Welcome to the Potter Letters! In today’s first edition, we’ll take a deep dive into the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. For more information about the project, click below.

The Potter Letters FAQ

The Harry Potter series is known for its magical world, but it doesn’t open with it. Rather, it opens with the ordinary world and a very ordinary man named Vernon Dursley.

The first chapter, “The Boy Who Lived,” functions more like a prologue—and I believe Rowling first planned for it to be one.

But even for a story with such a weird and wonderful world, opening with the ordinary world makes surprising sense.

Let’s dive into the chapter today…

What does the chapter accomplish?

A man named Vernon Dursley notices odd things happening and fears it’s related to his in-laws he never discusses. Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore, a wizard, brings Harry Potter, who survived an attack by notorious dark wizard Voldemort, to live with the Dursleys.

The chapter mostly functions are setup through three key areas I discussed a while ago: characters, stakes, questions.

Characters

The first half of the chapter is from Vernon Dursley’s perspective. We see him as uptight, ordered, and obsessed with normalcy. Consider the hilarious opening line:

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Normalcy and pride are the first things you hear about the Dursleys. But look closer, and there are a few subtle clues in this opener—and they have to do with their street address:

• Number Four: Four is traditionally a number that represents stability and order.

• Privet Drive: This was named after the privet plant, which is a common garden shrub in England and almost synonymous with suburbia. Moreover, Rowling wrote on Pottermore that the privet plant usually separates houses, so it symbolizes the Dursleys’ desire for normalcy and isolation from the magical world.

And as the chapter progresses, we see more about Vernon: he works an ordinary job, he willfully tries to ignore anything odd he sees, and he’s terrified of being associated with anything abnormal.

He’s exactly the type of person who would not mix well with the magical world.

And about halfway through the chapter, the magical world comes to his house:

Albus Dumbledore walks onto Privet Drive, and the ensuing scene introduces him and two other magical characters: McGonagall and Hagrid.

The scene shows us that Dumbledore is quirky and humorous but commands respect. He wears eccentric clothing (including high-heeled boots) and jokes of his favorite candy.

McGonagall, by contrast, is ordered, much like Vernon. She’s described as “severe-looking,” “wearing square glasses,” and with a “tight bun.” She expresses consternation that other wizards are celebrating when they risk exposure.

And then Hagrid enters the picture. Even before he appears, we get one clue: McGonagall asks if he should be trusted with something as important as collecting Harry Potter. We already get a sense that he is possibly careless.

And then when he does show up, we see a man of contradiction: he looks like a giant, but he expresses emotion openly.

Stakes

The true stakes of the Harry Potter series aren’t necessarily introduced in this chapter, but we get some minor stakes:

We see the tension between the magical world and the ordinary world. Harry from the magical world is going to enter the ordinary world. We intuit that this will cause conflict.

Questions

Based on the stakes, we have one main question: How will Harry fit into the ordinary world?

But under that is a more important story question, voiced by McGonagall: How did Harry survive Voldemort’s attack?

That question will drive the entire series, and it’s right here in the beginning.

Deep Dives

Now that we’ve established what the chapter does, let’s take a closer look at a few key parts of it: names and literary allusions.

Name as Character

Rowling has a gift for naming characters, and we see a few examples in this first chapter. But more importantly, this chapter establishes an undercurrent in the whole series:

Names are important.

We already learn that people are not using Voldemort’s name, referring to him as “You-Know-Who” instead. This will be crucial.

But Voldemort’s name is only one of three key names we should discuss:

First, there’s Harry Potter, the “everyman name.” But it’s also a surprisingly powerful name. Harry is a derivative of Henry, which is the English version of Heinrich, which literally means home ruler. Harry is destined to be a leader. And Potter? A common name. A ordinary boy thrust into leadership.

Scholar John Granger has suggested that there is more to the name Potter, however, noting that potters make sculptures out of clay, much like God created Adam out of clay. Keep this in mind.

Second, there’s Albus Dumbledore. We get his full name later on, but let’s focus on the first and last names. Albus means white in Latin (file this thought away for later). And Dumbledore is 18th century word for bumblebee.

Third, there’s Voldemort, which means “flight of death” or “theft of death” in French. It’s genius that it’s deliberately vague because one of these interpretations is very on-the-nose.

Literary Allusion: Scars

In this chapter, we get a curious detail about Harry Potter:

He has a fresh, lightning bolt-shaped scar:

Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously-shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

As we see in this chapter, Harry’s scar is a mark of where the curse that failed to kill him hit him. Harry’s scar makes him instantly recognizable to other wizards and is a mark of his encounter with evil. (There’s a lot more to say, but we’ll save that for later.)

Moreover, Harry’s scar comes from a long inheritance of literary scars. Consider these examples and how they relate to Harry’s:

• Odysseus from The Odyssey has a scar from a boar attack on his foot that makes his nurse recognize him upon his incognito return to Ithaca.

• Oedipus from Oedipus Rex and Oedipus at Colonus has scars from bound feed and abandonment during infancy, making his scars reveal a personal traumatic history.

• Mina Harker from Dracula has a red mark on her forehead that symbolizes her contamination from Dracula’s blood.

• Captain Ahab from Moby-Dick has a curious rod-shaped scar with ambiguous origin running down his neck. It marks unnamed trauma in his past.

• Frodo from The Lord of the Rings has a lingering wound from when the Nazgûl stabbed him with the Morgul-blade. It pains him every anniversary of the attack.

In these examples, we see that Harry’s scar combines the identity marker of Odysseus, with the trauma of Oedipus and Ahab, with the location of Mina Harker’s mark, and with lingering reminder of an encounter with evil of Frodo’s wound.

In essence, then, Harry’s scar does what we will see with the entire Harry Potter series:

It cobbles together references from across literature (and mythology and folklore) in a way that augments the series’ themes.

