Scene and Heard

I love setting up a new scene. I really do. It’s exciting. A new scene pops into my head and I get this tiny buzz. And apparently, heaps of writers feel the same way. 

Yay, a new scene!

So why on earth do we put off starting it?

I see this in my ghost writing and editing. I absolutely see it in my own writing too. When I delay, tidy a drawer, wipe down a bench, put a load of washing through. I know the scene is there. I know I want to write it. And yet I suddenly find the urgent need to organise my inbox or alphabetise the spices.

Why do we play this strange game?

Is it a lack of confidence?
Is it fear of getting it wrong?
Is it that we aren’t completely sure of the start, the middle, or the end yet?
Is it that sneaky bully voice hinting that the scene might not be engaging enough?

Most of this procrastination is fog. Creative static. And your way through it is much simpler than you think.

Here are some friendly, practical, get-you-moving tips for slipping into your next scene so you (and I, let’s be honest) stop avoiding the fun part and actually write.

Give your character a tiny physical action. Something ordinary. Light a match. Tie a shoelace. Wipe hands on jeans (though jeans wiping is the one I tend to over-do). Pick hay out of hair. These small movements create momentum and momentum creates scenes.

Let someone interrupt. A knock. A shout. A dog barking. A drawer slamming in the next room. Any interruption adds instant energy and helps you land in the scene without overthinking how to begin.

Start in the middle. You do not need the perfect opening to get going. Sometimes the middle is a good place to be. You can always create the opening once you better know the scene.

Give yourself a break! This is just a draft, for goodness sakes. A warm-up. You are not marrying this scene (thank God!). You are testing out how it feels. Give yourself permission to write badly. Bad writing turns into good writing.

THIS ONE IS REALLY GOOD! Put someone under pressure. Any kind of pressure. Late for something. Nervous about something. Trying to hide something. Trying not to cry or shout. Pressure creates energy and energy pulls you forward. 

So open a page right now and get going. Start your scene. Don’t wait for the perfect line to arrive on a cloud of brilliance. It won’t. Just start. We’ll dig into more scene-making mischief in next week’s blog, but please don’t put this off. Your scene is sitting there tapping its foot, waiting for you.

And if you feel like a little extra company while you learn to slip into scenes, our upcoming two-hour Scene Craft Clinic will do you the world of good. No pressure, just a creative boost and a good group to write alongside.

February 17 – The Art of Scene

Learn how to mix showing and telling without breaking into a sweat. Create deeper, juicier scenes. The idea is you’ll enjoy writing your scenes as much as readers will enjoy reading them.

Time:
• Sydney: 7–9 PM
• Brisbane: 6–8 PM
• London: 8–10 AM
• Europe (Central): 9–11 AM

Cost:
Early Bird: 99 AUD (if booked two weeks prior)
Standard: 120 AUD for a 2-hour Zoom session

Full Clinic Bundle

If you’d like a writing 2026 that feels solid rather than wildly improvised, this bundle is your new best friend. You’ll grow your skills, boost your confidence and hang out with some really fun writers. All four 2026 Craft Clinics for 420 AUD and save 60 AUD. (The Price will automatically go to your currency on our website).

In more news:
A huge thank-you to Sjoukje Neil for sending in her beautiful piece. It’s a pleasure to share her work with the Art of Writing community.

For those considering submitting, we’d be delighted to read your work. Whether it’s a brief insight, a creative spark, or a work-in-progress, your contributions help keep the Art of Writing community on fire! Keep writing and send in your work. We really do enjoy reading your bits!

The Empyreal Coat

Sjoukje Neil

Cal looked down at the torn and ragged dress in front of her. The colour drained from her face and she felt herself go cold. Freezing cold. Lips pressed tight, she surveyed the carnage. Alli hovered in the background, wringing her hands, but all Cal could see was The Dress. 
       The Dress upon which she had spent so much time. The Dress on which she had spent so much love and effort. The Dress… She couldn’t think. The flame red silk had been ripped along the seams, leaving the fabric frayed and tattered. Along the bottom hem, clearly a heel had gone through the back of it and halfway down the skirt was a suspicious stain. She didn’t even want to think what that might be. Many of the tiny satin covered buttons that closed the back of the dress, that she had lovingly hand covered and stitched, were either ripped away, or left hanging by a thread, and the tricky loops which had taken so much time to create, also hung limp and torn.  The Dress on which she had spent so much of her desire for Allie to do well, to be the person she wanted to be. All destroyed in a single evening’s carousing and debauchery. 

Allie was speaking but she could not hear her.  

‘Get out.’  

