#but woe be to me if i like hecked some major plot point from books

[hallothere]

Halros & the Fate of Brockenborings

Halros had never known horror like this.

The Bounders had been on their way to being ready, before. All things considered they were doing well for themselves. The land he had grown to love became evermore vigilant against the growing darkness. Halros had thought them alert if not experienced. Prepared, if yet untested.

Trouble had closed in around them. There was gossip of strange happenings in the north. Suspicious characters in Oatbarton, odd sounds on Northcotton farm. Men had been seen on the road to Stock, headed for Hobbiton. Traders, the rumors said, welcome merchants in an unwelcoming time. But there was a town near the Greenfields to protect. Halros could not venture too far south with goblins and Bree-land brigands growing braver by the day.

Bounder Primstone offered him a room on rainy nights. The Watch Office in Brockenborings was ‘more waterproof than a few branches’ as his friend had said. Such hospitality warmed his heart. And on a stormy night that would send even wargs to their dens Halros was happy to accept.

The invasion had caught everyone unawares. He and Primstone had been trapped like rats as the town had been overtaken. Brigands had flooded the place before most of them knew what was happening. Halros had helped board broken windows in the Watch Office as mothers and children huddled inside. He’d helped them escape out the back when they were finally cornered. Primstone had yelled for him to run when the brigands broke through the front door. But he could not abandon his host so easily. They had more to their friendship than the adventure with Bullroarer’s Club and Halros would fight for it.

He would surrender for it as well. The fight had ended when he saw the dagger raised to Primstone’s neck.

That had been… some time ago. It had been long since he’d seen his Bounder friend or any of his kin. He could not hope for help from Evendim. If they even knew of what was going on south of Annuminas, they were beset by other worries. Angmar was no longer a power in this conflict, as he had heard from the last messenger the Shire had seen alive. Still, smaller lieutenants and bands of orcs with a taste for vengeance plagued the roads to the north. What rumors that did manage to reach this far south were dark and full of dread things.

The Watch Office in Brockenborings had become his cage. Three walls of wood and one of iron fenced him in. When they did not drag him to the quarry in Scary, he was left to rot in the only cell he’d ever seen in the Shire. It had been dusty from disuse but otherwise well-kept. Reinforced and maintained, it seemed, in wait for the day he’d been locked inside.

He could not look to the East for help either. Bree had almost certainly been overrun. What news he had managed to hear had been grim. The same evil names were always mentioned. Brigands and orcs were in league with each other under the guidance of someone far more dangerous. Bill Ferny had marked him for retribution all those weeks ago, promised to report him to the master who now ran the Shire from the shadows. Whoever this Sharkey was, he knew how to gather the very worst sort of allies.

Halros had seen evil Men. The corrupt authority was merciless to the soft and the weak. There was no grace in subjugation. Hobbits of all ages worked their fingers to the bone. The once-jolly folk he had considered his neighbors had quickly gone from fat and hardy to hungry and weary. Still, the stout folk had borne it all with a resilience Halros could only marvel at. Mithrandir had said something once about hobbits being full of surprises. One of the more inspiring tales had been of a group of rebels in the hills, ones that were rumored to have fought in Stock and beyond. These had been captured and their leader whisked away. Halros tried to take comfort in the fact that he’d had allies in this fight, if only briefly.

Despite their adjustment to hard labor, Halros fought for them how he could. They were a strong people no doubt, but a gentler one than his own. The Shirefolk had not known cruelty of this scale. They did not know oppression. Halros would spare them this, if he could. He drew their captors’ ire well, jeering at a guard before a stumbling hobbit could be struck. Blame was shouldered and fights were picked before any hobbit under his protection could be threatened.

Halros had devoted his life to protecting the Shire. The charge that had been laid upon him had not yet been lifted. Sometimes the memory of his chieftain's errand was the only thing keeping him upright.

He had carried stone on a bleeding back and swung a pick with trembling arms. It was easy to goad the power hungry. It would likely as anything get him killed, so he was told. He was the only Man among the captives in Brockenborings. That gave him a unique advantage in his duty: he stood out like a sore thumb among the hobbits. It was no challenge to paint a target on his back. Brigands and orcs alike had reason to hate the Rangers. All he had to do was sling some mud and survive what came after.