And now, file these thoughts about Harry’s scar away for later.

If you’ve never read the rest of the series, skip the next section…

SPOILER ZONE: Look again at these two details…

There are two fascinating little details in this chapter, one that subtly reveals a potential clue and another that foreshadows part of Prisoner of Azkaban.

And they both have to do with names.

The first is the Muggle television newsman handing the mic over to “Jim McGuffin.”

McGuffin. It’s a derivative of “MacGuffin.”

And what’s a MacGuffin? It’s an object that propels the plot forward. Something everyone wants, even if the reasons they want it aren’t all that important. Here’s one of the most famous examples, the Maltese Falcon from the film of the same name:

I think it’s a funny little way of Rowling telling us the Philosopher’s Stone of the title of MacGuffin-esque.

The next little detail? It’s probably one you picked up on if you’re rereading:

Hagrid mentions borrowing the motorbike from Sirius Black. This will be hugely important in the third book, Prisoner of Azkaban, and it’s a little hint that Rowling (very likely) had the broad strokes of the plot set in stone as she was finalizing this chapter.

“The Boy Who Lived” Sets the Stage

So here we have it:

We’ve finished the first chapter of Harry Potter—and we already see how much work it’s doing:

Establishing character, setting up tension, opening questions, drawing on ancient literary traditions…the chapter is doing a surprising amount of work for what many write off as a simple children’s novel.

So share below:

What part of “The Boy Who Lived” surprised you most?

He could surprise us. Make us jump and cower in fear. Make us sit on the edge of our seats, wondering what will happen.

But Hitchcock didn’t create suspense using only one trick. Instead, he sometimes used opposite tactics to scare us.

Today, we’re going to dive into two of his most famous scenes to see how they created shock and dread.

The Psycho Shower Scene: Editing and Music as Assault

The shower scene in Psycho is one of the most iconic scenes ever filmed:

A woman takes a shower. A dark figure opens the shower curtain and begins stabbing her as violin strings screech. The figure leaves. The woman falls to the floor, motionless.

The scene is short but has about 50 different cuts, each lasting about half of a second. It’s rapid, an assault to the senses with the quick cutting and harsh violins. Many of the shots are close-ups of the woman’s face as her death dawns on her.

It is specifically designed to shock as much as possible.

What’s so shocking about this scenes is not only its violence (which is mostly implied rather than graphic) but also how it upends what the rest of the film had been setting up:

The first 40-odd minutes of the film follow this woman, Marion Crane, as she embezzles money to help her boyfriend. She stops at a secluded motel on her way out of the city.

Then we have this scene, and she dies. So we’re left thinking:

Where does the movie go from here?

Alfred Hitchcock gave us this by melding rapid editing, music, and the element of surprise.

The North by Northwest Crop Duster Scene: Editing and Silence as Dread

North by Northwest is a very different movie from Psycho:

Rather than overt horror or thriller, it’s an everyman spy movie. An ordinary man named Roger Thornhill gets caught up in espionage intrigue when he’s mistaken for another man. He’s abducted, escapes, and spends the rest of the movie trying to unravel the mystery.

At one point, Thornhill goes to a remote bus stop to meet the man the authorities think he is. He waits.

And then the scene slowly turns sinister:

What’s so different about this scene vs. Psycho’s shower scene is three elements:

1. The framing is wide. Instead of the close-ups of Psycho’s shower scene, we have long shots showing Thornhill surrounded by a whole lot of nothing. It underscores how alone Thornhill is in this tense situation.

2. The editing is slow. Over around 9 minutes, there are over 100 shots, each lasting about 4 seconds. We have room to breathe. And that room makes us tense. We think: What danger could be awaiting us?

3. There is no music. Instead we get diegetic sound (a fancy term for sound that exists in the movie’s universe). We get bus engine and then the low rumble of the crop duster as it moves closer and closer to Thornhill.

Shock versus Dread

While Psycho shocks us with those violins, North by Northwest gets under our skin and fills us with dread due to that menacing crop duster engine.

We saw in our last edition how language creates dread. This week, we see how framing, editing, and sound in visual media can create dread or shock.

But what the two films also have in common is a use of offscreen space. Specifically, both villains—the stabber in Psycho and the crop duster pilot in North by Northwest—are hidden. We don’t see them and don’t know who they are.

And that creates suspense as well.

It’s easy to analyze what you read. Reading forces us to take an active role.

But often, it’s harder to analyze what you watch. Why? Because when we watch, most of us sit back and take it in. We’re passive instead of active. We let whatever is on screen wash over us without understanding what it’s really doing and how it’s doing it.

But if you’re a reader of Word, Scene, Theme, you ask why sound and image have a particular impact on you. You fill in the offscreen space. You start to see between the words and images.

This is the start of being a conscious consumer.

Share below:

Which of these scenes gets under your skin more? Why?

The first phase of the Potters Letters will cover Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone in three separate waves.

Here’s when you can expect posts:

Philosopher’s Stone Reread

• Chapter 1: September 1

• Chapters 2-5: September 7

• Chapters 6-9: September 14

• Chapters 10-13: September 21

• Chapters 14-17: September 28

Philosopher’s Stone Movie Rewatch

This will be a one-off post that will release October 31.

Philosopher’s Stone HBO Series Analyses

We are still awaiting the full airing schedule, but assuming the series premieres on Christmas Day and airs episodes weekly on Fridays, here’s when I’ll be dropping my analysis of each episode:

• Episode 1: December 29

• Episode 2: January 5

• Episode 3: January 12

• Episode 4: January 19

• Episode 5: January 26

• Episode 6: February 2

• Episode 7: February 9

• Episode 8: February 16

The above will be modified once the final airing schedule is announced.

Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca is one of the best examples I’ve found. And once you unpack its opening chapter, it’s easy to see why:

Before du Maurier tells you anything about the plot or the setting or the characters, she makes you feel a sense of dread.

You might think you need to understand hardcore literary theory to understand the how classics like Rebecca do this to us readers, but that’s not true.

Today, we’re going to unpack how Daphne du Maurier created atmosphere and how you can learn to start seeing the technique in other stories.

Let’s dive in…

A Primer on Rebecca

Rebecca is Daphne du Maurier’s fifth novel and her second consecutive commercial success after her fourth novel, Jamaica Inn.

But Rebecca was—and remains—her most enduring work.

Rebecca centers on a young woman working as a lady’s companion for a rich, older American woman. She accompanies the woman to Monte Carlo, where she meets (and falls in love) with a rich widower, Maxim de Winter. They marry, and he brings her to his home, where she finds that the past is not really dead.

I won’t say more. But have you noticed something?

Did I ever mention the protagonist’s name?

No.

She doesn’t have a name—at least not one that is stated outright. And this is part of why Rebecca gets under your skin:

You only know the protagonist as I.

Here’s the book’s famous opening line:

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

I is there twice. The line is literally putting you right in the protagonist’s head—and, more specifically, into her dream.

The line is also written in iambic hexameter, which is to say six pairs of unstressed and stressed syllables. Read it again:

Last night I dreamt I went to Man-der-ley a-gain.

The steady da-dum, da-dum rhythm helps lull you into the protagonist’s dream.

The Dream as a Literary Device

These days, most editors balk when they see a novel open with a dream. It’s too cliché, they say. But du Maurier showed us how to open with a dream well:

Use it to frame the story and anchor tone.

By opening with this particular dream—in which the protagonist sees her old house in ruins—we know the main story is in the past. We know the book will show us what led to the protagonist having this particular dream about this particular house. The dream is a framing device.

But there’s more:

There’s a sense of dread that permeates every word.

So next, let’s look at several lines from the chapter that expose its main beats to see how dread unfolds.

Creating Dread, Drip by Drip

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

These nine words open many questions:

Why are we returning to Manderley? Why aren’t we still there? What is Manderley, after all?

I was aware a change had come upon it [the drive]; it was narrow and unkept, not the drive that we had known.

Here, we get a sense that something is different. The place—Manderley—is no longer the same as her memory. We’re starting to sense that there was a catastrophe. We also have a first hint that there is another character (“we had known”).

There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it always had been…

We’ve finally come to realize Manderley is a house that the protagonist used to live in.

The house was a sepulchre, our fear and suffering lay buried in the ruins.

More sense of dread. The protagonist is talking about fear and suffering that had happened in the past. Slowly, surely, we’re getting a sense that the main story will tell us exactly what this fear and suffering was.

In reality I lay many hundred miles away in an alien land, and would wake, before many seconds had passed, in the bare little hotel room, comforting in its very lack of atmosphere.

This might be my favorite line in the chapter, especially the end. The “bare little hotel room.” It’s quite the contrast to the grand manor house she has been describing. And it’s “comforting in its very lack of atmosphere.” This little aside is almost an in-joke. Du Maurier knows she’s painted a sense of dread—even our protagonist is weary of it and enjoys a boring hotel room.

And then we have this final line of the chapter:

We would not talk of Manderley, I would not tell my dream. For Manderley was ours no longer. Manderley was no more.

The power of this line is that it is haunting:

The protagonist feels she cannot talk about Manderley or her dream. Why? What is holding her back? Clearly, something happened to the house and forced her and her unnamed companion out of it.

This line keeps you reading until the next chapter—exactly what a good chapter closing will do.

Next, I want to take a look at a specific device that creates so much dread.

Nature vs. Manderley: How du Maurier Uses Antithetical Imagery

The dream’s dread comes because du Maurier uses a powerful literary device:

Antithetical imagery.

This is when an author uses contrasting concepts to make a point. Here, the contrasting concepts du Maurier uses are:

1. Life: Using personification to give nature human traits

2. Death: Using death imagery to paint Manderley

It’s a battle between nature and the house. Nature is an invading army, attacking the ruins of Manderley. And nature is winning.

The antithetical imagery also makes the protagonist’s role in the dream almost appear helpless. She cannot overtake the vast army that is nature.

Here are a few examples:

Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long tenacious fingers. The woods, always a menace even in the past, had triumphed in the end.

Nature is given the feminine “her,” much like a human. She has fingers.

A lilac had mated with a copper beech, and to bind them yet more closely to one another the malevolent ivy, always an enemy to grace, had thrown her tendrils about the pair and made them prisoners.

The lilac, the copper beech, and the ivy are all human characters in a power struggle: lilac and copper beech against the ivy.

Nettles were everywhere, the van-guard of the army. They choked the terrace, they sprawled about the paths, they leant, vulgar and lanky, against the very windows of the house.

This might be my favorite example. Nettles as “vulgar and lanky.” I can almost imagine them leaning against the house, comfortable, as though they owned it.

By contrast, Manderley gets the death treatment: it is given the neutral pronoun “it.” Manderley is not human or alive. In fact, as we saw earlier, Manderley is dead:

The house was a sepulchre, our fear and suffering lay buried in the ruins.

Why Atmosphere Precedes Plot

The opening chapter works so well because atmosphere precedes plot. Nothing really happens in this chapter, but we get a sense that many (bad) things happened before.

Nowadays, authors are told their works must get to the action quickly. Show us something, anything, editors say. But authors like du Maurier could take their time:

They could create atmosphere. They could paint with words. They could instill a sense of dread that will permeate across the entire story.

Du Maurier signals to us exactly the type of story we’re going to get:

The type of story that is so compellingly readable because of the dread spilling over every page.

