from someone with a creative writing degree
AKA MY DO'S AND DON'TS OF FANFIC WRITING

ੈ✩˚⊹ let me begin with a confession: most writing advice is, quite frankly, not helpful. it's not that the advice itself is bad — it's just that it's predicated on this idea that there's one best practice, one true path to becoming a writer as if we're all supposed to be following some universal blueprint for success. and maybe that works for some people, those lucky few who thrive under rigid routines and bullet-pointed plans. but for the rest of us, for the ones who write in bursts between laundry loads, who have notebooks filled with half-finished ideas and grocery lists, who can't stick to a word count goal to save their lives, it's not that simple.

i'm actually quite alarmed at how much writing advice is just "suck it up and do it," as if all you need is a stiff upper lip and a tolerance for discomfort. there's this underlying current in a lot of advice that treats writing like a kind of self-flagellation, a discipline of suffering where you're supposed to bang your head against the keyboard until something decent comes out.

but where's the compassion in that? where are the practical tips for self-compassion, for recognizing that writing is hard and messy and deeply personal? that some days, the words just won't come, and that's okay.

everyone has their own process, their own quirks and rituals, the little things that make writing possible. maybe you can only write in the early morning hours when the world is still and the tea is strong, or maybe you do your best work in the dead of night when the rest of the house is asleep. maybe you need absolute silence, or maybe you thrive with music blaring in your headphones, the kind that drowns out everything but your own thoughts.

whatever it is, it's yours, and that's what matters.

but so much of the advice out there doesn't acknowledge that. it's like being handed a one-size-fits-all sweater and being told to wear it, even though it itches and the sleeves are too long and it just doesn't fit right. and if it doesn't fit, well, the problem must be with you, not the sweater. this is where the frustration creeps in, that gnawing sense that maybe you're doing it wrong, that maybe you're not cut out for this after all. but the truth is, there isn't a right way to write — there's just your way.

what's missing from so much of the advice is the understanding that writing is not just an act of willpower, but an act of care. care for your story, yes, but also care for yourself. it's about creating a space where you can be honest with yourself, where you can be messy vulnerable, and imperfect. it's about recognizing that some days, the words will flow like water, and other days, they'll stick in your throat like dry toast. and on those days, it's okay to take a step back, to breathe, to remind yourself that it's not a race, that you're allowed to take your time.

so let's put aside the idea that there's one right way to write, and instead embrace the idea that writing is a deeply individual process, as varied as the people who do it. find what works for you, and let that be enough.

i've been reading fanfiction ❨ and of course, published author's books ❩ since i was very young, which might be controversial in some ways, but let's be honest — it's shaped the way i see stories. when you've spent years swimming in the deep, often chaotic, waters of fanfic, you start to pick up on things that a lot of authors, frankly, miss.

and trust me, i've seen and read so many books where i just know, deep down, that if the author had done some of these things before they started writing, the entire process would've been so much easier for them.

that's why i'm here, trying to pass on these lessons — not because i've figured it all out, but because i've made the mistakes, and i'd rather you didn't have to.

so let their mistakes, and my own, be your lessons.

𝐎𝐍𝐄 ⩩ as far as my writing advice goes, it all boils down to two simple objectives. seriously. that's it. you ready? here they are; one, compel the reader to turn the page. two, reward them for doing so.

now, this might sound overly simplistic, but these two little rules are like the north star, guiding you through the murky waters of plotting, pacing character development, and all the other tangled threads that make up the craft of storytelling.

everything else — the elaborate world-building, the witty dialogue, the intricate themes — is just decoration. if you can keep these two objectives at the forefront of your mind, you'll always have a sense of direction, a way to find your way back when you inevitably get lost.

so let's start with the first one: compel the reader to turn the page. this is about more than just creating suspense, though suspense certainly helps. it's about creating a sense of momentum, of inevitability.

imagine you're dangling a string in front of a cat; every time the cat pounces, you twitch the string just out of reach. the cat doesn't give up; it keeps chasing because the promise of catching that string is just too tantalizing. your story should be that string, always just out of reach, urging the reader to keep going, to see what happens next.

this can be achieved in a thousand different ways, and not all of them involve high-stakes drama or cliffhangers at the end of every chapter. maybe it's the way your protagonist's voice resonates, like an old friend telling you their story over coffee, making you want to listen just a little bit longer. maybe it's the world you've created, so vivid and compelling that the reader can't help but want to explore every corner of it. or maybe it's the promise of answers, of secrets revealed and mysteries solved, the slow, satisfying unspooling of a tightly wound thread. the key is to create a pull, something that tugs at the reader's curiosity and won't let go.

