Hidden Writing Hazards

8 Writing Mistakes That Feel Clever at the Time (and Aren’t)

Photograph of the author’s desktop

There’s an insidious type of writing mistake that arrives dressed as brilliance.

You reread the paragraph, lean back slightly, and think, Yes. This is sophisticated. People are going to notice this.

And they probably will. But maybe not in the way you’re hoping.

These mistakes feel like progress because they look like writing. They seem to convey depth, intelligence, emotional weight. In reality, they’re doing the narrative equivalent of rearranging cutlery while the house quietly burns down.

I’ve made all of these mistakes. One or two repeatedly, as if hoping the third attempt might suddenly qualify as growth.

1. The Unwanted Biography

Your story pauses mid-stride and hands the reader a full character dossier.

A character does something interesting, and instead of letting curiosity breathe, you explain everything, their childhood, deep psychological wounds, formative lessons possibly involving a dog.

It’s thorough. It’s also where momentum goes to die.

Readers don’t want total understanding. They want pieces they can assemble. The illusion they’re clever enough to connect the dots. The moment you explain everything, you close the loop. And curiosity walks out the door.

2. The Accidental Lecture

You did the research. You suffered for it. You now know things. Naturally, you’d like to share. So the story slows. Characters begin speaking in paragraphs suspiciously similar to your notes. The plot waits while you demonstrate competence.

The problem isn’t the research. It’s the performance.

Good research is invisible. It holds the world together without stepping forward for applause. The moment the reader notices how much you know, they also notice the story has stopped.

3. Over-Explaining Feelings

“He was furious.”

“She felt devastated.”

These are all clear, efficient, and emotionally dead.

Trust your reader to detect emotion. When you label it, you flatten it. Kind of like describing a fire instead of letting the room burn.

There’s also a faint condescension in it. You’re not just showing what’s happening. You’re telling the reader how to feel, in case they were planning to think independently.

If a character says they’re perfectly fine while smashing a chair, we understand. If you tell us they’re angry, we nod politely and feel nothing.

4. Manufactured Curiosity

Cliffhangers are useful. I use them — maybe too often. But abuse is not. And I hope I manage to abstain from it.

The abusive version raises a question and then refuses to answer it. This is often done not because it strengthens the story, but because it might sell the next one.

This works once. After that, it feels like management.

Tension should feel like pressure building, not a conversation that keeps getting interrupted at the interesting part. If the delay doesn’t deepen the experience, it’s not suspense. It’s stalling with better lighting.

5. The One-Trait Character

This is the character who is, above all else, one thing. Gruff. Awkward. Brilliant. Reckless. And they’ll continue being that thing with admirable commitment, as though afraid you’ll forget.

People contradict themselves constantly. A character who doesn’t isn’t consistent. They’re unfinished.

Eventually, the reader stops seeing a person and starts seeing the label. At that point, you’re no longer writing a character. You’re maintaining a slogan.

6. The Case Study Character

This character experiences one defining event, and it explains everything. Every decision. Every flaw. Every reaction. It’s neat. It’s coherent. It’s suspiciously tidy. And definitely lazy.

Trauma shapes people. It doesn’t replace them. When it becomes the entire explanation, the character stops feeling human and starts feeling like a diagnosis with dialogue.

Real people are inconsistent. When your character isn’t, they stop surprising us. And that’s when we stop paying attention.

7. Consquence-Free Drama

Dramatic things happen. Nothing sticks. Arguments flare and vanish. Betrayals dissolve. Characters suffer briefly, then return to baseline as if the emotional weather has cleared. It creates activity without impact.

Readers notice. Not consciously at first, but they begin to relax in all the wrong ways. Tension drains because nothing has weight.

Drama only works if it leaves damage. Preferably the kind that makes future decisions worse.

8. Twist for Its Own Sake

A twist that exists purely to be a twist is cheap. It shocks. It startles. It works, sure, for about ten seconds. Then you think about it.

You realize it’s really just a gimmick that interrupts the story. A real twist redefines the story. It makes earlier moments richer. It feels surprising and inevitable, which is much harder and therefore worth doing.

Shock is loud. Depth lingers.

The Real Problem

All of these mistakes share the same ambition.

They try to skip the work.

They explain instead of implying. They display instead of integrating. They shock instead of building. They declare instead of earning. And they feel productive, which is why they’re dangerous.

Because the alternative (subtlety, restraint, patience) doesn’t feel impressive while you’re doing it. It feels like you’re holding back.

You’re not. You’re leaving space for the reader. Which is exactly where the story starts working. And yes, it’s slower. Less flashy. Occasionally frustrating.

But it does have one minor advantage. It works.

For more reflections on how to write a novel, and the self-publishing journey behind my ongoing series: The Andrew MacKay thrillers, visit my website. If you prefer listening, I listen to my mini podcast. Or you can visit my YouTube channel.

If you found this essay useful, here are two other pieces you might like:

• Lessons from Quantum Physics About Creating a Character

• Lessons Writing Hemorrhoid Ads Taught Me About Writing Fiction