If a Story is “Atmospheric,” Ask Yourself This:

Next time you come across a story that gives you atmosphere before plot like Rebecca, start by asking yourself this:

Then look the details and description, as we did above. Look at the setting, imagery, POV, contrasts, timelines, framing devices, etc. See what they’re doing to make you feel something.

Then you’re on your way to becoming a conscious reader.

And if you want to get more out of the stories you’re already reading or watching, make sure you’re subscribed to Word, Scene, Theme. I break down the craft, ideas, and techniques that make great stories worth our attention.

Subscribe now

And finally, share below:

What’s one of your favorite atmospheric books?

The final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort.

But what if I told you that another (underrated) scene prefigured that one?

I’m talking about the Second Task in Goblet of Fire. The underwater one. (And probably the most underwhelming one.)

Why is it important?

To answer that, we need a little primer on the structure of Harry Potter…

Harry Potter as a Ring

The entire series of Harry Potter is structured as a giant ring. This is key to understanding the series and its themes.

Technically, this is called a chiasmus or chiastic structure. But we’re going to stick with calling it ring composition.

Here’s how to visualize it generally and in the series:

The series is structured in three sets of two books, with the middle one as the hinge. Take a look at this gallery to see some examples of mirrored scenes and themes in each pair:

The last image above shows us how thee fourth book relates to the first and seventh. After all, the fourth book is is center of the series—in more ways than one:

1. Its end—whenVoldemort returns—is the turning point of the plot

2. Harry sees a friend die and loses his innocence

3. Romance starts to figure into the story

4. The books become longer

And more. But let’s zoom in and examine the fourth book more closely:

What’s at the its center?

The Second Task.

Why the Second Task is so important

In Goblet of Fire, Harry unwillingly enters the Triwizard Tournament, a competition among students from three prestigious schools of magic.

Each school champion competes through a series of three tasks, meaning the Second Task is the middle task—and thus, the middle scene of the middle book.

As a reminder, we’ve established that the whole Harry Potter series is a ring and that means the center is important.

But you might be thinking…

What’s so special about the Second Task?

Let’s back up and look at the beginning and end of the series, then zoom back in to the Second Task.

“I open at the close”

This quote, from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, underscores a key point in any story:

The beginning and end matter.

In the Harry Potter series, what happens in the beginning and the end?

Sacrifice:

• In the beginning, Lily Potter sacrifices herself to save Harry. This kicks off the plot because her sacrifice gave baby Harry protection to survive Voldemort’s attack.

• In the end, Harry willingly walks to death, sacrificing himself to save the entire wizarding world (even if he returns later.)

So how do we see this in the Second Task?

The Second Task as Mini Sacrifice

If you need a refresher, in the Second Task, the competitors have had a friend or family member kidnapped, and they must swim deep into the Great Lake to rescue them.

The task is an odd one:

• It’s the only one where innocent bystanders are involved.

• It’s impossible for spectators or judges to witness anything because it happens underwater.

Water.

That’s the first part of why the Second Task is so important.

As we saw in our essay on Gravity (2013), water can symbolize rebirth. But it also symbolizes baptism, a rebirth of the spirit.

Harry enters the water of the lake and emerges a new person.

I’m not exaggerating.

Here’s what happens in the Second Task:

Harry reaches the hostages first. If he swum back with his hostage, he would have won the task and put himself firmly in first place in the whole competition.

But he doesn’t.

He worries about the other hostages. He fears if the others don’t come, the hostages will die.

So he waits. Two champions come and rescue their hostages. But the third never arrives. So Harry takes it upon himself to save both remaining hostages. He nearly drowns saving them, as his underwater breathing mechanism started lifting after an hour.

He sacrificed his standing in the tournament (and risked his life) to save others.

Of course, Harry later learns none of this was necessary, as the hostages would have been rescued at the end of the task.

The task, in other words, was training for Harry:

He practiced sacrificing himself for others.

It foreshadows his choice end of the series.

Story Structure Unveils Themes

This is why the Harry Potter series still resonates:

It has timeless themes wrapped up in a story structure that makes them apparent.

Even if you never thought about the Second Task this way, your brain still would have picked up on the themes of sacrifice because it’s in the beginning and end.

Rowling used this structure—and the paired themes in each set of matching books—to show us what’s important:

Sacrifice. Memory. Justice. Love.

If someone says the books are simple children’s books, point them here. There’s so much going on beneath the surface.

Learning ring structure is one of the quickest ways to level up your reading.

You’ll start seeing it everywhere—and it’ll make important themes stand out.

On that note, an announcement:

Announcing “The Potter Letters”

If you enjoyed this post, there’s a lot more to come:

I’m launching a new project called “The Potter Letters.” It’s a deep dive into the Harry Potter series and why it resonates. Unpacking ring structure will be a big part of it.

We start September 1 with a reread of Philosopher’s Stone and then pick up after Christmas with weekly analyses of the new TV series.

“The Potter Letters” is an opt-in section of Word, Scene, Theme. So if you want to receive those editions, you’ll need to update your settings.

Click below to learn more about the project and how to join:

Learn More about the Potter Letters

But with that great popularity has come great derision:

It’s a kids series, they say. It’s not that deep.

They’re wrong.

And that’s what the Potter Letters is here to argue.

What is the Potter Letters?

The Potter Letters is a project under the umbrella of Word, Scene, Theme.

It’s a deep dive into the storytelling of Harry Potter, focusing on the overall structure of the series.

We’re beginning with a deep reread of the first book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Then we’re taking a break and returning with weekly analyses of each episode of HBO’s new Harry Potter TV show.

Is it safe to read The Potters Letters if it’s my first time reading the books?

Yes! Most of post will be designed with first-time readers in mind. At the end of every post, there will be a section marked SPOILER ZONE, which will have discussion about events later in the series.

