Story, Not the World

This is the single most useful thing I’ve learned about how to do worldbuilding in a story, and it goes against every instinct you have if you’re a fantasy or sci-fi writer who loves the building part.

Your world exists to serve your story. Not the other way around.

That means before you decide what the currency system looks like or how the magic works, you need to know what your story is actually about. Not the plot — the deeper thing underneath it. What’s the theme? What’s the question you’re exploring? What’s the emotional or moral core that’s going to make a reader care?

When I look back at my two years of wasted worldbuilding, the problem wasn’t that the world was bad. It was detailed and internally consistent and I was genuinely proud of it. The problem was that I built it in a vacuum. I didn’t start with a story question. I started with “wouldn’t it be cool if there were floating cities?” and just kept going from there. Cool doesn’t carry a novel. Theme does. Conflict does. Character does. The world is the stage — it’s not the play.

Your World Should Reflect Your Theme

Here’s where worldbuilding gets interesting from a craft perspective. The best fictional worlds aren’t just backdrops — they’re arguments. They embody the story’s themes in their structures, rules, and contradictions.

Think about it. If your story is about class inequality, then the physical and social structure of your world should make that inequality visible and felt. Maybe there’s a literal vertical divide — the wealthy live above, everyone else lives below. Maybe access to magic or technology is gatekept by birth. The world becomes a manifestation of what the story is trying to say.

If your theme is freedom versus security, build a world where that tension is baked into the landscape. A walled city that’s safe but suffocating. A wilderness that’s dangerous but limitless. Now your setting isn’t just scenery — it’s pulling the reader into the central question every time you describe a location.

This is what I mean by structural worldbuilding. You’re not building a world for completeness. You’re building the parts that press on the story’s bruises. Everything else can stay vague or implied.

The “What Does My Story Need?” Test

Every time I sit down to worldbuild now, I run every decision through one filter: does my story need this?

My character needs to travel from one city to another. Do I need a full map with every town along the route? No. I need to know how long the journey takes, what the terrain feels like, and whether the road is dangerous. Those details serve the scene. A comprehensive map serves my ego.

My story involves a magic system. Do I need to define every rule and limitation before I start writing? Maybe. If magic plays a central role in the conflict, then yes — the reader needs to understand the stakes, and you need internal consistency. But if magic is atmospheric rather than mechanical, you can keep it looser. Not every story needs a Sanderson-style hard magic system. Sometimes mystery is more powerful than rules.

A practical framework I use now:

• What does the plot require? Build the systems, locations, and rules that directly affect what happens in the story.
• What does the character require? Build the social structures, cultural norms, and power dynamics that shape who your characters are and what they want.
• What does the theme require? Build the elements that mirror, challenge, or complicate the central idea you’re exploring.
• Everything else? Leave it alone. Or keep it in your notes as background texture you can draw on if needed. But don’t let it into the manuscript unless it earns its place.

How to Know When to Stop

This is the hard one, because worldbuilding is genuinely fun. Drawing maps is fun. Naming things is fun. Figuring out how the economy of a fictional country works is weirdly satisfying. And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous. It feels productive without actually being productive — at least not in the way that gets a book written.

I know this because I lived it. Those two years I spent worldbuilding weren’t lazy years. I was working hard. I was thinking deeply. I was filling notebooks. I just wasn’t writing a novel. And at some point, the worldbuilding became a way to avoid the scarier, harder work of actually drafting — of putting characters on the page and making them do things and risking the possibility that it wouldn’t be good enough.

So here are my personal rules for when to stop:

Stop when you can describe your world in a conversation. If someone asks “what’s this story about and where does it take place?” and you can answer in a few sentences with enough detail to make them curious, you have enough. If you need twenty minutes and a whiteboard, you’ve gone too far.

Stop when you catch yourself avoiding the draft. Be honest with yourself. Are you still worldbuilding because you genuinely need more information to write the next scene? Or are you doing it because it’s more comfortable than facing the blank page? I’ve been on both sides of that line, and the difference is usually obvious if you’re willing to admit it.

Stop when the worldbuilding stops serving the story. If you’re building things that no character will ever interact with, no scene will ever reference, and no reader will ever see — you’re writing an encyclopedia, not a novel. Save it for the appendix if you want, but get back to the draft.