but here's where the second objective comes in: reward them for doing so. it's not enough to just keep the reader moving forward; you have to give them something for their effort. it's like that cat with the string — sooner or later, the cat needs to catch it, if only for a moment.

the reward doesn't have to be big, but it has to be satisfying. it can be a revelation, a moment of emotional truth, a piece of dialogue that lands just right, or a twist that makes them gasp out loud. whatever it is, it has to feel earned, like the natural outcome of everything that's come before it.

𝐓𝐖𝐎 ⩩ some of the best advice i've ever received came in the form of a gentle reminder: if you're bored, the reader probably is too. it's so simple, almost embarrassingly so, but it holds a profound truth.

if you find yourself slogging through a scene, struggling to coax each word onto the page like pulling teeth, chances are it's not going to be any more enjoyable for the person reading it. this is your intuition's way of telling you something important. there's no rule that says you have to write every scene in order, from start to finish, like you're assembling a jigsaw puzzle with no missing pieces. sometimes, it's better to skip ahead, leapfrog over the parts that feel like trudging through mud, and land somewhere that sparks your interest again.

a great example of this approach comes from my work on my cobra kai book. if you've read it you'll notice i skip a lot of the show's plot and side stories. it's not that those scenes aren't interesting in their own right; it's just that, more often than not, i simply don't care for them in the context of my character's journey.

let's be honest: we've all seen those episodes, those moments when the camera lingers a little too long on a subplot that feels like filler, when the pacing starts to drag, and your mind starts to wander. now, i don't want to waste your time rehashing every single beat of the show; i'm here to tell my character's story, and sometimes that means making some tough cuts.

it's not about disrespecting the source material; it's about recognizing where my character fits — and more importantly, where she doesn't. ❨ a lot of people, when it comes to fanfic writing tend to insert their oc in basically every single scene of the show, and oftentimes, the oc doesn't even make a difference to the scene itself and the author basically wastes their time writing something we, the audience, have already watched. ❩

when a scene doesn't serve her arc or feels like it's pulling away from the essence of who she is, i don't hesitate to take out my metaphorical scissors and snip it right out. it's a little like being a gardener, pruning back the branches that don't bear fruit so the ones that do can flourish. i'm not just trimming for the sake of neatness; i'm making space for new growth, for the parts of the story that truly resonate.

instead of shoehorning my character into scenes where she's just another background player, standing around awkwardly like she's been invited to a party where she knows no one, i write entirely new scenes that bring her to the forefront. these aren't just filler; they're deliberate choices, moments that add depth and nuance, that let her breathe and stretch in ways the original plot never allowed.

for instance, there's a scene in the dojo, where instead of just another training montage, i peel back the layers of my character's insecurities, her complicated relationship with competition, her unspoken rivalry with another student who, on the surface, seems like her complete opposite but is, in fact, a mirror of her worst fears.

or take the fighting scenes — god, i hate them! ❨ not really, they're a lot of fun for me now. ❩ there's only so much you can do with choreographed fights before they start to blur together, a whirlwind of punches and kicks and triumphant yells that, if you're not careful, can become a kind of narrative white noise.

but instead of playing out every single match blow by blow, i zoom in on what matters: the stakes that exist off the mat, the silent battles happening behind the scenes, the moments of doubt in her mind as she's face to face with her opponent, trying to hold herself together. i focus on the quiet, the pauses between the action where the real tension lives, where her internal struggles come to the surface in the form of a clenched jaw, a too-quick glance at the exit.

by choosing to craft scenes that center on my character's development, i'm not just writing fanfiction; i'm telling a story that feels true to her. it's about finding the intersections between her world and the established narrative, weaving her in and out of the canon in ways that feel organic and, more importantly, necessary.

and yes, this means some scenes get left by the wayside, but that's okay. not every subplot needs to be threaded through my story; not every character needs a cameo. it's a bit like tuning a radio dial — sometimes you need to adjust the frequency, and sift through the static until you find the station that plays your song. my character's song is about resilience, about finding her place in a world that doesn't always make sense, and sometimes that means rewriting the rules. by focusing on what feels right for her, by allowing myself to skip ahead or backtrack or linger in a moment that the original script glossed over, i'm honoring her journey.