What’s the posting schedule?

For the first book reread, you’ll get emails from starting September 1 and continuing weekly on Mondays until September 28.

The Potter Letters will have a one-off post about the first movie on Halloween, and then the series will return after Christmas, with TV show editions dropping the Wednesday after each episode airs.

After that? We’ll wait and see. We might continue our series reread immediately or pace them before the release of each TV season (or both). You’ll help me decide.

Why should I opt in?

Since the Potter Letters is a niche project, you won’t receive the posts automatically as a subscriber of Word, Scene, Theme since it’s meant to be a general interest publication. I don’t want people not interested in Harry Potter receiving a deluge of Potter posts.

So if you want the Potter Letters, you’ll need to opt in, and then you’ll receive weekly emails whenever the project is active.

How do I opt-in?

If you’re not subscribed to Word, Scene, Theme, do that first:

Subscribe now

Once you’re subscribed, you’ll need to update your subscriber settings on Substack. Here’s how:

If you have a Substack account:

1. Log in to Substack.

2. Go to Settings → Subscriptions.

3. Select this publication: Word, Scene, Theme.

4. Toggle on “The Potter Letters” under your newsletter preferences.

If you don’t have a Substack account:

1. Open any email from me.

2. Click Unsubscribe at the bottom (don’t panic—it won’t unsubscribe you immediately).

3. On the Preferences page that opens, toggle on “The Potter Letters,” and save your changes.

Got other questions? Drop them below, and I’ll get back to you.

And I hope you’ll join us for the Potter Letters. See you September 1!

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• “The 3-D is spectacular.”

• “You must see this! It’s revolutionary.”

• “It’s a technical marvel. We’ve seen nothing like it before.”

And they were right.

But Gravity was always about something deeper than its effects or technical prowess.

And that something is hiding in plain sight almost right at the midpoint of the film.

It’s this shot:

Here’s what that shot tells us about what Gravity is really about—and why it continues to inspire.

Gravity as a Disaster Story

Up until that shot, Gravity was a disaster story:

Two astronauts are on a routine shuttle mission until debris careens into their ship, causing chaos.

Ryan Stone finds herself thrown into space. The film becomes a race against time for her survival. We hear her panicked breathing. We see her tumbling uncontrollably in zero-friction air.

And then the other astronaut saves her—at his own peril.

So Stone is now alone in space.

She journeys to the International Space Station, sheds her spacesuit, and floats. Here’s the full scene:

The scene is a quiet moment amidst what at that point had been a chaotic movie. It’s a moment of relief, a respite—a chance for us to pause with out main character.

But more than that, it’s a turning point for the movie.

Gravity as Rebirth

Look again at the shot.

Stone isn’t curled up in any accidental position. She’s curled up in the fetal position. And those dangling cords next to her look reminiscent of an umbilical cord.

This one shot is communicating an important point:

A new Ryan Stone is gestating. And she’s going to be reborn.

Because Gravity isn’t a really a movie about outer space, or physics, or space travel, or spacecraft.

It’s a movie about a person who regains the will to live.

Let’s take a closer look…

Ryan Stone’s Emotional Journey

At the beginning of Gravity, Ryan Stone is a broken woman:

She’s lost her daughter, and she’s finding it difficult to find any point in living.

(It’s all there in her name, too: Ryan Stone. Stone. Stony. Emotionless.)

Her journey in Gravity—from astronaut on a routine mission to survivor of catastrophe—helps her realize that she still wants to live.

Let’s look at it with this quick chart:

At the beginning, Stone is a woman full of grief, fear, and emotional isolation. She’s quite literally floating through space the same way she’s floated through life.

But after this shot, Stone changes.

She accepts the cards she’s been dealt. She has hope she can live. She feels human connection when she accidentally talks to the Inuit fisherman. And even in the moment when she feels hope is lost, she regains her hope and chooses to live.

She then chooses to make the perilous journey home.

Stone’s emotional journey pivots exactly at the shot we’re looking at. It’s the middle of the movie and the turning point in her story.

And, more importantly, the shot foreshadows the end.

Gravity’s Ending

If Gravity is a story of rebirth, it only makes sense for it to end with rebirth.

Ryan Stone was gestating in the International Space Station, and after crash landing on earth, she is officially reborn.

She lands in the water, swims up, and takes her first breath of air, much like a baby is born.

She crawls onto the dirt and slowly, stumbling, with every ounce of effort, she stands up and walks, much like a baby learns to walk.

The careful viewer would have seen this coming right with the umbilical cord shot. Cuarón told us exactly where his film would go.

This is what Word, Scene, Theme is all about:

In every edition, I unpack specific language, scenes, or themes in a great book, movie, or television show—and describe why they works so well.

If you aren’t yet subscribed, hit the button below to get future editions.

For now, I’m sending one deep dive into storytelling every other Friday. Join a community of curious consumers ready to think deeply about the stories that move us.

• Reading for pleasure has declined by over 40% since 2003

• The average adult checks their phone almost 200 times a day

• People spend an average of 47 seconds on one screen before switching to something else

One small solution is to reclaim conscious consumption:

To read carefully. To pay attention to what we watch. To learn from the greatest stories of all time instead of content we’ll forget about tomorrow.

This is why I created Word, Scene, Theme.

What is Word, Scene, Theme?

Word, Scene, Theme is a publication about great stories and why they work.

But more than that, it’s designed to be a community where you’ll learn to unpack what makes stories work alongside other conscious consumers.

What Will I Get from Word, Scene, Theme?

In each edition, you’ll get a thoughtful deep dive into what makes a great story—whether it’s a book, movie, TV show, play, or something else—tick.

We’ll discuss character arcs, visual storytelling, symbolism, story structure, adaptation choice, use of language, and so much more.