On most days they let him out he was tasked with pushing the quarry cart. Tweens would pile rocks until the thing overflowed, and Halros would shove it to and fro. It took two grown hobbits to handle, and the overseers liked to see fewer pairs of hands on a single job. Sometimes he would let an exhausted worker hitch a ride, and sometimes he served as a carriage service for workers going to and from their shifts. He was only one Man, but he would do this as long as he could.

Whatever burden he could carry, whatever task he could share… As long as he could protect them, he could hope.

Halros had one main adversary in this fight. Cliff Redbark was the Scary overseer now that the other thugs had been given positions of authority elsewhere. He was predictable in his contempt for the peaceable Shirefolk, but quick to redirect his attention to the Ranger. If nothing else, Redbark could be relied upon to lash out at the most glaring opposition to his authority. There was no hesitation in teaching a lesson. But at least retribution didn’t linger.

Petunia Bracegirdle was trying to keep the fallen Ranger from diving right back into an altercation with the unimaginative overseer. “Oh please, Mister Halros,” she murmured close to his ear as he pushed himself off the floor, “We can’t bear to see you killed over this. What’ll we do without you?”

Halros knew they’d do well enough without him, but it was an effective argument. The Hobbits of Scary had gone and done just as Mithrandir said they would. As soon as they’d cottoned onto the fact that he was trying to shield them from trouble, they became a unified force dedicated to keeping him alive in turn. He never went hungry outside his cell, as much as he tried to divert the shared food. His wounds never lacked dressing, and he had never awoken from a faint without a caretaker already at hand.

He had never been more determined to fight for them, tooth and nail.

What was another blow to his pride? Redbark saw the fight in him withdraw- for now- and decided to let it lie. They would be graciously allowed back to work without further incident. Halros had taken on the punishment meant for Rollo Burrows. He would not see a stumbling, exhausted older hobbit beaten. He’d challenged Redbark before the overseer could approach and menace poor Rollo. The blow had been swift, and Halros had not been in top shape for some time. But take it he did. And he would take it again.

Petunia hovered by his side a moment as he got back up, then stayed around to monitor the loading of the cart for the return to the surface. She would stick close for the time being. It was the way of these work crews, their way of thanking him he supposed. Not as if he needed the thanks. Rangers were used to doing thankless jobs, protecting the free peoples and doing what was right as long as they were able.

Diminished though his assignment was, the Hobbits of Scary were his to protect. Halros held onto a last shred of hope in his duty.

There were no tweens to ferry back this go around. Halros and his shadow saw the cart to the mouth of the cave, where another team of hobbits got it unloaded. Wilcome Tunnelly had once again become quarry supervisor. He directed less experienced hobbits in their tasks. Scary and Brockenborings alike had been conscripted to various duties, and those with prior experience had either been singled out or volunteered. In Wilcome Tunnelly’s case, he had stepped forward in an attempt to run the quarry as safely as he could. At the very least he was able to convince the overseer before Redbark that his way would reduce injury and keep the quarry at maximum capacity.

“Wait here a moment.” Wilcome directed him, his gloved hands dripping dust, “We’ve got tools to send back down and it’s more efficient to do it in one trip.”

It would give him a moment’s rest. Halros leaned back against the stationary cart and closed his eyes. The day was cheerier than any of them felt. The oblivious sun shone brightly over a land steeped in misery. Perhaps they were all lucky the day was not so hot. There was precious little shade in the main bowl of the quarry. What trees that had once circled the outside had been cut. There was no shade in sight save for in the overseer’s hut.

He’d long since lost his cloak for want of clean bandages. Now he was dressed like most of the others: in whatever he could work in, patched as best as he was able. He thought back to his kin, recalling the pride in the Rangers’ stitchwork. Another, more recent memory bubbled up. A hobbit lass had threatened to sew him a new shirt and burn his old one if she could only guess his size. If he had looked a sight before, he could only assume everyone was too polite to comment on his appearance now.

“I don’t know how!” Petunia’s harsh whisper brought him back from a daze he hadn’t realized he’d entered. She sounded distressed, and Halros wondered what had befallen the quarry hobbits since he’d last seen daylight.

