Get under the skin

Tell us one thing that you didn't anticipate about the writer's life, which surprised you once you became a writer.

by Dietrich 

Some writers getting into storytelling might anticipate overnight success, only to find it’s more of  a slow burn—and that the myth of the “starving artist” isn’t necessarily a myth.

I heard all that too, but I did it anyway. Before I set out to write, I envisioned myself in my studio weaving tales of bank heists, coming up with gritty scenes filled cunning villains and intricate plot twists. Staying one step ahead of the reader, layering surprises and constructing airtight narratives. What I didn’t realize was there’s an emotional weight to creating a story, one that can carve into you, and not just for the reader, but for the writer too. I found out it was more than a creative exercise of plot twists and building imaginary worlds where the moral lines can blur. 

Stories are living things, and I came to understand that to craft characters that feel real, I needed to feel their desperation and fears, the human cost of every decision they make. Marginal characters aren’t just shady, they might’ve lost everything and see no other way to go. The character pulling off a heist isn’t just clever—he or she is likely desperate and driven by need. I find when I step into their skin, I feel the pulse of their emotions and the desperation that drives their actions. To write their stories authentically, I need to understand what they feel.

That realization shifted how I approached storytelling. Sure, there’s a challenge in the mechanics—crafting unpredictable twists, pacing the action, balancing moral ambiguity to provoke thought. But I came to see that writing fiction demands heart as much as mind. It asks me to open myself to the messiness of human emotion. A scene where a character faces betrayal isn’t just a plot point; it’s a moment where I have to feel the same sting. A moment of triumph isn’t just a narrative payoff, I need to really get what they had to sacrifice for it.

Emotional depth blurs the line between right and wrong, and it tends to make the story heavier, but also richer. I think that’s what has readers wondering why they feel themselves rooting for the villain. Think of Hannibal Lechter. 

Characters infused with emotional complexity carry more weight and get readers more invested, giving them something to take with them after they close the book. And a backstory of betrayal or abandonment can tap into a reader’s own experiences, forging an emotional bond. Feeling the villain’s pain, one may hope for the character's redemption or success, even if it’s misguided.