Word, Scene, Theme is structured in three pillars. Most editions will focus on one of them:

• In Word, we’ll focus on the language of storytelling. We’ll dissect prose, dialogue, poetry, and more—all with the aim of understanding how words shape story.

• In Scene, we’ll focus on specific scenes. We’ll see how they create meaning, expose themes, and more.

• In Theme, we’ll focus on the ideas beneath the surface. We’ll see how great works create meaning, how themes recur across centuries, and more.

My goal is to make you a more conscious consumer. A reader who sees beyond the words on the page. A moviegoer who wants more than cookie-cutter franchise films. A television watcher who actually watches instead of scrolling on their phone.

Join us.

A Note on Scheduling

As of now, I’m considering this launch of Word, Scene, Theme a soft launch, so expect essays every other Friday for the time being. The first one will hit your inbox this Friday, July 17.

And stay tuned for a special project I’ll be unveiling in September. Details coming July 31.

P.S. If you’re wondering why you’re receiving this newsletter, you may have subscribed to my old newsletter, Issa Writes. That newsletter featured a mix of writing advice, story breakdowns, and updates about my novel. I hope you consider sticking around for Word, Scene, Theme, which will be more focused in its scope.

As you may have heard, I recently wrapped up 30 threads in 30 days on X/Twitter. I did a brief intro to threads and why I took on the challenge on Wednesday.

But today’s newsletter is more personal:

I want to talk about what I learned during the thread writing process…

I set out on this 30-day experiment for one big reason:

To build my audience on X more.

For some context, I decided to do the threads because I had good luck with threads before I got pregnant with my daughter last year—before the nausea and the fatigue and all of that fun stuff destroyed my momentum as though I’d run into a tripwire.

(And if it needs to be said, the sacrifice was 100% worth it. My daughter is pure joy!)

I wanted to regain that magic. So I decided to do it:

30 threads in 30 days, one thread a day.

I knew it would going to be challenging because threads take work. I believed the work would pay off in audience growth.

But that didn’t happen.

30 days of slogging, and I gained 54 followers.

Paltry compared to the the 200+ followers I got from one viral thread last year.

But the experiment taught me ONE thing I want to dive into first…

The Lesson

I’ve been open about struggles with building an audience as a new mom.

I’m juggling full time work, building a brand—and trying to be a good mom and wife.

On top of that, I have a few minor health concerns I’m addressing, and one of my immediate family members is facing a major health struggle.

Suffice to say it’s a lot.

The pressure of the challenge forced me to carve out an hour (plus) a day to work on threads. Mornings became a scramble to get each one done and dusted (and posted) as quickly as I could after taking care of my daughter.

But I found the time.

And now that I don’t have a challenge forcing me to crank out content, my writing has taken another dip.

So I'm bullish on the idea of short-term challenges like writing 30 threads in 30 days.

They’ll show you that you can do it, that you can use these little sprints of work to help you meet your writing goals.

So the key takeaway is this:

I did it.

I can do it.

You can do it.

We can do it together.

Two Questions

With that said, I want to throw out two questions for you:

My Next Challenge

I am brainstorming additional 30-day challenges and would love your input on what you’d like to see me tackle next:

• X/Twitter Comments: 30 comments a day for 30 days, contrasted with 30 threads in 30 days to see which leads to better audience growth.

• Substack Notes: 3 Notes and 13 comments on Substack a day to grow this newsletter.

• Substack Posts: One newsletter post sent every day for 30 days to grow this newsletter. These would probably be short writing or story breakdowns.

• Novel Edits: Finish a round of edits of my novel in 30 days. My novel is currently sitting about 53,000 words, and I need to bump it up to about 70,000. So I’d need to add 15,000 to 20,000 in 30 days.

Vote Below:

Want to join me?

Within the next few months, I’m considering bringing some readers along for a 30-day writing challenge. TBD on what the challenge will be, but let me know if that's of interest at all.

I’m imaging a small group who’d all be working on the same writing challenge together, likely with weekly check-ins and some kind of forum to post questions and offer support.

If you are interested, please reply to this email or comment below let me know what you might be interested in seeing.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. Don’t forget to subscribe to this newsletter (if you aren’t already!) to get the full case study when it drops.

Subscribe now

The full case study will show you how I wrote threads, how I came up with ideas, and how the threads did.

I'm looking at a lot of data:

• Type of thread

• Hook

• Time posted

• Images

• First tweet impressions

• Second tweet impressions

…and many more.

P.P.S. When I wrapped up my 30 threads in 30 days experiment, I had 560 unread emails. I had to tackle them one by one.

The first newsletter I read was The Write Way by James Carran.

Carran’s work is a direct inspiration for me. If you like my writing philosophy and lessons, if you write for the sake of writing, if you love words, you’ll love The Write Way.

Subscribe here: https://www.getpaidwrite.com/subscribe?ref=yeW0EHy9bs

Full disclosure: this is my referral link. The Write Way is entirely free, but James is kindly offering special bonus content for people who refer others to his newsletter.

If you sign up with my link, send me a DM here or on X, and I’ll edit 500 words for you as a thank you to help make your writing sharper. It’s a double win for you!

As I mentioned in a post on Notes, I took a short break from Substack because I was working on another big project:

Writing 30 threads on X/Twitter in 30 days.

For anyone uninitiated, a thread is like a newsletter post in miniature:

It’s a series of tweets that follow each other, usually anchored about one big point.

Mine were a mix of writing breakdowns, listicles, personal stories, and writing tips.

And they take a lot of work:

Moreso than with Substack, X threads need to be short, punchy, and have a scroll-stopping image.

They must keep readers locked with each tweet.