“It’s all we can do to protect him.” Wilcome had returned. “Goodness knows what’ll happen if we can’t keep this up.”

Something had happened while he was gone, Halros was sure of it. He could practically see Petunia’s huff when she responded. “He’s like one of the tweens. Redbark knows we daren’t step out of line when he’s on the crew! But Rollo was so exhausted. You should’ve seen Redbark’ face after he struck him. Looked right at Rollo as if he didn’t feel guilty enough-“

Halros frowned in confusion. Rollo Burrows was a regular on this crew. He’d been in hot water a few minutes ago, but had he been in trouble before? And Rollo wasn’t a young hobbit by any stretch. Why did they consider him like a tween?

His thoughts were muddled, but Wilcome’s response struck him like an orc arrow. “We’ll think of something, Tuney. There’s got to be a way to protect poor old Halros better than this.”

His thrumming mind ground to a halt. But Wilcome and Petunia were on the move. There was no time to weigh the words and their implications now that the tools had arrived. He let Petunia do the talking and took his place behind the cart in silence. Halros felt numb in a way he hadn’t before. He had been under the impression his service to the work crew was a boon, a chance to shield them.

But the overseer didn’t see it that way. Halros had been summoned from the Watch Office at random, sometimes days or weeks apart. He hadn’t known the first overseer, but Redbark had brought the Ranger forth soon after taking command. Halros began his first day in the quarry by standing between an overzealous guard and… and… Tess Bolger? Tim Burrows? He remembered a tween crying out. He did not remember thinking anything, only diving into the middle of it and making the brigand angry enough to forget the original incident.

Halros was dumbfounded. He couldn’t listen as Petunia guided him back through the cave. The hobbits were his charge, they were his duty to watch over. It nearly made him sick right there in the tunnel. The people he was fighting to protect were being threatened with his life. The hobbits he thought he was aiding by taking on their captors were being coerced with a different kind of punishment. The Overseer knew he would throw himself into harm's way for them.

Perhaps he hadn’t realized the true shrewdness of Cliff Redbark. He wasn’t an extra laborer. All this time, he’d been an incentive. Why beat several workers and lower productivity when just one would volunteer?

Despair struck him between the shoulder blades. He was supposed to be their last line of defense! What was he now, other than one more tool for the enemy? His legs failed just like the rest of him. Halros slid to his knees, unhearing, as Petunia called back in alarm. Unable to face her, he turned away. He felt like weeping! Aragorn and Mithrandir had gone too far to help him. The Grey Company had taken their bravest heroes, those willing and worthy to follow Halbarad. What would they say to this? They would die in service to their King, and he would die a pawn of the enemy-- hurting his beloved Shirefolk as much in death as he had in life.

Petunia was shaking him now. “You must get up! Please… Let me help you to your feet before they see you!” Had they been forced to shield him before? He was a far better fool than a tween or a faunt, than those weak or old who would learn from threats and fall in line. No, he was a pig-headed Ranger too proud not to play right into Redbark’s schemes. What an act of intimidation to see the one who should watch over them brought low.

He tried to hide his face once more. The shame and dread were heavier than any stone. In a way he had built his own prison. And now he found he could not stand to look upon the very outcome he’d fought so hard against.

Despite her pleas, Halros could not do as Petunia wished. When they were found, when a guard hauled him up by the collar and began shouting threats he did the only thing he knew to do. He fought. He swung and clawed like he always did with no sense of self-preservation. Another guard joined the fray and he didn’t stop. It was selfish. It was cowardly. Through the pain Halros wondered if he’d ever been anything else.

Someone finally hit him over the head. For just a little while, he did not have to live with himself.

There was no light in the Watch Office at night.

The windows remained boarded and the office portion of the building stood empty as Halros languished in the cell. He had awoken alone and sobbed as he had not done in years. Help was not coming for them as he had hoped. His limbs were stiff and burning. His right arm throbbed more persistently than the rest and he feared it had been broken. But worst of all, he’d been left alone with his thoughts.

