Writers in the Storm

by Lisa Norman

We talk a lot about "The Muse" and "The Editor," those voices that whisper in our ears and either help our creativity or edit our writing into magic. Sometimes they help. Sometimes they block our creativity. In a perfect world, they work together as a creativity duet.

But there’s a third voice in my head that I inherited along the way: the Ghost of Scarcity.

There are other creative blocks that writers carry. Ghosts of shoulds long past: writing should be profitable, writing should be effortless, I should be further along in my career, and one of my least favorite to run into: I should be able to do this. Whatever this is at the time.

And there are as many others as there are writers.

The trick for me is to recognize that some of these ghosts, these fears, are not my own. Some I inherited from family. Some I picked up along the path of my writing career.

Recognizing the Sources

There’s a common marketing tactic, known as Agitation Marketing, where you state a problem that people might have as if it is a thing they DO have. This is especially powerful if it is a common issue that many people have occasionally. Suddenly, even those who don’t have the problem think that maybe they do. People hearing or reading the pitch begin to question themselves.

The marketer has created a problem, and now they can sell us the solution.

This technique turns a fleeting problem that lots of writers have into a chronic worry that the writer (or other buyer) must pay to solve, urgently. And hey, this advertiser or teacher just happens to have the perfect solution.

I’ve run into too many writers carrying beliefs and blocks that they picked up from a cleverly crafted marketing pitch.

Recognizing the Result

Let’s look at how these creative blocks derail our talents.

I’ll use myself as an example. Scarcity is one of my ugliest creative blocks.

I’ve shared before how my mother spent her life in a constant state of scarcity. Even when she was financially stable, she believed she couldn’t "afford" to be creative. She was a powerhouse in Silicon Valley real estate, winning awards and breaking records, while her sketches were relegated to the margins of high-value contracts. It wasn't until cancer robbed her of the ability to sell real estate that she discovered she could have made a living through the art she’d suppressed. Her true scarcity wasn’t money, it was her access to creative joy. She thought money would solve all of her problems, and so she drove herself relentlessly to make more and more money.

For me, my trigger was a brief stint when I first got out of college. My autoimmune condition took me down hard and I went hungry for a while. Now only one look at me these days and you’ll know instantly what my creative soul can’t seem to grasp: I haven’t been hungry in a long time.

Being too Honest

Here’s how I start my day, every day. I check my bank account balance. I eat and make sure there’s enough food for my family for the day. If my bank account drops close to my comfort level, I start panicking. I could sit down and write, but the first person who comes along and offers me a paying gig? Writing goes right out the window. Writing. The creative passion of my life becomes impossible.

I’ll be chasing someone’s broken website instead of my writing goals and not even notice that I changed direction.

That scarcity? It’s not real. But it feels real.

I find myself measuring my worth by "real job" metrics—output, Return On Investment (ROI), and efficiency—forgetting that my creativity is a living thing, not a factory.

When "Should" is a Hand-Me-Down

Creativity wilts under the weight of "should." Most of our "shoulds" are just recycled fears from people who didn't know how to tend their own creative sparks. We tell ourselves:

• "I should write something 'marketable' instead of what I love." – Why? Why not trust that if I love something there will be readers on the planet that will love it, too?
• "I should be farther along by now." – Why? People start their creative lives at all ages. There’s no magical age for success.
• "I should justify the time I spend writing by making a profit." – Why? Many successful writers lost money before they made it. I’d hazard to say that most creatives invest time not making money before they start turning a profit.

When you live under the pressure of "should," your creativity becomes a debt you owe to yourself instead of a gift you give to others.

Here’s a question: if you carry any of those shoulds, are they actually real and true for you? Or are they something you inherited from someone in your life or a clever marketing campaign?

Reclaiming Your Fire

Breaking this cycle isn't about a grand rebellion; it’s about awareness. It’s noticing that the dread you feel when opening your manuscript might actually be a reaction to an inherited or absorbed expectation that isn’t yours.

Today, try a small act of discovery. Write one scene that has zero market value. Write something messy, weird, or "useless" just because it makes your heart lift.

The joy of creativity is about realizing that your creative presence is enough, exactly as it is. You aren't "behind" a universal timeline; you are arriving exactly when your spark is ready.

