Writing workshops love rules. "Show, don't tell." "Never use adverbs." "Don't start with weather." "Avoid passive voice." "Kill your darlings." "Write what you know."
These rules sound authoritative. They're easy to remember. They give new writers something concrete to follow. And they're taught as gospel truth by writing instructors who should know better.
Here's the problem: they're not rules. They're guidelines that work in some situations and fail spectacularly in others. Following them blindly makes your writing worse, not better.
Let me explain what these "rules" actually mean, when they're useful, and when you should ignore them completely.
"Show, Don't Tell"
What it means: Instead of telling readers how a character feels, show their feelings through action, dialogue, and physical response. Don't write "Sarah was angry." Write "Sarah slammed the door so hard the frame cracked."
Why it's taught: Because new writers tend to summarize emotions and skip past the good stuff. They write "John was devastated by his father's death" and move on, when that moment deserves a scene that lets readers feel the devastation with John.
When it's good advice: For important emotional moments. For scenes that matter to your story. For conflict and tension. These are the moments that engage readers—show them.
When it's terrible advice: For transitional information. For unimportant details. For anything that would slow your pacing if you dramatized it.
Example of good telling: "The next three weeks passed in a blur of meetings, revisions, and sleepless nights." You don't need to show three weeks of mundane work. Just tell us and move on.
Example of bad showing: Spending two pages showing a character making breakfast when the breakfast doesn't matter to the story. You're showing when you should be telling—or cutting entirely.
The real rule: Show the important stuff. Tell the connective tissue. Don't confuse the two.
"Never Use Adverbs"
What it means: Don't rely on adverbs to prop up weak verbs. Use stronger, more specific verbs instead.
The classic example: Don't write "He walked slowly." Write "He shuffled" or "He trudged" or "He crept."
Why it's taught: Because new writers overuse adverbs, especially in dialogue tags. "She said angrily" shows up on every page when the dialogue itself should convey the anger.
When it's good advice: When you're using adverbs as a crutch because you're too lazy to find the right verb. "Ran quickly" is lazy. "Sprinted" is better.
When it's terrible advice: When the adverb adds nuance that no single verb can capture. "He smiled sadly" conveys something specific that "He grimaced" doesn't quite capture. Sometimes you need the adverb.
The real rule: Don't use adverbs lazily. But use them when they're the best choice for what you're trying to say. Every successful author uses adverbs. Stephen King railed against them in "On Writing" and then used them throughout his novels because sometimes they're the right tool.
"Don't Start With Weather"
What it means: Don't open your book with a paragraph describing the weather, the setting, or the landscape. Readers don't care yet. Start with something that matters.
Why it's taught: Because amateur manuscripts frequently open with boring description. "The sun rose over the mountains, casting golden light across the valley..." Nobody cares. Nothing is happening.
When it's good advice: When your weather description is just filler before the story actually starts. If your real opening is on page three and pages one and two are just atmospheric description, cut pages one and two.
When it's terrible advice: When the weather is integral to the scene, creates mood, or matters to the story.
Example of a good weather opening: "The snow began at midnight, and by dawn the city was paralyzed." The weather isn't decoration—it's the inciting incident.
The real rule: Don't start with anything boring. Weather is often boring, but it doesn't have to be. Start with something that hooks readers, whether that's action, conflict, an intriguing character, or yes—even weather if it's compelling weather.
"Avoid Passive Voice"
What it means: Active voice puts the subject first: "John broke the window." Passive voice puts the object first: "The window was broken by John." Active voice is usually stronger and clearer.
Why it's taught: Because passive voice can be weak, wordy, and indirect. It distances readers from the action. "Mistakes were made" is bureaucratic nonsense. "I made mistakes" is honest and direct.
When it's good advice: Most of the time. Active voice is clearer, stronger, more immediate. Your default should be active.
When it's terrible advice: When passive voice serves your purpose better.
Good uses of passive voice:
• When you want to obscure agency: "The body was found at dawn." You don't want to say who found it yet.
• When the object is more important than the subject: "The president was assassinated." The focus is on the president, not the shooter.
• When you're creating a specific tone: Passive voice sounds formal, official, detached. Sometimes that's exactly what you want.
The real rule: Prefer active voice, but use passive voice when it works better. Don't twist your sentences into awkward constructions just to avoid passive voice.
"Kill Your Darlings"
What it means: Delete the parts you love most if they don't serve the story. Your favorite paragraph, your cleverest line, your most beautiful description—if it's not pulling its weight, cut it.
Why it's taught: Because writers fall in love with their own cleverness. They keep scenes that don't advance the plot, dialogue that's witty but pointless, descriptions that are gorgeous but irrelevant.
When it's good advice: When you're being honest about whether that brilliant paragraph is actually serving your story or just showing off.
When it's terrible advice: When you kill darlings that actually make your book better just because some rule says you're not supposed to love your own work.
The truth: Some darlings deserve to die. Some darlings are the best parts of your book. The trick is knowing which is which. If beta readers and editors love that scene too, maybe it's actually good. If only you love it and everyone else says it slows the pace, it needs to go.
The real rule: Kill the darlings that don't serve the story. Keep the ones that do. Your attachment to a passage is irrelevant. What matters is whether it makes the book better.
"Write What You Know"
What it means: Draw on your own experiences, emotions, and observations to create authentic characters and situations.