What use was a shield that had been broken? What good could a sword do once turned against those it had once protected? He laid on the floor in silence. At least he could not hurt them if he was locked away. In the dark of night, Halros did not know if he could sleep. There seemed to be no end to this moment of weakness. No sun peeking through the clouds, no proverbial light of day. All he had around him were the proofs of his failure.

That night he worried more than he ever had for Bounder Primstone. He had thought his little friend peculiar for taking things into his own hands, for standing bold but untrained against wolves and goblins and brigands. Foolish but brave. But it was as Mithrandir had said. Hobbits were stronger than they looked. All of his attempts to fight for them came to naught, for they had done just as well fighting for themselves. Better, perhaps, if there were other groups of rebels out and about.

But all this time he had fought for a failing hope, not daring to think what would happen if he stopped. Now it had happened. Now he could not hold out as he had done before. Knowing how he had been used was the killing blow to his hope. He had lost the fight long ago without ever knowing it.

Sleep fled from him as well. At some point the sun decided once again to rise. Halros did not know what to do with this new day and remained where he was. He waited. It could be anywhere from days to weeks before he would be brought back to the quarry, and now he knew why. He wouldn’t be filling in for an injured hobbit as he had assumed. While he did not know how he would face the hobbits of the quarry, the more pressing revelation would be the broken arm. Even if he was a prop he had been a useful one. Could he stand to do less than nothing now?

No one came with food or orders. He had thought he'd heard a horse and cart on the road, but nothing had come of it. Late in the morning he had gotten up and found a more comfortable arrangement for his arm. He had no blanket to fashion into a sling, but a sleeve would work just as well for the time being. Autumn must be approaching though it was a problem for another day.

The young Ranger faced a different kind of chill as the day stretched into night once more. The pain in his heart was growing distant while the hurts in his body remained. At some point he must have slept, for he awoke in a less comfortable position on the floor. There was no bread and water shoved through the bars.

For the first time since seeing the knife at Primstone’s throat, Halros knew he was afraid.

He held his arm still and kept his eyes fixed on the door. The pain was less if he didn’t move, if he tried not to think about it. His other hurts had long since made themselves known. There was not much to do about any of them. Morning came again but no one had appeared. Fear had a firm hold on him now. They were leaving him again. He was to be abandoned to a burden he couldn’t bear, doomed to failure against an enemy too large for him to fight--

Halros had never known horror like this.

Weak and weary, his trepidation only grew as the sun went down. The orange of the sunset would soon be lost to the hill behind him, and the slits in the boarded windows never let in the moon. Darkness was coming for him, as it had already come for his kin. Halros closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He didn’t want it to end like this. He did not want to die alone.

There was a single, clear shout outside. His eyes flew open as others followed. The orange sunset had been replaced by the yellow of flickering flame, of torches. Someone was coming. If he was to die, at least he would not perish in the dark.

A clang, and the room echoed with the sound of lock tumblers turning. The door thudded open. Before him appeared two hobbits, one holding a torch and the other carrying several loose keys. Their eyes were as wide as his, surveying him as he surveyed them. His gaze caught on one of them, on the White Tree shining proudly on his chest.

Had he any tears left, Halros would have cried.

“There you are!” The torch-bearer and older of the two hurried in, letting the light flow into the cell. “You must be Halros. We have looked high and low for you.”

He was struck dumb, forced to simply watch as the younger hobbit- the one wearing the symbol of Gondor- began trying keys in the lock. “We’ll have you out in just a moment! They’re all terribly worried for you. But don’t worry. Frodo and I are here now.” The one that wasn’t Frodo tossed aside the key he’d been trying. “I beg your pardon! What I mean to say is I’m Peregrin Took, and this is Frodo Baggins, and we have come to rescue you.”

Halros continued to stare as a frown grew on Frodo Baggins’ face. The older hobbit held the torch further aloft with a look of concern. “We are glad to have found you.” He glanced at Peregrin and then back to the Ranger. “It may take him a moment. Do you think you can have some water?”

Not knowing what else to do, Halros nodded. With a grimace, he eased himself closer to the bars. Frodo produced a waterskin and offered it out. It was then he noticed the hobbit was missing a finger, which was unusual. He would not say anything even if he was able to. With a trembling hand he reached out for the water.

