The Borrowed Ritual: Let Characters Inherit Habits From People They've Lost

Place your characters at literal thresholds—doorways, gates, bridges—when they must make irreversible choices. The physical act of crossing creates a visceral moment of commitment that readers feel in their bodies. Before the threshold, your character can still retreat. After, they cannot. This technique works because architecture becomes psychology. In Bram Stoker's 'Dracula,' Jonathan Harker notices that Count Dracula never invites him to cross a threshold—he must choose to enter himself. Each doorway Harker walks through deepens his entrapment. The castle's many doors become symbols of choices he cannot unmake. When writing threshold scenes, slow the pacing dramatically. Describe the door itself, the character's hand on the handle, the sounds from the other side. Let them pause. Let them almost turn back. Then have them step through—and immediately show how the world on the other side is subtly different from what they expected.

Master the art of meaningful omission. When characters deliberately avoid mentioning something obvious, that silence creates more tension than any spoken word. Have them talk around the issue while readers feel pressure building. When two estranged brothers meet after their father's funeral, don't have them argue about inheritance. Have them discuss weather, catering quality, parking spaces—anything except what matters. Each mundane exchange becomes charged with unspoken grief. Plant 'pressure leaks'—moments where the suppressed topic almost surfaces. A pause too long, a sentence trailing off, a sudden subject change. These micro-fractures signal something important beneath the surface.

Give your characters simultaneous, incompatible desires within the same scene. A mother watching her child leave for danger feels proud and terrified, wanting to pull them back and push them forward in the same breath. The key is specificity: show it through action. The character reaches for the door handle, then adjusts the traveler's collar instead. They say 'be careful' when they mean 'don't go' and 'I believe in you' simultaneously. This transforms passive emotional scenes into dynamic ones. Avoid resolving the contradiction quickly. Let the reader feel the discomfort of wanting two impossible things. This mirrors real human experience far more accurately than clean, single-minded motivation.

Let's get something straight: if you think writing for money makes you a sellout, congratulations—you've swallowed the most destructive myth in literary history. That romantic image of the tortured genius dying in a garret, scribbling masterpieces between coughing fits? It's garbage. Beautiful, poetic garbage that has convinced generations of talented writers to starve while mediocre hacks cash checks. Here's the uncomfortable truth that your MFA program never taught you: almost every writer you worship was obsessed with money.

Forty-two years ago, a lanky Argentine with the face of a melancholic jazz musician and the mind of a literary arsonist slipped away from this world. Julio Cortázar died in Paris on February 12, 1984, leaving behind a body of work that still makes readers question whether they're holding the book or the book is holding them. If you've never read him, congratulations—you're about to discover why your favorite 'experimental' novelist is basically a cover band.