The Flinch Test

The first scene I wrote where I knew I’d captured it: Kehoe House scene.

When I wrote to her, realizing she had chosen the easier victim instead of the one she loved, the moment made me sick to my stomach.

That’s how I knew it was honest.

From there, the rest of the book followed one rule: if it didn’t make me flinch, it didn’t belong.

Shock is cheap. Fades as soon as you turn the page. Discomfort lingers because it’s tied to recognition. You see something of yourself in it, even if you wish you didn’t.

When I write, I ask one question: Does this hurt for a reason, or am I trying to prove I’m fearless as an author?

If the scene exposes a truth about a character’s love, fear, or self-delusion, the discomfort earns its place. If it exists only to jolt the reader, it goes away.

Pain, when it’s honest, creates intimacy between the reader and the story.

Layla