Peregrin threw away another key while he drank. The young hobbit gave him a tight smile. He seemed older than his years, and it occurred to Halros that if he had been all the way to Gondor, it only stood to reason.

“If these had all been on a keyring it would’ve been easier!” Peregrin chuckled mirthlessly. He tossed aside another key. “I fear I shall have to break this lock. But break it I will if I must!” he added hastily. Frodo accepted the water skin when Halros was done, but instead of straightening up he took the Ranger’s hand and held it. These were hobbits touched by hardship and sadness, he could see it in their eyes.

But these were hobbits who had come to save him.

Heart pounding, Halros finally worked up the strength to speak. “The others… the ones in the quarry and the camp, are they-”

Frodo nodded quickly. He looked tired. “They are all safe. When the brigands fled, they left most everyone unharmed.”

Peregrin had gone through all the keys and was now taking the tip of his dagger to the lock. “I’m not half as good at this as Nita.” he murmured before catching himself. “But I’m plenty good, and they haven’t replaced our old Shire lock. Your Bounder Primstone never had to hold anyone here I suspect.”

“Primstone?” Halros alarmed Frodo by trying to stand suddenly. “He is my friend. Have you seen him?” He was unsteady, but bolstered by a hand at his elbow reaching through the bars to support him.

It was Frodo who answered him. “Yes, we found him at the same time as another friend of ours. He is doing as well as any of us.” That was a sentiment for the times. Halros gave the hobbit a fright when his knees threatened to buckle. Leaning up against the bars, he felt the lock finally disengage.

Peregrin bolted into the cell. He took over holding the Ranger’s good arm from Frodo and was surprisingly strong for his size. Standing, Halros could see that Peregrin might be the tallest hobbit he had ever seen, now that he thought about it.

“Come outside if you can. Slowly now, Frodo may have a hard time catching you holding the torch as he is.” Halros did his best to keep his feet. “They’ve set up an infirmary next door. We have a whole horde of hobbits asking after you, Primstone included! A good many of us came into town for you and the others, driving the last of the brigands out as we went.” His voice became very solemn. “The night is over, and they won’t be troubling you again.”

Night had, in fact, just fallen, but Halros only grew lighter. He stumbled alongside Peregrin until they reached the next smial. Halros barely had time to wonder why only two had been sent for him when they were suddenly swarmed by hobbits. Frodo and Peregrin ordered them back with the help of two others Halros didn’t recognize. They managed to clear a path to an empty bedroll that the Ranger sank gratefully onto.

He didn’t have time to fully lie down before a body shot from the crowd and latched onto him. Another worn and weary hobbit held him tightly, and he was overwhelmed by an emotion far stronger than pain.

“Oh Halros, my friend! You don’t know how glad I am to see you! Are you well? They kept me prisoner in Michel Delving with the rebels, but we’ve been trying to escape. My poor friend! I’ve been so worried for you, all the way out here without me to watch over you--”

If anyone else stayed he did not know it. Halros ignored his other hurts and wept into Primstone’s shoulder. It only reignited the Bounder’s worry but he could not stop. Relief swept over him so completely that he was incapable of feeling or doing anything else then. It was truly over. Despite everything, help had come and it had triumphed over the shadow that had held them captive for so long.

“You’re going to be fine now, you take my word for it.” Primstone’s voice quavered just above his head. “I’ve told the others to stay back until you’re well again. I’m staying right here though! Unless you don’t want me to. Then of course, I can wait somewhere else-”

Halros shook his head and managed a shuddering laugh. “You do not know how glad I am to see you. I thought you lost… I thought the Shire lost, that no help was coming.”

Another hand came to rest on his shoulder. It belonged to Peregrin, who spoke to him gently. “Many of us thought as you did, Ranger Halros. But the worst is over. Help has come.” It looked as if he was in another place, his words meant for another time. But they were true and Halros was grateful. “You’ll have plenty of time to rest now. We’re hoping to get word to your kin in the north any time now. Dear Nita said she knew some good folks up there who would come to help.”

Halros’ brow furrowed slightly. “Nita? You mentioned her before but I do recall knowing a hobbit lass… Her name was something like that… She is a burglar of some renown now?”

