Writers in the Storm

By Lisa Hall-Wilson

I’m revising my Deep POV book, and readers keep asking for advanced techniques beyond the basics.

Let’s dispel a myth: Removing filter and emotion words doesn’t create depth. It clears barriers, but true immersion demands vulnerability—exposing your character’s raw emotions. Clean prose follows rules; engaging characters bleed on the page.

Deep POV isn’t a checklist—it’s a pressure cooker. Most scenes stay lukewarm because writers pose polite questions to their characters. If your scene is technically perfect yet emotionally flat, more technique won’t help. Better questions will.

Here are sharper questions to ask yourself or your characters to push deeper and focus on advanced emotional layers.

What Does This Moment Cost The Character Emotionally If They’re Wrong?

Deep POV thrives on meaning under stress, tension, and internal conflict—messy, risky, opinionated. If your scene reports events rather than lives them, you’re hovering outside the character.

In every scene, ask: What’s the emotional cost if they’re wrong—about a decision, assumption, or new info?

Before: She failed the interview. Her throat tightened.

Revised: She’s failed. Again. No matter how polished she sounded, they always heard the same thing—not good enough. She wasn’t enough.

The stakes shift from physical reaction to identity threat.

The Missing Ingredient—Where Is The Interpretation?

Interpretation forces choice, and choice drives story.

Characters notice, react, emote—but readers miss the why. What does this moment feel like to them right now? Why does it hit this hard now? Deep POV lives in pressured conclusions, which can be biased or wrong.

Before: His gut churned at the lie.

Deeper: If she found out, she’d see that he was worthless and pathetic.

Deep POV collapses when characters don’t judge (interpret) what’s happening—there’s no emotional reaction especially when the moment is costly. Look for places where the character’s emotions or conclusions paint them in a corner and they have to face their own emotional truth.

What Fear Is Being Threatened?

When a scene feels flat and you don’t know why, you’re tempted to fall back on what you believe does work – author narration and telling. Now you’re sure the reader “gets it” and effectively undercut any tenson you’ve built with deep POV.

Like removing a cast without rehabbing the muscle, rules alone leave emotions under developed—strengthen them by drilling into fears. Don’t sell out the emotions in your story when it gets hard. Set aside the fear of melodrama or overwriting the emotions. No one is going to read what you’re writing until you let them, and most of us have crit partners and beta readers to help hone these high-emotion moments.

Drill down into your character’s deepest fears. These are what drives them. You can craft the most realistic perfectionist ever, but if you never drill into the fear driving that perfectionism, your readers are unlikely to connect with them. Be real. Be brutally honest.

Where Is The Internal Risk?

If the issue isn’t plot, check if the character feels without risking anything. A single, clean emotional note can be effective. Grief. Anger. Fear. Desire. But advanced deep POV demands emotional complexity.

Look for the conflict inside the emotion itself. Ask what emotion must be hidden to survive this moment? What emotion would feel safer, but dishonest? What are they denying that’s plainly obvious? What lie are they telling themselves in order to avoid the emotional complication of the internal stakes?

This is where cognitive dissonance enters. The character feels one thing, believes another, and must choose which to honor—knowing the choice will say something dangerous about who they are.

Emotion as liability—not mere reaction—creates internal risk. Make it specific and unavoidable.

What Does The Character Risk Having Confirmed About Themselves?

Doubts often stem from past wounds (see my posts on emotional context). Endless introspection without stakes becomes navel-gazing.

https://writershelpingwriters.net/2020/04/what-is-emotional-context-and-why-does-your-story-need-it/

https://writersinthestormblog.com/2021/12/how-to-go-deeper-into-a-characters-emotions/

Ask: What niggling doubts creep in? What quiet voice whispers counter-truths? What belief are they protecting? What moment threatens exposure? What choice risks confirmation?

If nothing’s at risk, the scene stalls. Show the emotional tug-of-war. Characters must take emotional risks, that’s what readers connect with.