Stop when you’ve covered the three pillars. If you’ve built enough to support your plot, your characters, and your theme, that’s your foundation. You can always add more later as the draft reveals gaps. In fact, that’s a better way to do it — building reactively as the story tells you what it needs, rather than proactively trying to anticipate everything.

Build From the Ground Your Characters Walk On

One shift that completely changed how I approach worldbuilding: I stopped building top-down and started building from character level.

Top-down worldbuilding is when you start with the big picture — the continent, the history, the political systems — and work your way down to the individual’s daily life. It’s the approach I took at nineteen, and it’s the approach that leads to 40-page lore documents and no novel.

Character-level worldbuilding starts with a person. Where does she wake up in the morning? What does she eat? What does she see on her way to work? Who has power over her, and how does she feel about it? What’s normal to her that would be strange to us?

When you build this way, you only create what the story touches. Your character lives in a city? You need to know her neighbourhood, her daily routines, the parts of the city she’s afraid of. You don’t need a full city plan with population demographics — unless she’s a census worker, in which case, fair enough.

This approach also makes your worldbuilding feel more organic on the page. Instead of dumping exposition about how the government works, you show your character navigating a bureaucratic system that frustrates her. The reader learns the world by living in it alongside the character, which is always more engaging than being lectured about it.

The Iceberg Principle Still Holds

You’ve probably heard the Hemingway iceberg analogy applied to writing. It works perfectly for worldbuilding too. The reader should only see about ten to twenty percent of what you’ve built. The rest stays below the surface, giving the visible part weight and stability.

The mistake isn’t knowing more than you show. That’s actually ideal — it gives your writing confidence and consistency. The mistake is trying to show everything you know. That’s how you end up with three-page descriptions of a market square or a character monologuing about the history of a trade route that has nothing to do with the scene.

Trust your reader. Drop details naturally. Let them piece things together. A character casually mentioning that “the northern gates have been closed since the plague year” tells the reader a huge amount about this world — there was a plague, it was bad enough to be a landmark in time, the north is associated with danger or disease — without stopping the story for a history lesson.

Worldbuilding Is a Tool, Not a Destination

I still love worldbuilding. I probably always will. There’s something deeply satisfying about inventing a place and making it feel real. But I’ve learned — slowly, painfully, after two years of maps that led nowhere — that the world is only as good as the story it holds.

So if you’re figuring out how to do worldbuilding in a story, start with the story. Know your theme. Know your characters. Know what question you’re asking. Then build exactly as much world as you need to ask that question well — and not a page more. You can always go back and add. You can’t get back the months you spent building a world that doesn’t have a novel living inside it.

I wish someone had told me that when I was nineteen, hunched over my fifth hand-drawn map, convinced I was almost ready to start writing. I wasn’t. I was hiding. Don’t be nineteen-year-old me. Build the world your story needs, and then write the damn book.

This post How to Do Worldbuilding in a Story first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell

I used to think developing a character meant filling out one of those long character questionnaires — favourite colour, blood type, childhood pet, what they’d order at a restaurant. I’d answer sixty questions and still have no idea who this person was on the page. They had facts but no pulse. If you’ve been there, I want to save you some time: knowing your character’s favourite ice cream flavour will not help you write a better book. Knowing what they’d lie about will.

Learning how to develop a character for a story isn’t about accumulating trivia. It’s about understanding what drives a person, what scares them, what they want badly enough to act on, and where they’re wrong about themselves. That’s the stuff that makes a character feel alive — and it’s the stuff that gives your plot something to push against.

Start With What They Want

Every character worth reading about wants something. Not in a vague “she wants to be happy” way — in a specific, concrete, story-driving way. She wants to find her missing brother. He wants to win the custody battle. She wants to escape the country before the regime closes the borders.

The want is your engine. It’s what gets the character out of bed in the morning and into situations where interesting things happen. Without a clear want, you end up with a character who drifts through scenes reacting to whatever the plot throws at them, and readers can feel the difference between a character who’s driving the story and one who’s being dragged along by it.