it's a balance, of course, between staying true to the show and staying true to my character, and sometimes it's a delicate one. but the beauty of fanfiction is that it gives you permission to play, to experiment, to tell the story you want to tell. and isn't that the point? to take something you love and make it your own, to write the scenes that you wish existed, the moments that matter to you, and in doing so, to invite the reader to see the world from a slightly different angle, one that's shaped by your own imagination.

it's easy to get caught up in the idea that every moment needs to be accounted for, that you need to fill in every gap and connect every dot.

and here's the thing: you can always go back and fill in the blanks later. that awkward transition, that stilted small talk, that dull time skip — those are all things that can be smoothed out in revision, once you've got the bones of your story laid out in front of you. think of it like cooking: you don't start by seasoning every single ingredient one at a time; you throw things in the pot, get everything simmering, and adjust the flavors as you go. you can refine, add, and finesse later. the most important thing is to keep the momentum going, to stay in that flow where the words come easily, like water pouring from a pitcher.

and when you finally come back to those skipped-over parts, you might find that they don't need nearly as much attention as you thought.

so, when you're writing and you hit that inevitable wall, when the words feel heavy and the sentences drag, remember that you have permission to skip ahead. you're not abandoning your story; you're just finding a different way through it.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 ⩩ which actually brings me to my next topic: dialogue.

oh, dialogue, the double-edged sword of writing, where the true voice of a character is either captured or catastrophically lost. if the plot is the skeleton and action the muscle, dialogue is the blood — it courses through the narrative, giving life, warmth, and nuance to everything it touches. and in fanfiction, more than any other genre, dialogue is all about tone.

it's the delicate art of matching your words to the cadence of the original, the rhythm and texture of the voices that fans have already come to know and love. being tonally consistent with canon isn't just a nice touch — it's essential. it's how you trick the reader's mind into believing, for just a little while, that they're still in the world they recognize, even as you take them on a detour of your own making.

when i'm writing characters from a show, i like to pretend that i'm writing a script for an actual episode. i can almost see the actors in my head, delivering the lines with just the right inflection, the way they'd curl their lips or raise an eyebrow, the pauses and stutters and everything unsaid that hovers between the words. this isn't about mimicry; it's about understanding the essence of a character's voice, the subtle quirks, and consistent patterns that make them who they are.

it's like playing an instrument — you have to know the notes, the scales, the crescendos, and diminuendos that make up the music of their speech. you're not just putting words in their mouths; you're creating a space for them to speak, letting their voice resonate within the framework of your narrative.

but here's the pitfall that's all too easy to stumble into: don't, do not, take a canon character's entire dialogue and dump it into your oc's mouth. it's tempting, i know. you've spent hours crafting your oc, sculpting them out of fragments of your own imagination and experiences, and you want them to have the best lines, and the most impactful speeches. but handing them a canon character's dialogue is like dressing them in someone else's clothes — they might look good, but they'll never fit quite right. it's a cheap trick, and worse, it robs your oc of their individuality, their own distinct voice.

your oc is not just a stand-in; they're a fully realized character with their own thoughts, their own way of speaking, their own rhythm and flow.

imagine, for a moment, a scene with your oc standing toe-to-toe with one of the canon characters. maybe it's a confrontation, a quiet moment of reflection by the trees, or a heated exchange in a hallway. if your oc suddenly starts spouting lines that sound eerily familiar — lines you know you've heard before because they were delivered by any of the other mainstays — you're not just breaking immersion; you're effectively telling your reader that your oc isn't capable of standing on their own. it's like having them lip-sync to someone else's song, the melody recognizable but the performance hollow. what you want instead is for your oc to sing their own tune, to find their voice within the chorus of established characters, so that when they speak, it's with a resonance that feels both true to the world and true to themselves.

this doesn't mean you can't draw inspiration from canon dialogue — far from it. the trick is to distill the essence of what makes that dialogue work and then reinterpret it through your oc's perspective. think about the tone, the intent, the underlying emotion, and then ask yourself: how would my oc express this? maybe they're more blunt, or more poetic, or maybe they have a tendency to ramble when they're nervous, or to punctuate their sentences with awkward laughter.

it's in these small, specific details that your oc's voice comes alive, setting them apart from the canon cast while still feeling like they belong in the same universe.