Before: The email sat unopened on her screen. Her stomach twisted. She’d done well, but maybe not. She exhaled, stamping down conflicting thoughts.

Deep POV Revised: The email sat unopened on her screen. Her throat clenched, the ache in her gut tightening. Her index finger hovered over the mouse button. She could just leave it unopened. Forget about it.

They always gave the same excuses-- budget constraints, poor timing, going in another direction. No matter how polished or experienced she became, it was never enough. She was not enough. A small voice whispered: or open it to good news and silence that other voice for good. She clicked.

How Does The Past Sabotage The Present?

Backstory undermines tension and pacing when it halts action. Backstory isn’t wrong and has a valuable place, but explanation removes urgency. Backstory in deep pov is not about what happened, it’s about what still has power over the present.

Force the past to confront without permission: reflexive thoughts, physical or emotional responses disproportionate to the situation, absolute judgments.

Instead of focusing on whether the reader understands the backstory, instead ask, does the character feel trapped by the past—right now? If the backstory does not compete with the present for control, it doesn’t belong in the scene.

Deep POV Before: He raised his voice. He wasn’t her father, but she still flinched. Dad always raised his voice right before he hit. Her body clenched as tightly as it had when she was ten years old.

Deep POV After: He raised his voice. Her shoulders locked. Too loud. Too fast. Her body braced for the first blow. She wasn’t that kid anymore and he wasn’t Dad, but she couldn’t will her spine to straighten.

The specific memory has less power than the consequence of that memory. Let the past sabotage the present, especially if it costs the character emotionally. There must be physical consequences of this unwanted intrusion, but the specifics aren’t as helpful to the reader. This sabotage heightens the diagnostic questions ahead.

The Diagnostic You’re Missing—and Your Next Step

If scenes are clean but lifeless, skip more tips. Sharpen your diagnostic scalpel. Not every fix needs intensity; use resistance, avoidance, or deflection to reveal risk.

To level up, move beyond technique to ruthless diagnosis.

Now, grab a scene that feels flat despite solid craft. Run it through these questions: Where’s the emotional cost? Interpretation? Threatened fear? Internal risk? Self-confirmation at stake? Past sabotage?

Apply one or two today—rewrite a paragraph and feel the shift.

What question hit hardest for you? Which one revealed something new in your WIP? Share in the comments—I read every one and love hearing how these land for other writers. Let’s go deeper together!

Offer from Lisa:

Join my 4-Week Deep POV Masterclass starting March 9, 2026—a focused, intensive dive that condenses over a decade of teaching and research into practical, beginner-through advanced techniques for creating emotionally layered, immersive characters.

This class opens just once or twice a year. Enroll now and let's go deeper together: https://deepdiveauthorclub.vipmembervault.com/

(Or drop a comment below if you have questions—I'm here to help!)

About Lisa

Lisa Hall-Wilson is an award-winning writer and author. She’s the author of Method Acting For Writers: Learn Deep Point Of View Using Emotional Layers. Her blog, (Https://lisahallwilson.com)  explores all facets of the popular writing style deep point of view and offers practical tips for beginning thru advanced fiction writers. 

Featured image by Pixabay

By Jenn Windrow

Create a revision plan that looks like this:

Today we are going to talk about editorial letters and how to handle them. When I finish a developmental edit, whether it is for a personal client or the publishing house, I return a fully marked up manuscript with comments and line changes. But I also include an editorial letter that touches on the big picture items that need to be addressed in the MS.

If you have ever opened an editorial letter and felt your stomach drop, you are not alone. Editorial feedback can land like a thunderclap, especially when you are already deep in the emotional trenches of writing. The good news is this. An editorial letter is not a verdict on your talent. It is a roadmap. And once you know how to read it, you can turn that overwhelm into forward motion.

Let’s break this down in a way that actually helps you revise instead of spiral.