What is one creative "should" you’ve been carrying that feels more like a burden than a blessing? What happens if you set it down today?

About Lisa

Lisa Norman's passion has been writing since she could hold a pencil. While that is a cliché, she is unique in that her first novel was written on gum wrappers. As a young woman, she learned to program and discovered she has a talent for helping people and computers learn to work together and play nice. When she's not hanging out with her family, writing, or teaching, she can be found wandering the local beaches.

Lisa writes as Deleyna Marr and is the owner of No Stress Writing Academy. She also runs Heart Ally Books, LLC, an indie publishing firm.

Interested in learning more from Lisa? Sign up for her newsletter or check out her school, No Stress Writing Academy, where she teaches social media, organization, technical skills, and marketing for authors!

Her most recent book, The Work of Joy is now available here.

Top image from depositphotos.

by Susan Watts

In my previous article, we explored how powerful stories often contain both the outward movement of the Hero’s Journey and the inward transformation of the heroine’s journey. One shapes what the character must face in the world. The other shapes what the character must face within themselves.

But another question came up while I was writing about the heroine’s journey. Is it simply another name for interiority?

The short answer is no.

Interiority is a writing technique that lets readers experience what a character feels from inside the moment. The heroine’s journey is a story structure that shapes the changes a character must undergo.

A story can contain deep interiority without following the heroine’s journey at all. And a story can follow the heroine’s journey structure even if its interiority is light. The two often appear together because they strengthen each other, but they are not interchangeable.

Understanding the difference can help you recognize what kind of transformation your story may actually need.

Interiority Brings Readers Inside the Experience

Writers often hear the word interiority and assume it means describing emotions more deeply. But interiority is not about naming feelings. It is about letting readers experience a moment from inside the character. Instead of observing events from a distance, readers feel hesitation before a decision. They experience what’s happening now through the influence of something that happened before. They feel tension before action lands.

This creates emotional proximity. A decision becomes more than an action. It becomes a lived experience.

Here are examples of what interiority might look like:

Without interiority

Her hands trembled.

This shows a reaction.

With interiority

Her hands trembled. If she reached for the doorknob now, he would see it.

Now readers experience the moment with her instead of observing it from the outside.

Here’s another example:

Without interiority

He stayed quiet.

With interiority

He stayed quiet. Saying the truth now would only make things worse.

The action hasn’t changed. What changed is access to the character’s thinking inside the decision.

Interiority brings readers closer to the character’s experience. That closeness strengthens nearly every kind of story. Mysteries, fantasies, romances, and thrillers all rely on interiority to create emotional presence.

But closeness alone does not create a heroine’s journey. That requires something different.

The Heroine’s Journey Is About Reclaiming Something That Was Set Aside

The heroine’s journey centers on recognition instead of conquest. Rather than proving strength by overcoming an enemy, the character discovers they must recover something they set aside earlier in life before the story can move forward.

Sometimes that lost element is trust.

Sometimes identity.

Sometimes connection.

Sometimes permission to use their own voice.

External conflict still drives the story forward. Dragons still appear. Doors still close. Enemies still act. But the turning point comes when the character stops trying to meet expectations and starts trying to become true to who they are.

That is the structural work of the heroine’s journey.

Why Writers Sometimes Mistake Strong Interiority for a Heroine’s Journey

Modern fiction often uses deep point of view and emotional immediacy, so readers spend more time inside a character’s thoughts and reactions than ever before. That closeness can make a story feel internal, even when the character’s identity hasn’t actually changed. Because of that, writers sometimes assume their story is following a heroine’s journey when what they are really seeing is strong interiority. Or vice versa.

A character can experience fear, doubt, hesitation, and emotional conflict throughout a story without reclaiming anything essential about who they are. Those experiences deepen the reader’s connection to the character, but they do not create a heroine’s journey on their own.

Story Examples of the Heroine’s Journey vs. Interiority

Strong stories often include both movements at once. Interiority lets readers experience the transformation as it happens. The heroine’s journey gives that transformation meaning.

Examples from popular movies include:

The Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen

Interiority

Katniss evaluates threats in the arena, counts arrows, reads other tributes’ intentions, and constantly calculates survival odds.