dialogue is also a window into your oc's inner world. it's not just about what they say but how they say it, the choice of words that reveal a hint of insecurity a flash of anger, or a quiet moment of doubt. when your oc speaks, it should feel like a natural extension of who they are, shaped by their history, their relationships, and their own unique blend of strengths and flaws. it's about creating a dialogue that serves the story, yes, but also a dialogue that serves the character, that gives them room to breathe and grow and change within the narrative.

in the end, dialogue is about more than just moving the plot forward — it's about connection. it's the bridge between characters, between writer and reader, a shared language that draws everyone into the world you're building. so take the time to listen to your oc, to let them speak in their own voice, even if it's not perfect at first, even if it takes a few drafts to get it right. because when you do, when you really nail that tone and let your characters speak in a way that feels true and honest, that's when your story comes alive. that's when your oc stops being just a creation on the page and starts feeling like a real, breathing person, someone the reader wants to spend time with, to root for, to see grow and evolve.

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 ⩩ speaking of characters, let's dive into some character writing tips, because here's the truth: contradictions are the lifeblood of believable characters. think about it — no one is the same way all the time. people are messy, layered, and often frustratingly inconsistent. they make grand declarations and then betray them in a heartbeat; they swear off sugar one day and devour a slice of cake the next; they promise to be better, kinder, and more patient, but find themselves snapping at a stranger in traffic.

we are, all of us, a tangled mess of intentions and impulses, and your characters should be no different.

give us a character who despises mess, who tuts at their co-worker's cluttered desk and makes a show of straightening the papers — but goes home to a chaotic bedroom where laundry is piled high and takeout containers lurk in dark corners.

this isn't just a quirk; it's a window into their psyche, a way to reveal the tensions and hypocrisies that make them human.

and remember, people act differently around different people. you're not the same person with your boss as you are with your best friend, and your characters shouldn't be, either. let them have layers that peel back depending on who they're with. maybe they're sharp and sarcastic with one friend, and soft-spoken and thoughtful with another. maybe they're the life of the party in one setting, and awkwardly quiet in another. give us characters who don't know every little detail about their best friends, who are surprised by a hidden tattoo or an unshared fear, because here's the thing: no matter how close you get to someone, there's always something you don't know. and that's okay. it's those gaps, those spaces between people, that make relationships feel real and alive.

character development, after all, is a dance of discovery, not just for the reader but for the characters themselves.

and don't fall into the trap of thinking that all your characters need to emerge from the story stronger, wiser, or better off. development goes both ways — some people grow, others regress. some rise to the occasion and others crumble under the weight of their own flaws.

it's not about forcing every character into a neat little arc where they learn and change in predictable ways; it's about honoring the messiness of human growth. your cast doesn't have to come out of every conflict as a homogenous, group-thinking unit with a unified purpose. in fact, they shouldn't. if they do, you run the risk of them becoming indistinguishable from one another, a kind of narrative mush that lacks the individual spark that made them interesting in the first place.

take the time to map out a point and point b for each of your characters. ask yourself: where did they start, and where did they end up? more importantly, why did they travel that road? was it by choice, by accident, or by force? did they want to change, or were they dragged kicking and screaming into their new reality? this isn't just about plotting a neat character arc; it's about understanding the forces that shape your characters, the decisions they make, and the ones that are made for them. it's about charting a course that feels true to who they are, even if it means they end up in a worse place than where they started.

and then there's voice and tone. every writer has a style, a way of stringing words together that feels natural, like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes. but when you're writing from a character's point of view, especially if they're the protagonist, it can be worth tweaking that style to better reflect who they are.

think about it — if your character is an average fourteen-year-old american boy, why would his narrative voice sound like an elderly british scholar, all florid prose and arcane vocabulary? it's not about dumbing down your writing; it's about aligning the narrative voice with the character's perspective. subtle changes in diction, rhythm, and even sentence structure can breathe life into your prose, making it feel more immediate, and more authentic.

try to think of it like this: the narrative is not just a window into your story, but a window into your character's mind. if you can make that window reflect not just what happens but how your character perceives it, you're halfway there. let your narrative voice shift, however slightly, depending on whose eyes we're seeing through.

let the language become a little looser, a little rougher around the edges when you're in the head of someone young and impulsive, or more precise and measured when you're following someone older, more cautious. it's these small adjustments, these thoughtful calibrations, that can transform a flat character into someone who feels genuinely alive, someone who moves and breathes and grows within the world you've created.

so go ahead, give your characters contradictions and mess and rough edges. let them be unpredictable, not just to the reader, but to each other and to themselves. let them change, not in perfect arcs but in fits and starts, in ways that surprise even you.