I usually separate the want into two layers:

• The external want — the tangible goal. Get the job. Solve the murder. Survive the journey. This is what the plot is built around.
• The internal want — the deeper need they may not even be aware of. To feel worthy. To stop running from grief. To learn to trust someone. This is what the character arc is built around.

The tension between these two is where the magic happens. A character who wants to win a competition (external) but needs to learn that her self-worth isn’t tied to achievement (internal) is going to make choices that create conflict naturally — because what she’s chasing and what she actually needs are pulling in different directions.

Give Them a Flaw That Costs Them Something

Perfect characters are boring. I know you know this intellectually, but it’s surprisingly easy to write a protagonist who’s brave, smart, kind, funny, and good at everything — especially if you like them. We protect characters we love, and that instinct works against the story every time.

A flaw isn’t a cute quirk. “She’s clumsy” is not a flaw that matters unless her clumsiness actually causes problems that affect the plot. A meaningful flaw is a pattern of behaviour or belief that gets in the character’s way — that causes them to make bad decisions, hurt people they care about, or sabotage the thing they want most.

Some flaws I’ve built characters around that actually did work in the story:

• A woman who’s so terrified of conflict that she lets people walk over her until she explodes at the worst possible moment
• A man who’s so focused on being right that he destroys every close relationship he has
• A teenager who lies compulsively — not out of malice, but because she learned early that the truth never protected her

Notice that each of these flaws has a root. The woman avoids conflict because of something in her past. The man needs to be right because being wrong once cost him dearly. The teenager lies because honesty was dangerous in her childhood. That root is what makes a flaw feel human rather than arbitrary, and it gives you somewhere to go with the character arc.

Backstory Is Fuel, Not the Story

Backstory is one of the trickiest parts of figuring out how to develop a character for a story, because you need to know it but you need to resist the urge to dump it all on the reader.

I write extensive backstories for my main characters. Pages of it sometimes. Where they grew up, what their family was like, the formative experiences that shaped their beliefs and fears. I do this because it helps me understand why they behave the way they do in the present-tense story. But most of that backstory never appears on the page — at least not directly.

The reader doesn’t need a flashback to your character’s difficult childhood to understand why she flinches when someone raises their voice. They just need to see her flinch and feel the weight of it. The backstory is in the room even when it’s not on the page, and that invisible presence is what gives a character depth.

A rule I follow: backstory earns its way into the text only when the present-tense story demands it. If a past event is directly relevant to a choice the character is making right now, it can come in — briefly, and woven into the action, not as a standalone flashback that stops the plot cold. Otherwise, it stays in my notes where it belongs.

Voice Makes or Breaks a Character

You can do everything else right — clear want, meaningful flaw, rich backstory — and still end up with a flat character if their voice doesn’t feel distinct. Voice is how a character thinks and speaks, and it’s the thing that makes a reader feel like they’re in the presence of a specific human being rather than a generic placeholder.

Voice shows up in word choice, sentence rhythm, what a character notices and what they ignore, what they find funny, and how they process stress. A cynical ex-cop narrating a crime novel sounds completely different from a sheltered eighteen-year-old narrating a coming-of-age story — not just in what they say, but in how their minds move through a scene.

When I ghostwrote a memoir for a retired firefighter, the biggest challenge wasn’t getting the facts right — it was capturing how he talked and thought. He spoke in short, blunt sentences. He described emergencies with clinical calm and fell apart talking about his daughter’s wedding. He never used a metaphor in his life. Getting his voice right meant stripping out every instinct I had toward literary prose and writing the way he experienced the world — direct, physical, unsentimental except when it caught him off guard.

A few things that help me nail voice:

• Write a page of stream-of-consciousness from your character’s perspective. Don’t plan it. Just let them think on the page. What comes out will tell you a lot about how their mind works.
• Pay attention to what they wouldn’t say. A reserved character won’t narrate their emotions directly. A blunt character won’t soften their language. The absences are as revealing as the words.
• Read your character’s dialogue out loud. If you stumble or it sounds like it could come from anyone, the voice isn’t specific enough yet.

Characters Exist in Relationship to Other People

One mistake I made early on was developing characters in isolation — building each one as a standalone profile and then putting them together in scenes. The problem with that approach is that people don’t exist in isolation. Who we are shifts depending on who we’re with, and your characters should do the same.