Readers feel:

• fear
• strategy
• protectiveness toward Rue
• anger toward the Capitol

That’s interiority. We’re inside her decision-making.

Heroine’s Journey moment

Katniss raises the berries and refuses to perform the Capitol’s script. She stops being a pawn and becomes someone who defines her own role.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King: Aragorn

Interiority

Aragorn hesitates repeatedly about claiming kingship.

We experience:

• self-doubt
• reluctance
• loyalty conflicts
• fear of repeating Isildur’s failure

Readers are inside his uncertainty.

Heroine’s Journey movement inside a Hero’s Journey story

Aragorn accepts that he is the rightful king. He stops avoiding identity and steps into it.

The war still must be won—but the story cannot resolve until he accepts himself.

The Devil Wears Prada: Andy Sachs

Interiority

Andy struggles to survive Miranda’s expectations.

We experience:

• her stress
• her insecurity
• her ambition conflict
• her exhaustion

That’s interiority.

Heroine’s Journey moment

Andy walks away from Miranda’s world. Not because she failed. Because she recognizes it isn’t who she wants to become.

She reclaims identity.

Why This Difference Matters During Revision

Your manuscripts may reach a stage where the structure appears sound, but something still feels unfinished.

Sometimes the missing element is stronger interiority. Readers need closer access to the character’s experience as events unfold. Other times, the story is waiting for a moment of recognition that allows the character to reclaim something they have been living without.

Those are different revisions. Knowing which one your story needs can save enormous time. The distinction becomes especially useful when a manuscript feels emotionally close to working, but still feels unfinished.

A Quick Diagnostic Question for Your Manuscript

If your story feels emotionally distant, ask:

• Do readers experience the character’s thoughts, memories, and physical reactions during important moments?

If not, the manuscript likely needs stronger interiority.

If your story feels immersive but still unresolved, ask:

• Does the character reclaim something essential about themselves before the ending?

If not, the manuscript may be missing a heroine’s journey.

One problem affects closeness.

The other effects completion.

What to Revise When One Element Is Missing

If interiority is thin:

Bring readers closer to decisions as they happen. Let them experience hesitation, memory, and meaning from inside the character rather than summarizing after the fact.

If the heroine’s journey is missing:

Look for something the character learned to silence earlier in life and ask where the story allows them to reclaim it.

Often, the strongest revision move is not adding action.

It is restoring identity.

A Question for You:
Does your story already show what your character feels—or is it still waiting for the moment when they understand who they are allowed to be? (The answer usually reveals what your next revision needs most.)

About Susan:

Under the pen name Michelle Allums, Susan Watts has authored a young adult urban fantasy titled, The Jade Amulet and is currently writing the sequel. Her short stories are also included in the anthologies Christmas Roses and Forever and Always.

Susan has dedicated over four decades to training in multiple martial arts styles and holds the impressive title of a five-time US Karate Alliance world black belt fighting grand champion. Through her karate school, she is able to impart martial arts and life skills. Susan also incorporates her martial arts knowledge into her writing.

An avid triathlete, she keeps in shape by running, biking, and swimming. She lives in the country with her husband, where they raise animals and enjoy being outdoors. Susan also has three grown children and numerous grandchildren. In addition, she is a CPA and VP of finance for a company in her hometown. 

You can connect with Susan on social media or her website.

by Sarah Sally Hamer

We’re often taught to build characters the way you’d assemble a dossier: a handful of traits, a wound, a desire, a flaw, a bit of backstory to explain the rest. But real people don’t move through the world as collections of adjectives. Neither do characters. They move as bodies with breath, tension, instinct, and the quiet calculations of safety that happen long before thought.

But they’re just characters, right?

Yes, I guess so. But characters are created from our imagination and our knowledge of humans, even if we don’t recognize or think about it when we’re creating them. If your characters don’t act like real people, no one will believe them on the page.  

In fact, a character’s nervous system is the truest map of who they are, just as it is with real people. It’s the part of them that reacts before they can choose, the part that remembers what they survived, the part that decides whether the world is a place to approach or endure. When you begin here — in the body rather than the biography — the character stops feeling like a construction and starts feeling like someone you could sit beside and recognize.