Peregrin stifled a laugh. “Something like that, though she would blush to hear you say so. Nita’s a good sort, and been through as much as we have. She’ll be glad to hear you’re well when she returns.”

Bounder Primstone chose this moment to notice the sling and exclaim in horror. “Dear me! Why didn’t you say you were hurt? We’ve brought a healer from Michel Delving and she’ll need to see you straight away. Now don’t fuss with me, my friend, I’m staying put. You’ve got someone to take care of you now.”

Halros’ face became pinched again after Primstone had turned, and Peregrin saw. The young hobbit with Gondor’s colors paused a long moment before speaking again. “I do not know you, not really, and I suppose you don’t know me either. But I’ve heard a thing or two. All the folks in the quarry were talking. They said you’d tried to cover their escape at the start, that you never let the guards lay a finger on them even after you were black and blue…”

The Ranger’s head still hung in shame. Peregrin didn’t know. He hadn’t been there, or seen what had really gone on.

“They said you never gave up, even when some of the rest of them had. That you never stopped fighting on their behalf. Every hobbit that could walk was nagging at our heels to come break you out.”

Finally, Halros had to look up. “I did not do enough. They used me… I couldn’t protect anyone.”

Peregrin’s face softened. “You gave them some hope, even if you did not have any yourself.”

Before the Ranger could really go to pieces, Primstone returned. The Bounder looked stricken, and was quick to herd the healer closer to the bedroll. “You see! He’s getting worse every minute. Oh, I never should have left! What’s this Took been saying to you, Halros? Well, I’m sticking around for good. Unless of course, you need something to eat! In which case, I’ll hop right to it and make sure you get something real hearty and wholesome. And over dinner I can tell you just what’s been cooking elsewhere! Ha! Cooking, you see, while we eat? Some more hobbit humor for you, my dear friend-...”

The shadow had not yet fully retreated from the Shire, but the light had returned. Healing would come. It wasn’t there yet, but for the first time in a long time they had some goodness to cling to. As the healer began to look him over, Halros cast his eyes around the room. It was full of smiles, full of tears. All around him were hobbits who had not come through unscathed, but had come through nonetheless. They had not always triumphed. They had simply never given in. Now they had a reason to carry on in spite of it all.

Halros had never known hope like this. And this was a hope he could live for.

[wolfie-dragon-rider]

Hi! 2,3 and 13 on the Meme for Fic Writers? :D

Thank you so much for asking! Questions are from here.

2) Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

Not really. I like my hurt/comfort angsty things I write. Though maybe there is something, but I’m not sure if there’s a name for this. But I once considered writing a silly lighthearted Modern AU Hiccstrid fic, with them being in college, and I was planning to basically have Hiccup do a Computer Science major, and then have every chapter start off with a... term or concept from CS, as it relates to his relationship woes. Such as “Complexity theory is about determining the complexity of problems. The more time or effort it takes to find a solution to a problem, the higher its complexity. Much research in CS is about finding faster algorithms for problems, and thus reducing their complexity. 

Hiccup considered the problem 'Figuring out what girls think' to have an extremely high complexity, requiring an amount of research generally rewarded with a Nobel Prize.” 

I once read a fic (unfortunately I can’t remember what it was called) which did such a thing for physics terms, and I thought it was cute and funny. Maybe one day I’ll write it.

3) Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

There are of course always the problematic tropes that I don’t want to get involved with, but one that is common in the HTTYD fandom that I hate, is the “Name kid after dead relative/lover/friend/pet/whatever” trope. I know, I know, sacrilege, but I just don’t like Hiccstrid naming their kid Finn or Stoick or something like that. I personally feel it’s a bit creepy. The kid is unique, a new person. It shouldn’t be a... replacement of the dead person. And I know it’s typically not meant to be, but to me that’s what it feels like. “We lost Stoick but we have a new Stoick now”. The baby is not a new Stoick, he’s a new person who is different from Stoick. 