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ⩩ good fanfic, in its essence, is this curious blend of creative writing and literary criticism. it's not just about conjuring up new worlds or birthing characters from the fertile soil of your imagination — no, you're working with a different kind of alchemy here.

on the surface, sure, it seems like an advantage: someone's already done the heavy lifting of world-building, of crafting characters whose lives and loves and losses have captivated audiences. the stage is set, the actors are cast, and the script has been rehearsed a thousand times. but your job isn't just to replicate what's been done; it's to find those tiny gaps in the script, those unspoken pauses between lines, and fill them with something new, something that feels both familiar and fresh.

the thing is, fanfic requires you to slip into another writer's skin, to see the world through their eyes, and not just mirror their vision but to magnify it.

there's a meticulousness to it, a need for careful study and critique because good fanfiction isn't just a free-for-all where anything goes. it's about engaging deeply with the text, dissecting its layers, understanding its undercurrents, and then, with reverence and a little audacity, playing in the spaces that haven't yet been explored.

you're taking the world someone else created and saying, "yes, but what if?" — and that's no small feat.

when you're writing fanfic, you're not just creating — you're interpreting, you're analyzing, you're peering into the heart of another writer's work and pulling out the threads that resonate most deeply with you. you're asking yourself questions like, "what's missing here? what does this character need that they didn't get? what if we saw this event from another angle, one that the original work didn't consider?" it's this dual act of creation and critique, of homage and innovation, that makes fanfiction such a rich, layered art form.

𝐒𝐈𝐗 ⩩ in conclusion, your primary duty as a writer is to yourself. you see, writing is an intimate act, a dialogue between your innermost thoughts and the blank page before you. it is your personal canvas, a place where your story, with all its intricate nuances, subplots, and character developments, comes to life. you are creating a universe that operates on your own rhythm and timing, not on the whims of others or the expectations of an invisible audience.

so, for heaven's sake, stop trying to convince readers to steer clear of your fic. it's time to lay down the apologies and the self-deprecating remarks that undermine your hard-earned work.

those hesitant confessions and sarcastic quips about your supposed lack of skill are not charming; they are barriers that keep readers from engaging with your story. when you minimize your own efforts with disclaimers and half-hearted admissions of inadequacy, you're inadvertently pushing potential readers away. instead of deflecting praise or questioning your abilities, embrace your role as the creator. Be unapologetically bold, and let your confidence shine like a beacon, drawing readers in rather than holding them at arm's length.

imagine your work as a precious gem you've labored over, polishing it until it gleams. would you present it with a hesitant shrug, apologizing for its imperfections, or would you proudly display it, knowing it reflects your dedication and passion? approach your writing with that same pride and confidence.

tag and describe your fic as if it were a masterpiece waiting to be discovered. paint it with the vivid colors of your enthusiasm, letting every description convey the depth and richness of your creation. this is your work, your story, your voice — and it deserves to be celebrated with the same fervor and reverence you poured into crafting it.

and beyond the act of creation, cultivate a supportive community of writing friends. seek out those who will not only appreciate the worlds and characters you bring to life but will also share in your excitement and support your journey.

these are the allies who will scream alongside you about your fictional realms, who will hope for your success with genuine enthusiasm, and who will provide comfort and encouragement when the writing process becomes arduous. surround yourself with kindred spirits who understand the intricacies of your creative struggles and the joy of your triumphs.

i would suggest discord groups now that wattpad has taken the private messaging away, i'd provide some but i'm not in any — though, i'd love to be so if you have any, please let me join!

because writing is not just a solitary endeavor; it is deeply intertwined with the connections we build with others who share our passion. find those who will lift you up, who will celebrate your milestones, and who will keep the fires of inspiration alight. your confidence will naturally follow when you are bolstered by a network of support and encouragement.

so, in the end, be fearless in your self-promotion. declare your fic with the same enthusiasm and pride that you felt while writing it. let every word of your description sing with the excitement of creation, and let every tag reflect the unique brilliance of your work.

for in embracing and celebrating your own story with unrestrained confidence, you invite readers to join you in that celebration, to revel in the world you've so lovingly crafted. and remember, your work deserves nothing less than your full-hearted belief in its worth, a belief that will shine through in every aspect of your writing and sharing.

much love,