Every person carries a baseline state

We all have a way our body organizes itself around danger, hope, longing, and uncertainty. So do characters. Some move through the world with a kind of forward-leaning intensity, as if everything requires a shield. Others stay in motion, not because they are adventurous but because stillness feels like exposure. Some go quiet, not out of shyness but because their inner world is louder than anything around them. And some soften themselves into whatever shape keeps the peace, reading the emotional weather of a room with the accuracy of a barometer. These reactions to outside stimulus create the traits we use to protect ourselves and, if your characters aren’t doing the same thing, they aren’t real.

These states are not personality traits. They are survival strategies. And survival strategies shape everything: the cadence of a sentence, the way a character enters a room, the metaphors they reach for, the silences they fall into, the people they gravitate toward, the people they avoid, the choices they make when they believe no one is watching.

I really see this in beginning writers.

I don’t want to sound like a writer has to write for decades to be able to create realistic characters, but many forget to follow through on a situation. For instance, some writers create an intense scene where a human would probably react with a huge emotion, but don’t allow their characters to do so. A critique partner wrote a American Civil War story where a woman finds out her children have been sold. Her reaction in the manuscript was to ask where they were. I suggest that the woman should jump up, screaming demands, trying to force the man to tell her where they had gone. It’s a matter of extreme and overwhelming anger and grief, not calm. At least, that’s what I would have done in a similar situation. (Just for what it’s worth, no two humans – and therefore, no two characters – will react in exactly the same way.)

How to enhance your character’s nervous system

Through dialogue

Make it inevitable rather than engineered. A character who lives in a braced, defensive body will speak in sharp edges and quick conclusions. Someone who survives by staying in motion will talk in spirals, circling ideas without landing. A character who freezes will speak in pauses and half-thoughts, as if language has to thaw before it can reach the page. And someone who has learned to stay safe by pleasing others will speak in softeners, gentle pivots, and careful calibrations of tone.

Shift the character arc

Instead of forcing a character to “grow,” notice how their body learns safety. A character who has always braced might finally unclench. Someone who has always run might take one still breath. Someone who has always softened themselves might finally hold their own shape. These are small movements, but they are the kind that change a life — and therefore a story.

Use relationships to create new texture

Match characters against each other by understanding the nervous systems inside them. Two characters who both survive by appeasing others will create a quiet ache, each waiting for the other to declare a preference. A character who freezes paired with someone who flees will create distance without ever meaning to. Someone who fights paired with someone who fawns will create a dynamic that feels inevitable, even if neither of them wants it. These patterns are not plot devices; they are the emotional physics of human connection and very real in the human realm.

Make sure you don’t forget the visceral reactions of the body

Write from the pulse of emotion instead of writing from the mind. Use the involuntary action of the body to bring the character back into focus. How do they breathe when they’re alone? What happens in their chest when someone they love or are afraid of says their name? What part of them tightens when they hear footsteps behind them? These are the questions that reveal a person.

The best place I can send you to learn visceral reactions is margielawson.com. She has several lecture packets that helped me immensely to understand and reframe a lot of my writing. I recommend Visceral Rules: Beyond Hammering Hearts. She knows her stuff!

Final Thought

Remember, a character is not built from adjectives but from the way their body braces against the world. Before they speak, their nervous system has already chosen the tone. And when they finally change, it isn’t because the plot demanded it — it’s because something inside them softened, warmed, or steadied enough to let a new possibility in.

Write from that place, and your characters won’t just appear on the page.
They’ll arrive.

How do you make your characters human-like instead of cartoons?

About Sally

Sarah "Sally" Hamer has a B.S. in Psychology (which only makes her dangerous) and an MLA in history and philosophy. She is a multi‑award‑winning author (with two RWA Golden Heart finals) who has taught creative and nonfiction writing at LSUS for over twenty years.

She writes for two of the top one‑hundred writing blogs in the world (writersinthestormblog.com and thewriteconversation.blogspot.com), teaches online for three academies, and has been a long‑time columnist for The Best of Times senior magazine. She speaks nationally on writing, history, and philosophy, and believes wholeheartedly that every human being is an amazing story waiting to be told. She can be reached at sally@mindpotential.org.

Featured picture from Pixabay.com