Why it's taught: Because authenticity resonates with readers. A writer who's experienced grief can write grief more powerfully than someone who's only imagined it.
When it's good advice: When it means "write truthfully about human experience, even in fantastical settings." Your readers have never been to Mars or fought dragons, but they've felt fear, loss, love, betrayal. Write those emotions authentically and readers will believe the rest.
When it's terrible advice: When it's interpreted literally. If you only wrote what you know from direct experience, you couldn't write mysteries (unless you've committed murder), fantasy (unless you've met elves), historical fiction (unless you're immortal), or pretty much anything interesting.
The real rule: Research what you don't know. Write honestly about human emotions and relationships. Don't let "write what you know" limit you to writing about middle-class writers living in suburban America.
"Never Use Filter Words"
What it means: Avoid words that create distance between the reader and the experience: saw, heard, felt, thought, wondered, realized, knew.
The example: Don't write "Sarah saw the man approach." Write "The man approached."
Why it's taught: Because filter words create unnecessary distance. In deep POV, we're in Sarah's head—of course she's seeing it. You don't need to tell us she's seeing it.
When it's good advice: When you're writing in close POV and the filter words are adding unnecessary distance. Cut them and the prose gets tighter, more immediate.
When it's terrible advice: When the filter word is doing specific work.
Good uses of filter words:
• To emphasize a character's perception: "She thought she heard footsteps" creates uncertainty that "footsteps sounded behind her" doesn't.
• To show a character processing: "He realized the door was locked" shows the moment of realization, which matters to the scene.
• To create deliberate distance: Sometimes you want distance. Not every scene is deep POV.
The real rule: Be aware of filter words. Cut them when they're adding nothing. Keep them when they're serving a purpose.
"Start With Action"
What it means: Hook readers immediately with something exciting happening. Don't ease into your story—grab them by the throat on page one.
Why it's taught: Because agents and readers make quick decisions. If your opening is boring, they stop reading. You need a strong hook.
When it's good advice: When your opening is boring and takes too long to get to anything interesting. If your story really starts on page ten, start on page ten.
When it's terrible advice: When "action" is interpreted as "car chase" or "explosion." Action doesn't mean violence. It means something interesting happening. A gripping argument is action. A character making a difficult choice is action. A reveal that changes everything is action.
Bad action openings: Starting with a chase scene or fight that we have no context for. We don't care about the action because we don't care about the characters yet. You haven't given us a reason to be invested.
Good action openings: Starting with tension, conflict, change, or a compelling character in an intriguing situation. The "action" is whatever makes readers want to keep reading.
The real rule: Start with something interesting. Define "interesting" based on your genre and story, not based on explosions and car chases.
"Every Scene Must Advance the Plot"
What it means: Don't include scenes just because they're fun to write or because you think readers need more background. Every scene should move the story forward.
Why it's taught: Because manuscripts are full of scenes that go nowhere. Characters have conversations that don't matter. Subplots meander. Pacing drags.
When it's good advice: When you're evaluating whether a scene belongs in your book. If it doesn't advance plot, deepen character, or build tension, why is it there?
When it's terrible advice: When "advance the plot" is interpreted so narrowly that you cut every scene that doesn't directly involve the main plot.
The truth: Scenes can advance the story without advancing the plot. A scene might:
• Develop character relationships
• Establish world-building essential to later events
• Build tension or dread
• Provide breathing room between intense action
• Deepen character motivations
These scenes serve the story even if they don't move the plot forward in obvious ways.
The real rule: Every scene must serve the story. That's not the same as advancing the plot. But if a scene doesn't do anything—doesn't advance plot, deepen character, build tension, or give readers something valuable—cut it.
The Pattern Behind All These Rules
Notice what all these rules have in common?
They're responses to common problems in amateur writing. They're useful training wheels. They help new writers avoid obvious mistakes.
But they're not laws. They're guidelines that work most of the time but fail in specific situations. And writers who follow them blindly end up with technically correct prose that's bland and lifeless.
Good writing breaks rules constantly. It breaks them intentionally, for specific effects, when the situation calls for it. Bad writing either doesn't know the rules exist or follows them so religiously that every sentence sounds the same.
How to Actually Use Writing Rules
Learn the rules. Understand why they exist and what problems they're solving.
Apply them as defaults. Most of the time, showing is better than telling. Most of the time, active voice is stronger. Most of the time, specific verbs beat weak verbs plus adverbs. Use the rules as your starting point.
Know when to break them. When passive voice serves your purpose, use passive voice. When an adverb captures something no verb can, use the adverb. When telling is more effective than showing, tell.
Trust your ear. Read your work aloud. If it sounds stilted or awkward because you're following rules too strictly, break the rules. Natural, effective prose matters more than technical correctness.
Focus on what works. The only rule that matters is: does this serve the story? Does this create the effect you want? Does this engage readers? If yes, do it. If no, fix it.
The Bottom Line
Writing rules are tools, not commandments. They're useful when they help you write better. They're harmful when they make you second-guess every sentence or twist your prose into unnatural constructions.
Successful writers know the rules. They use them. They also break them constantly, because they understand that serving the story matters more than following guidelines.
Stop asking "Is this allowed?" Start asking "Does this work?"
That's the only rule that actually matters.
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