I’m in the process of writing up a full case study of my threads experiment. But today, I’m showing you how threads work—and why they remind me of thriller novels…

A Thread: The Story of Concorde

This thread on the rise and fall of Concorde racked up nearly 5 million views.

Here’s the first tweet:

Why does it work?

Curiosity.

Words and phrases like “broke every rule,” “disaster,” and “untold story” make you have to know what you’re missing.

So you read on:

More facts. If you weren’t impressed by Concorde already, you are now.

And then you keep going:

This line is the key:

“And here’s where it gets crazy…”

By this point in a thread, it might start to lose readers. So the writer gives a tease—to tell readers there’s more to come.

And they use the ellipsis to show the thought is unfinished.

It’s a subtle and effective tactic.

Here are a few other examples of great threads hook that spark curiosity (and use that ellipsis):

When I think about it, threads operate like thriller novels in miniature:

Tweets are like short chapters. Each ends with a cliffhanger—or something else to keep you curious.

Let’s look at two novels as examples…

A Book: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Gillian Flynn’s story of the disappearance of a woman named Amy Dunne shocked readers (and moviegoers) 10 years ago.

Part of why it works is that it keeps you reading.

Little asides pique your curiosity, and you can’t put the book down.

For example, the first section of the first chapter ends:

I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage. What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?

Those last two questions function like the last line of a tweet:

They get you to keep reading the next one.

And then the chapter ends:

I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. By the time I’d gone twenty feet, my neck bubbled with sweat. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky. You have been seen.

My gut twisted, and I moved quicker. I needed a drink.

Why is Nick Dunne afraid of being seen? What made his gut twist?

So you turn the page.

A Book: The Sanatorium by Sarah Pearse

Another novel I want to recommend (with reservations) is Sarah Pearse’s The Sanatorium. I gobbled this book up right after my daughter was born. And while I wasn’t 100% satisfied with how the mystery was resolved, one thing is for certain:

Each chapter had me begging to read more.

Here’s how the prologue ends:

By the time he straightens, it’s too late: the gloved hand clamps over his mouth. Daniel can smell the stale mustiness of the glove but also the mask—the curious burnt-plasticky odor of the rubber, laced with something else.

Something familiar.

But before his brain can make the connection, something pierces his thigh. A single, sharp pain. His thoughts scatter; then his mind goes quiet.

A quiet that, within seconds, tips over into nothingness.

“Something else…something familiar.” Now you’re intrigued, too. What was the smell?

And why was this man targeted?

So you keep reading.

And here’s this week’s lesson:

Capturing attention is so, so important for writers of all kinds.

Want to write a page-turner? Want to stop the scroll and get people to read your content?

You must capture their attention. You must pique their curiosity. You must give them a reason to keep reading.

So study those thrillers and study those threads.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. If you’re serious about writing, there’s one newsletter I recommend you read.

When I wrapped up my 30 threads in 30 days experiment, it was the first one I caught up on—out of the 560 unread emails that had piled up.

It’s called The Write Way by James Carran.

Carran’s work is a direct inspiration for me. If you like my writing philosophy and lessons, if you write for the sake of writing, if you love words, you’ll love The Write Way.

Subscribe here: https://www.getpaidwrite.com/subscribe?ref=yeW0EHy9bs

Full disclosure: this is my referral link. The Write Way is entirely free, but James is kindly offering special bonus content for people who refer others to his newsletter.

If you sign up with my link, send me a DM here or on X, and I’ll edit 500 words for you as a thank you. It’s a double win for you!

In 1941, novelist Mary Jane Ward was admitted to a mental institution, where she spent nine months in treatment for schizophrenia.

And five years later, she turned her experiences into a semi-autobiographical novel.

In my attempts to cover great openers, I’m going to take a look into the first few pages of that novel today to unpack how it gets into the main character’s head.

A Book: The Snake Pit by Mary Jane Ward

The Snake Pit opens with a woman, whose name we later know is Virginia, sitting on a bench on the grounds of a mental institution.

But you wouldn’t know that from the first page.

The novel opens in media res, or in the middle of the action. Here’s the first page:

We see here that it opens without context. A doctor (we think) is asking Virginia if she hears voices. We don’t know why he’s asking—but we can guess.

And then we get some clues about her personality: she’s questioning him.

“You think I am deaf?” “It was hard to keep on being civil.”

We sense impatience and displeasure brimming underneath those words.

But as the narration goes on, we see more cracks:

Virginia doesn’t know who she is. She calls herself “she,” then she speaks to herself as “you,” and then she narrates using “I”:

It’s disjointed.

But it’s disjointed for a reason:

Ward is painting a picture of Virginia’s fragmented state.

As the novel unfolds, we get more clues about Virginia’s past and how she ended up the way she is. And we see that there is hope for her.

The Snake Pit arguably launched the mental institution novel. Sylvia Plath cited it as a direct inspiration for The Bell Jar, and critics have noted that elements of it are also see in Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

But while those books are well-know today, The Snake Pit isn’t.

Why?

Sadly, we don’t really know.

A Classic Pick: The Snake Pit (1948)

If you have heard of The Snake Pit, you’ve likely heard of the 1948 film adaptation starring Olivia de Havilland (that’s how I found the book).

Watch it for de Havilland’s spellbinding performance and the shocking depiction of treatments at the institution. It’s as powerful as the book.

A Resource: Three Rules of Point of View

As I mentioned before, Ward masterfully mixes POV to depict Virginia’s fragile state of mind.

POV can be a little tricky to nail down, which is why this article on its three rules is so helpful.

Of course, Ward breaks Rule 1, but as they say: you can’t break the rules until you know them.

So learn the rules, then break them accordingly.

Until next time,

N.J.

A couple of weeks ago, we talked about prologues and opening chapters. And today, we’re turning the tables and talking about endings.

Specifically, ending lines.