13) What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

I think I benefited a lot from Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 rules of writing. This is probably getting a bit long, so I’ll post them all here and write down my thoughts about them below the cut:

Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.I tend to interpret this in two ways. One, keep it short. Don’t waste the reader’s time with endless description of things that don’t matter, sideplots that go nowhere, or strange observations. Two, be upfront with your intentions. Don’t start a story that appears to start as a fluffy coffeeshop AU but halfway through suddenly turns into some kind of Hunger Games horror dystopia. The reader who probably followed the story for fluff will feel cheated, and the horror fan has to slog through chapters of other stuff, and you’ve wasted their time. 

Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.The worst thing a reader can feel towards your characters is not hate or disgust. It’s indifference. It’s “I don’t care what happens to any of these people, so why should I keep reading?” Make sure the audience wants the protagonist to succeed. Wants them to overcome their troubles. Make sure the audience feels like the character has not been treated right, and deserves justice.  

Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.I find this incredibly good advice to keep in mind when writing side or background characters. Let’s say your characters are taking a cab. Remember that the cab driver is a person too. They have a name, and goals. They want to go home on time. They want to listen to their favorite radio channel. They want the characters to not be so loud. They want their kids to go to a school as good as the protagonist is going through. And sure, the audience doesn’t need to know their life story, far from it. But it can make your world feel so much more alive if the characters’ loud conversation is interrupted by the driver turning the volume of his music up. It allows you to show how your protagonist will react to this. Are they empathetic? Insulted? Maybe they love the music and start a conversation with the driver. Another point where this rule applies is for villains. Keep in mind that even though your villains do horrible things, they do them because they want to accomplish something. 

Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.I used to have my own addendum to this rule: Worldbuilding should also be a valid use for a sentence, I thought. But slowly I realized that it’s already in the other two things. Worldbuilding is cool, but I think that ultimately it should be subservient to the plot and characters. Especially when you’re looking through the eyes of a character, every sentence you write is what the character sees. And what the see, how they see it, how they respond, that shows character. What you show and how you show it reveals more about the plot and character than the world itself. 

Start as close to the end as possible.A remarkably simple rule, yet incredibly right. When starting a story, or editing it, always ask for the first couple of chapters “Are these necessary?” Interesting stories, no matter their genre, tend to start the same way: There is a status quo that is broken. Frodo’s calm life in the Shire is interrupted by his uncle’s birthday party and the magical ring he gets after it. The Dursleys’ perfectly normal life is interrupted when a magical boy is left on their doorstep. A friend disappears. A lover is murdered. Status Quo is broken: The world is not as it should be anymore, and the protagonist has to set it right. Another way to rephrase this rule is to say: Begin at the very start of your story, then simply throw everything away until something happens that the reader has to know. Delete until you’re forced to summarize the deleted events in the rest of your story. Because if the reader didn’t need to know it, they shouldn’t have to read it. 

Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of.I love this rule. Not because I’m a sadist personally, heck, it hurts me when I write such horrible things. But because indeed, we don’t see the true strength of a character until they’re in their lowest point and they still don’t give up. Throw them over the edge of the cliff, and only then can you see them truly soar. You want your readers to wonder how in the world the character could ever overcome these hurdles. This quote from Lord of the Rings seems appropriate: It's like in the great stories Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened? And then, when the reader is wondering that, you make your character soar. They get back up, keep on fighting, and your audience will cheer and yell and cry in relief. 

Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.This rule pretty much speaks for itself. There will always always always be people who don’t like what you write. Who don’t like the genre you write. Who don’t like the character you write. Screw those people. 

Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.I should emphasize here that these are rules originally intended for short stories, but I agree with the rule in general regardless. I hate it when stories do this thing, which I call ‘the 4th wall censor’, where something important is referred to vaguely even though everybody in the room knows about it, simply because the audience doesn’t know. This is also the hallmark of a good detective or thriller story. Your twist or reveal shouldn’t depend on keeping something hidden from the audience. The signs should be there all along, in foreshadowing and offhand remarks that combine into a great picture once you realize it. Not the “Haha, turns out that the crime scene contained this vital clue that wasn’t mentioned before!”. Of course, there are circumstances where you want suspence or unreliable narration, but always ask yourself if it’s actually necessary. If the entire suspense is born from intentional miscommunication between you and the reader, then maybe the book wasn’t that clever to begin with.Probably way more than you wanted to know, but I hope you learned something!