First, understand what an editorial letter really is

An editorial letter is not a line edit. It is not someone telling you how to rewrite every sentence. It is a high level analysis of how your story is working as a whole. Think structure, character arcs, pacing, stakes, clarity, and emotional payoff.

Editors are trained to zoom out. Writers live zoomed in. That mismatch is where a lot of stress comes from.

If an editor says something like “the middle sags” or “the protagonist lacks agency,” they are not saying your book is bad. They are saying the reader experience breaks down in predictable places. That is fixable. Very fixable.

Do not react. Triage.

Your first job is not to agree, disagree, or defend your choices. Your first job is to triage.

Read the letter once. Then walk away.

When you come back, read it again and categorize the feedback into three buckets:

1. Big picture issues
   These are things like plot structure, character motivation, theme, point of view, and pacing. They usually appear early in the letter and take up the most space. These are your highest leverage fixes.
2. Pattern problems
   These show up as repeated notes. For example, “scenes resolve too quickly,” “stakes drop after each confrontation,” or “side characters disappear for long stretches.” When an editor repeats themselves, pay attention. Repetition equals importance.
3. Optional or taste based notes
   These often sound softer. “You might consider,” “another option could be,” or “some readers may feel.” These are suggestions, not mandates.

This step alone turns chaos into clarity.

Translate feedback into questions you can answer

Editorial letters often feel abstract. Your job is to make them concrete.

Instead of staring at a note like “the protagonist is too reactive,” translate it into questions:

• What does my protagonist want in each act?
• What choice do they make that actively changes the story?
• Where do things happen to them instead of because of them?

Editors diagnose. Writers implement. The bridge between those two is asking better questions.

Look for the root cause, not the symptom

A classic mistake is fixing the surface issue instead of the underlying problem.

Example: An editor says the pacing drags in the middle. The instinct is to cut scenes or add action. But pacing issues are often about motivation and stakes, not word count.

Ask yourself:

• Does the character want something urgent in this section?
• Are consequences escalating?
• Is the outcome of each scene changing the situation?

Fix the engine, not the paint job.

You do not have to take every note literally

Here is an industry truth that writers rarely hear early enough. Editors are usually right about the problem, but not always right about the solution.

If an editor suggests killing a character, the real note might be that the character is not pulling their weight. You can solve that by deepening their role, merging them with another character, or sharpening their function.

Your job is not blind obedience. It is thoughtful interpretation.

Turn the letter into an action plan

This is where momentum returns.

How to Turn Feedback into Action

• Phase 1: Structural revisions
  Outline changes to plot, arcs, or POV. Do not worry about prose yet.
• Phase 2: Scene level fixes
  Revise scenes for goal, conflict, and outcome. Make sure each one earns its place.
• Phase 3: Thematic and emotional passes
  Reinforce the core theme. Track emotional highs and lows.
• Phase 4: Polish
  Only now do you worry about language, rhythm, and style.

Trying to do all of this at once is how writers burn out.

Remember why this hurts and why it matters

Editorial letters sting because they touch something personal. You built this story from nothing. Of course, it feels vulnerable. But feedback means someone took your work seriously enough to engage with it deeply. Silence is worse.

And remember that every strong book you love went through this stage. Multiple times.

What is one piece of feedback you have been avoiding, and what might change in your story if you finally faced it head on?

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kick-butt heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Photo by Flavio Amiel on Unsplash

By Liz Talley

Once there was a thirty-something writer who dreamed of contracts, edits, and book launches.

And she made her dream come true.

Oh, it took time. And effort. A little luck. Dogged pursuit. All the things required to keep one’s eyes fixed on the finish line and prepared to cross into victory.

Except, the writer began to realize she never truly crossed a finish line.