Her voice was flat and deadly calm. 

Her sister did not hear her and carried on. ‘I know it’s in a bit of a state but, Jay,’ and here she simpered, ‘He was so insistent and, you know, those big brown eyes and…’ 

‘Get out.’  

Stronger this time, deadlier. 

‘What?’  

Allie looked surprised that she’d been interrupted. 

‘Get out!’  

Cal picked up the nearest object to her and threw it at Allie, missing.  

‘Get out! You, you, selfish, uncaring, thoughtless bitch!’  

This time, the sample box made a direct hit on Allie’s startled shoulder.  

‘You, self-obsessed, self-centred cow!’  

‘Ow!’ This time, the stapler, a nice heavy metal one which had come from their mum, found its mark. 

‘I never want to see you again! Ever!’  

Now Cal was crying, hot salted tears coursing down her face.  

‘I’m sick of it! Sick of it!’ Another missile lurched its way across the room, missing this time.  

‘It’s always you! Always Allie this, Allie that! Allie must have the best. Allie must have a childhood. Don’t let this damage Allie!’  

She sobbed, a massive gulping wrench from the pit of her belly.  

‘Well, what about me? What about me? Always you. Always what you want. No more, I tell you! I’m sick of it! Sick of it! Get out!’  

More missiles followed, most missing, and now Cal was throwing things on the floor, sweeping the worktables clear like a jilted wife might go through her husband’s study. 

Allie stood, open mouthed, face white. 

‘I think you’d better go,’ said Bobby quietly. ‘I think she needs some space.’ 

‘Right.’ Allie took another look at her sister, just ducking in time to miss a very large pair of shears which came hurtling through the air. 

‘Now,’ said Bobby. ‘It’s getting dangerous in here.’ 

 

It took Cal the best part of the following day to restore the workshop to its usual well-ordered state. Ashamed of her outburst, she moved slowly through the shambles of sewing stuffs, tools and fabrics, rewinding braids, untangling threads and smoothing out creased materials. But the shame that she felt at losing control, was nothing compared with the hard, still core of icy anger that inhabited her. Never more. Never again. No longer would she be Allie’s patsy, personal slave, facilitator and enabler. She’d been taken for granted just one too many times.  

Bobby had stood quietly by the door of the workshop once the shell-shocked Allie had left, watching quietly for a minute or so as Cal pulled things off the shelves, shouting to herself, ‘I’m done! I’m done! That selfish bitch! That cow! I hate her! I hate her,’ then stepping forward to gently pull a roll of muslin from her hands to set it on the worktable. Cal sank to the floor, sobbing in great gasps of air and mumbling incoherently. Bobby pulled a pack of tissues from her back pocket and handed them to her in silence and then stood watching as the storm washed over her friend and left her weak and exhausted in a heap. Still without a word, Bobby leant forward to take Cal’s hands and help her up.  

‘I’m sorry,’ hiccoughed Cal. 

‘Nothing to be sorry for. She had it coming.’ 

‘I shouldn’t have…’ 

‘Actually, yes, you should. Allie’s been taking advantage of you for years and it’s about time you stood up for yourself.’ 

Cal sniffed.  

‘Really?’ Another hiccoughing half sob.  

‘Look at what she did to you over the XX. And the yy. And what she’s done to Henry.’ 

Cal gave a small nod, agreeing, but in her heart of hearts, she felt a small, sick, twinge of guilt. Wasn’t she responsible for Allie behaving this way? Wasn’t it she who had failed in Allie’s upbringing? Who had enabled this behaviour over years? 

Bobby was matter of fact now. 

‘Allie is a lying manipulative bitch and it’s about time you saw that for yourself. And you need to set some boundaries. She walks all over you.’ 

Cal had her eyes scrunched as if in pain, grimacing. She opened them a little. The workshop looked like a troop of whirling dervishes had chosen to stage their ceremony there with no regard for any of the previous objects contained therein. Precious fabrics lay scattered, braids and decorative ropes unravelled across the floor, and sharp objects such as scissors and pinking shears were distributed randomly across the room. Two of the mannequins on which Cal was pinning her toiles lay askew in front of the window. She moved to pick them up. 

‘Leave it for the moment.’ Bobby’s tone was gentle. ‘Let’s go home and take a moment. It will all still be here tomorrow. 

‘Yes, but I need to clear it…’ 

‘Leave it,’ said Bobby firmly, handing Cal her coat. ‘We can clear it in the morning.’ Cal acquiesced and allowed herself to be led out. 

‘I can’t believe I did that.’

It was time for Allie to stand on her own two feet.