There’s a particular moment in writing—a hush in the creative process—that separates the safe from the strange. You’re moving through a perfectly ordinary scene. A coffee shop. A quiet conversation. A walk home under fading streetlights. And then, from some stubborn, dazzling corner of your imagination, something impossible happens. Maybe the barista’s reflection doesn’t match their movements. Maybe the person on the street vanishes into a crack in the pavement. Maybe the stars rearrange themselves above your character’s head. You hesitate, your fingers pausing on the keyboard. You think, This is too much. And then, if you’re brave—or reckless—you say yes.
That impossible yes is where stories begin to shimmer.
The Courage to Cross the Line
The difference between a story that feels alive and one that simply works often comes down to risk. Not structural risk—not breaking the rules of grammar or pacing or point of view—but creative risk. Letting your story dip into the surreal or the magical or the deeply uncanny even when the setup is entirely mundane. That kind of risk requires you to trust something primal in yourself, to accept that the things you imagine are not just valid, but vital.
And it doesn’t mean you always know where it’s going. In fact, the most profound crossroads between the ordinary and the extraordinary often come from a moment of not-knowing—a flicker of impulse that you honor before logic has a chance to shut it down. You don’t stop to explain why the shadows are speaking to your protagonist. You just write it. Later, you might unravel the why. But in that moment, you say yes to the impossible.
The Strange Inside the Familiar
There’s something deeply human about the contrast between the real and the unreal, especially when one slips quietly into the other. Readers are deeply familiar with their own routines, the quiet repetitions of daily life. When something otherworldly intrudes into that space, it strikes a chord—sometimes thrilling, sometimes terrifying, but always memorable.
Think of a character receiving a letter from a version of themselves that doesn’t exist yet. Or a story where grief opens a literal door to another world. These ideas don’t just live in the extraordinary; they come alive when set against a backdrop of absolute familiarity. The juxtaposition makes both elements more powerful. The more grounded the setting, the more jarring and potent the magical becomes.
This is where you—the writer—make your stand. Do you cling to plausibility, to the laws of logic and realism? Or do you lean forward, following the current into that strange, glowing place your story wants to go? That decision, every time, is a choice between control and curiosity. It’s the place where so many writers back away. But it’s also where your story starts to breathe.