Because that elusive chalk mark scratched across the path isn’t the end of the race. It’s merely a mile marker in the long journey of a writing career. Every line crossed means another waits ahead. Some fellow writers drop out—tired, disillusioned, in need of a bench somewhere. Others press on, greeted by cheers and gold medals. And still others remain on the course alongside, picking up one foot, then the other, never knowing when—or if—that finish line will come.

Then there are the ones who get turned around, take a wrong turn, or stumble and scrape their knees. There are more writers with bleeding knees and black toenails than we like to admit.

Yes, a writing career means untied laces, blisters, worn soles, and iffy knees just as often as it means the awards podium. Some finish. Some don’t. And some start over.

Which is where I currently stand, sipping a sports drink and wondering if I’ve lost my mind.

Because after years of writing romance, I wrote a suspense.

It happens.

Sometimes we get a wild hair—an idea that refuses to let go—and suddenly the risk doesn’t seem so unreasonable.

For nearly twenty years, I pursued being a published author. It began with two manuscripts that never saw the light of day, followed by pitches, rejections, resubmissions, and finally, a contract. For many years, I wrote for various Harlequin imprints before making the jump to other publishers. With my agent’s guidance, I gained traction—hitting a bestseller list, earning a RITA Award nod, and landing three Amazon First Reads selections. Running on the right path, I felt confident, even at times, accomplished.

Then the market—already tight—grew infinitesimally narrower.

My agent couldn’t sell my next book. Proposals stalled. Crickets chirped from the publishing world. My work hadn’t changed, but the market had. Traditional publishers were no longer the sole gatekeepers. Indie publishing soared. Readers skewed younger, wanted books hotter, more dragon-y. Publishers chased low-hanging fruit—authors with massive platforms already in place. I was left dabbing my bleeding knees, trying to figure out how to reach the next checkpoint. Did I even want to keep running? That bench off to the side began looking awfully comfortable. What if I just sat down and …stopped?

Then I got an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone.

The problem? It fell completely outside the brand I’d spent a decade building—southern, sassy heroines bumbling their way into success. Marketing experts tell authors to pick a lane and stay in it for projected success. Reader expectations and all that. To leave my lane felt scary. Stupid even.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about this story, about how the heroine would grow, change, kill someone.

So I did something terrifying.

I stopped chasing romance publishing. I parted ways with my agent. And I wrote an entire quirky suspense novel with a darker, decidedly not-sassy protagonist.

A risk.

A pivot.

A Hail Mary to the end zone…wait. I’m mixing metaphors.

No matter. All that to say that now I’m on a different course.

What will this new race bring me?

I honestly don’t know. But being in my fifties and limping along in my career, a pivot felt necessary—I need a fresh course instead of another painful lap around the same one. I know the risks, know the logic against it, but the creative in me needed to be excited, to roll the dice on myself.

So for now, I’m putting one foot in front of the other. Meeting new runners. Working on my breathing. Trusting that I can reach the next mile marker—wherever that may be. It feels good to believe I can take another shot at a dream, even if hazards lie ahead. Because I choose to try. To reinvent. To change my socks and keep going with the hope that the white line lies ahead of me. They say it’s never too late to start over. I believe that.

So on I run, bandaged, determined, and a bit older than before.

But perhaps wiser? And at the very least hopeful that ahead is a new marker, a milestone reached.

Have you ever considered a genre change? Have you done something daring in your writing career? I’d love for you to share a risk that paid off or a lesson that you learned because you took a chance.

About Liz Talley

Liz Talley is the USA Today best-selling author of over thirty heartwarming stories. A finalist in both Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart and Rita Awards, Liz has published with Harlequin, Hallmark, and Montlake where she reached number one in Kindle romance and was named to Publisher’s Weekly mass market bestseller list. Her stories are set in the South where the tea is sweet, the summers are hot, and the porches are wide. In 2023, she also added screenwriter to her accomplishments, co-writing an adaptation of her novel The Wedding War, which landed in the Top 20 of the Louisiana Film Prize.

Featured image by Unsplash