Use “fate” as a plot device

‘So,’ George said, settling back in his chair. ‘Having seen all the candidates, what are your thoughts?’ Louise tapped her pen on the table.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I thought Jules was a fairly good fit. Ingrid had the most impressive CV in terms of past experience. But I think we should go with David.’ George nodded.

‘I’d be tempted to agree,’ he said. ‘Despite not really being suitable for the position or having any of the relevant qualifications, I think David’s the right choice, mostly because it’s his destiny.’

‘Yes,’ said Louise, thoughtfully. ‘He doesn’t seem to know a lot about marketing per se, but getting this job would be the first step in his meteoric rise to power and eventual corruption in a personal plot arc that echoes, among other texts, Citizen Kane and the fall of Lucifer.’

‘I’d have to concur,’ said George. ‘He was bumbling and inarticulate in the interview, his CV is written on what looks like a paper hand-towel and he was unapologetically an hour late for his appointment, but I think he’s the guy for the job.’

‘What are you going to write on the form?’

‘I’ll just put “indefinable sense of narrative momentum.”’

Improve the online visibility of your fiction through the careful use of keywords

Fighting for breath, Britney Bin Laden sprinted away from the collapsing building with all the speed of a get rich quick scheme or celebrity nipple slip. A massive explosion tore seductively through the virgin wall behind her, a wall which was eighteen years old and ready for fun.

Yikes, thought Britney, this is certainly exclusive breaking news which might well affect current stock prices. Just then, a truck carrying cheap pharmaceutical goods veered off the road, narrowly missing her. That could have killed me, thought Britney, her life flashing before her eyes like a free bootleg movie download. There are so many things I regret. I wish I had won top prizes at an online Euro-Casino, or talked to more singles in my area.

‘Britney!’ someone shouted. She squinted through the smoke. It was her friend and lover, Jesus Michael Jackson-Obama-Sextape. ‘Are you okay?’ he said, offering her coupon codes for genuine software downloads.

Hate your characters

(With thanks to James Franco)

Frank Malaise sat slumped in the barber’s chair, reeking of sweat and onions. His folds of pale fat covered him like a quilt made of bacon rind, swaddling his weak frame just as, far beneath his rib cage, they swaddled his anaemic heart. One day that heart would give out and his funeral would be attended by every person whose life he had touched and whose love he had earned in his time on this planet – which is to say, no one.

‘Hey,’ he called across the barbershop. ‘I haven’t got all day here.’ This was true. His plans for the afternoon included poor-quality microwave meals and wallowing in his own ignorance. In response to this petulant demand for service, Sid the barber stalked across the room and stood behind Frank. He paused for a second, his scissor blades hovering near Frank’s neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, directionless hatred bubbling in the pit of his soul. Sid was a deeply unpleasant man, subject to misanthropic murderous rages that he liked to think of as his “purging” instincts. His wife, herself a morbidly obese and profoundly stupid human being, took perverse pleasure in adopting a chirpy, sing-song voice as she warned Sid that one of these days he would “flip his lid.” The truth was that one day he would, that blood would be spilled and that the world would be better for it. God, I hate people.

Refuse to leave the present tense

I sit at my desk and remember how, years ago, I wonder what my life will be like when I am fifty, which I am now. I’m imagining that I’m living in a big house, I remember as I sit in my one-bedroom apartment. Now I pour myself a drink and cast my mind back to a time when I’m full of hope and passion which is never to be extinguished, as it is now.

‘What am I doing?’ I mutter to myself, taking a sip of my drink. In my memory, I’m seven years old, sitting in the highest branches of a tree which is being planted a hundred years before I am born. Now, though, the tree is long dead. I’m chopping it down at the age of twenty and thinking about when it is supporting my weight at the age of seven. I look at my watch.

‘Late,’ I mutter to myself. It is eight; the retrospective is just starting, half an hour ago.

Give your characters distinctive idioms

‘Dae ye nae ken?’ spluttered Hamish, spilling whisky on his sporran. ‘I cannae be tha’ mush clerrer.' Bronco frowned at him.

‘Well, gee whizz,’ he said. ‘I’m havin’ the darndest time tryin’ a foller yer. Could’ya speak a liddle slower, pardner?’

‘Ah, tae hell with ye,’ muttered Hamish.

‘I believe what our Caledonian friend is attempting to convey,’ lisped Archibald over the rim of his teacup, ‘is that he is somewhat dissatisfied with the manner in which he is being addressed by your good self. Is that right, old chap?’

‘Aye,’ the red-haired drunkard grumbled. ‘An i’s no jus’ Yankie-boy, neither. Ye’s all a shoor o’ racists.’ Before he could elaborate, however, the conversation was interrupted by the late arrival of Ahmed.

Focus on one sense to the exclusion of the others

Before he even opened his eyes, Daniel could smell the metallic, oily scent of the machine guns pointing at him.

‘The prisoner is awake!’ shouted the nearest of the men. His breath smelled like onions and raw meat. Daniel blinked.

‘Where...’ he said, but before he could finish his question, a leather boot which stank of petrol hit the side of his head. He fell to the ground, which smelled of mud and, again, petrol.

‘Silence!’ screamed the guard, the tangy, faintly sweet odour of his sweat wafting into Daniel’s nostrils. Daniel was sure that, had any dogs been nearby, they could have smelled his fear. The whole situation reeked of danger. Then, on the wind, came the salty scent of the ocean and, with it, a faint whiff of hope.

‘Smell you later!’ shouted Daniel, making a run for the jet-ski.

Cram as much information and detail into the title as you can, even if this means sacrificing the readability of said title and somewhat stealing the thunder of the main body of the work itself, which is left only really being able to reiterate what has already been said in the title, which was itself clumsy and repetitious

See above.

Withhold key information to create tension

As her ears filled with white noise, Naomi stared at the ocean 30,000 feet beneath her and wished she had packed a parachute. Around her, clouds tumbled past in a blur of wind and white ozone. Far, far below, she could see the shimmering surface of the water – if she were to hit it at terminal velocity, she knew it would break every bone in her body. Of course, she would have passed out long before then, her vision narrowing to a bright dot, then shutting off completely as the blood rushed to her brain.

The roar of white noise grew louder. She had been in danger plenty of times over the last few months and near-death experiences had become a way of life, but nothing terrified her more than the prospect of plunging to her certain death in the unknowable emptiness of the mid-Pacific, thousands of miles from home.

Phew, she thought, removing her faulty headphones. It’s a good job I’m on a plane.