A character who’s confident and sharp at work might be awkward and unsure at a family dinner. Someone who’s gentle with their kids might be ruthless in a negotiation. These contradictions aren’t inconsistencies — they’re what makes a character feel three-dimensional.

When I’m developing a cast, I think about each significant relationship as its own dynamic. What does Character A bring out in Character B? What do they avoid talking about? Where’s the tension, and where’s the ease? A lot of characterisation happens not in how you describe someone but in how they behave differently around different people.

The most useful exercise I’ve found for this: write the same scene twice from two different characters’ perspectives. A dinner, an argument, a car ride — anything where they’re together. You’ll quickly see where their perceptions clash, and that clash is where the interesting stuff lives.

The Arc Is the Character Changing Under Pressure

A character arc is just a fancy way of saying: this person is different at the end of the story than they were at the beginning, and the events of the story are what changed them.

Not every character needs a dramatic transformation. Sometimes the arc is subtle — a small shift in perspective, a new willingness to be vulnerable, a quiet letting go of something they’ve been carrying. But something has to move. A character who goes through an entire novel and comes out exactly the same on the other side leaves the reader feeling like the story didn’t matter.

The arc should connect to the flaw and the internal want. If her flaw is that she can’t trust anyone, the arc might take her from isolation to letting one person in — not a total personality overhaul, just a crack in the wall. If his flaw is arrogance, the arc might humble him through failure without turning him into a completely different person.

I plan arcs loosely. I know roughly where the character starts emotionally, the key moments that challenge their beliefs, and where I want them to land. But I leave room for the draft to surprise me. Some of the best character moments I’ve written weren’t planned — they emerged because I knew the character well enough that their reaction to a situation I hadn’t anticipated felt inevitable.

Common Mistakes That Flatten Characters

After years of writing and ghostwriting, I’ve seen the same character development problems show up repeatedly — in my own work and in manuscripts I’ve been hired to fix. These are the ones that do the most damage.

Telling the Reader Who the Character Is Instead of Showing Them

“Sarah was brave and independent” tells me nothing I’ll believe. Sarah sprinting into a burning building to grab her neighbour’s dog while everyone else stands on the pavement — that I believe. Characters are defined by their actions under pressure, not by adjectives in the narration.

Mistaking Backstory for Personality

A tragic past doesn’t automatically make a character interesting. What makes them interesting is how they carry it. Two characters can have the same traumatic childhood and respond in completely different ways — one shuts down, the other overcompensates with control. The backstory is the cause. The personality is the effect. Don’t confuse the two.

Making Side Characters Into Furniture

Your supporting cast doesn’t need the same depth as your protagonist, but they do need to feel like they have lives beyond their function in the plot. The best side characters have at least one clear want and one clear trait that makes them feel like a person rather than a prop. If a side character exists only to deliver information or support the main character, the reader will notice the flatness even if they can’t articulate why.

Changing the Character to Serve the Plot

This one hurts because it usually happens when you’re deep in a draft and you need the character to do something they wouldn’t do for the plot to work. So you force it. And the reader feels the gears grinding. If your character wouldn’t realistically make the choice the plot needs them to make, the problem is with the plot, not the character. Go back and change the circumstances until the choice makes sense.

The Character Is the Story

At the end of the day, figuring out how to develop a character for a story is really figuring out what your story is about — because they’re the same thing. The character’s want drives the plot. The character’s flaw creates the conflict. The character’s arc gives the story meaning. Get the character right and half your structural problems solve themselves. Get them wrong and no amount of clever plotting will save you.

I think back to those character questionnaires I used to fill out, listing favourite foods and zodiac signs, and I don’t regret them entirely — they were me trying to know my characters the only way I knew how at the time. But what I wish I’d understood sooner is that a character doesn’t come alive through details about them. They come alive through what they do when things get hard, what they’re willing to lose, and how they change when the story won’t let them stay the same.

That’s the work. It’s harder than filling out a questionnaire. But it’s the reason people remember characters for years after they close the book.

This post How to Develop a Character for a Story Step By Step first appeared on Writing Prizes and is written by Emily Campbell