When I sit down to write a book, I’m not just thinking about plot beats or external events. I’m thinking about the emotional journey — the deeper thread that gives the story its heart. Even though my books are only loosely connected through themes or a few shared characters, each one has its own emotional shape. That shape is what makes the story feel satisfying, grounded, and complete.
For me, a book isn’t just a sequence of scenes. It’s transformation. And I structure that from page one.
Before I outline anything, I ask what the character is struggling with internally. Maybe they’re afraid to trust. Maybe they’re carrying a wound they’ve never named. Maybe they’re trying to figure out who they are now that life has changed. This emotional question becomes the backbone of the book. Everything else — the romance, the friendships, the setting — grows from it.
I had to know that Morgan was struggling with a deep-seated belief in Ashes that she had ruined the best relationship she would ever have so I could have her develop a self-sabotaging pattern. I had to know that Lacey in Good in Theory has a belief that everything is fleeting, so she pushes herself to succeed as quickly as possible. It leads to her white-knuckling life, trying desperately to control things on her own timeline.
But characters (and real people) don’t walk around announcing their wounds. They show up in behaviors, so I let the characters’ emotional patterns speak for them:
- the way they avoid vulnerability (Tara)
- the way they overcompensate (Lacey)
- the way they keep people at arm’s length (Tara again)
- the way they pretend everything is fine (Morgan)
These patterns create the starting point of the emotional arc, but the middle of the book disrupts the old story. That’s where they start wondering if something needs to change. My characters grow through:
- small moments of connection
- unexpected kindness
- conversations that hit a little too close
- situations that challenge their assumptions
- people who see them more clearly than they see themselves
These subtle moments accumulate to nudge the character toward change.
Real change isn’t linear; it’s messy, which is sort of the point. So I let my characters:
- backslide
- doubt themselves
- retreat into old habits
- resist the very thing they want
The emotional tension lives in these tug‑of‑war moments between who they’ve been and who they’re becoming. But, it’s important to remember that the turning point is always the character’s choice. It can’t be forced on them, or they don’t have a true transformation that sticks.
They choose honesty over avoidance. They choose connection over fear. They choose to believe something new about themselves. And that choice is the emotional climax of the book — the moment where the internal arc clicks into place.
For Tara, it took a lot of nudging, but she finally sees that her dad saw her for who she truly is and that it’s ok to be imperfect and real. Yes, she’s very awkward socially, but that’s one of my favorite things about her, and it is something that draws Hector to her. And his presence, in turn, lets her drop her guard and truly be herself, which I love because she’s hilarious. Her book was a blast to write!
By the final chapters, my characters all figure that out, and it helps them become a truer version of themselves. The romance or relationship deepens because the character is finally able to show up fully. And, bonus, the ending feels satisfying because the emotional question that opened the book has been answered.
A well‑structured book is plot and heart. That’s what I aim for every time: a story that feels like a gentle, meaningful emotional journey, even if the world around it is feels a bit like a hurricane. Because even the toughests emotional arcs can end with a kiss in the rain.