All this started when I got to thinking about the closing line of The Great Gatsby this week.

It has everything in 14 words.

So let’s dive in…

A Classic Pick: The Last Line of The Great Gatsby

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece ends with these 14 words. When you look at them closely, you see they cover two main parts of a great sentence:

• Beautiful writing

• Thematic writing

Let’s look at each separately:

Beautiful Writing

The last line uses two common literary devices:

Alliteration and rhythm.

We see alliteration in the repetition of the “b” consonant, creating emphasis and stickiness:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

We see rhythm in the pattern of stress and unstressed syllables. It’s close to (but not quite) iambic meter, where unstressed and stressed syllables follow each other like a heartbeat:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The stressed and unstressed syllables echoes the push and pull of the current Fitzgerald uses, which brings us to our next part of the discussion.

Thematic Writing

Fitzgerald uses the image of a boat in a current as a powerful symbol:

The boat represents humanity struggling to move forward into the future but getting swept back into the past.

It’s a symbol of how Jay Gatsby lived his life. And it makes for the perfect ending to the novel.

A Classic Pick: The Last Line of All Quiet on the Western Front

If you want another beautiful closing, look no futther than Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front.

I’m cheating a bit with quoting the last few sentences because they work so well together:

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.

A Resource: The Best Last Lines from Penguin Books

If you want inspiration, look no further than this list of the best closing lines from Penguin Books.

All right, what’s your favorite closing line?

Share below!

Until next time,

N.J.

I’ve often said writing is a hard, lonely pursuit.

I grew up not knowing fiction authors.

Sure, my dad is published—but his book is an obscure academic tome that basically has to be printed on demand. (And this is no knock on him—he’s extremely smart, and only people in his niche would read his book.)

But when you’re trying to break into a new field, you want to learn from people who’ve done it before.

I did this when I tried to break into media research: I signed up for a course that placed me in an internship at a large media company. Which then launched my (admittedly short) media research career.

But let’s turn back to fiction…

I’m lucky to live in a city with a thriving literary community. So when I saw an announcement for an indie book bash, I jumped on the opportunity. My husband and I brought our baby daughter and all her baby paraphernalia.

I chatted with all the writers at the book bash. I asked about their publication journey. The advice they had. What’s helped them.

But I want to zoom in and share lessons I learned from one:

She was at the book bash with—I kid not—at least two dozen of her books. Most were from one series. She was currently writing, I think, Book 18 of this 25+ book series.

And she was there handing out copies of the first book—and signing it—for anyone who signed up for her email list.

Genius.

So genius and so simple that I’m surprised more authors at the bash weren’t doing it.

If you think about it, handing out a free copy of the first book in the series functions like a digital lead magnet:

The reader gets something for free by providing the author with their contact information.

Then signing it adds a personal touch.

It’s a way to start building surefire fans. And once you have their email address, you can start emailing to keep building that relationship.

I spent some time speaking to this author and later spoke to her again at another in-person event. (And yep, I got the free book and joined her email address, which gives a free digital novella for anyone who doesn’t meet her in-person.)

She touted the benefits of self-publishing. And said that series are the way to go if you want to make money as an author.

So here I am, taking all the advice I learned from her and everyone.

My current work in progress is designed as a standalone novel.

But now I’m thinking…

If I want to make this author thing work, should I write a series next? I’d started some science fiction novels as a teen, and they had series potential. Dare I dip back?

It’s a lot to think about.

In the meantime, my first order of business is to get The House on Adams Street edited (again). And then strategize my publication plan.

Whatever happens, subscribers to Issa Writes will be the first to hear about it.

Until next time,

N.J.

Whenever someone asks which book changed the way I see the world, I answer Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death.

I first read it 10 years ago, and its core argument has stuck with me as though I read it yesterday.

Today, I’m sharing the trick it uses to make its argument stick…

A Book: Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death

In 1985, Neil Postman, an NYU professor and media critic, made an observation:

Television was causing us to amuse ourselves to death.

To be clear, Postman had no problem with television dramas.

But he had a problem with television turning everything else into entertainment:

• Politics

• Religion

• Education

• Public discourse

When we turn serious subjects into entertainment, we suffer.

But Postman explains it using shared cultural references—two dystopian books most readers are familiar with:

George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

Using the vocabulary of those two books, Postman makes an argument that Huxley—not Orwell—was right:

We’re not living in Nineteen Eighty-Four, where Big Brother watches and controls us.

We’re living in Brave New World, where we chase pleasure and amusement to our own ruin.

Using two famous books makes his argument much stickier.

Think about other ways people do this to make a point:

Calling anyone evil “Voldemort.” Using the three-finger Mockingjay salute from The Hunger Games in political protests. Playing the “Imperial March” from Star Wars to signify authoritarianism.

These examples are powerful because most people know exactly what they mean.

A Resource: Cultural References in Rhetoric

And that brings us to today’s resource, this simple primer on the subject:

What’s your favorite shared cultural reference? Share it below.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. Today’s edition was shorter than usual, but don’t forget I’ll be sending my monthly bonus edition Friday. You’ll hear about lessons I’ve learned from networking with an indie book author. Make sure you’re subscribed to get it when it drops.

I’ve made no secret in previous editions that I’m a massive Harry Potter fan.

So I’ve been following the news of the upcoming TV series closely. Recently, there were set leaks showing some of the cast filming scenes at the London Zoo.

It was the first look we had at the new Dursleys, and after seeing it, I felt inspired to reread the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, which opens, not with any magical character, but with the very Muggle Vernon Dursley.

So this week, let’s take a look at opening chapters…

A Resource: Your Ultimate First Chapter Checklist

When I attended a writer’s conference a few months ago, I attended a session on opening chapters.

As I sat there, I realized that the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t follow most common advice precisely.

But before we dive into the chapter, I want to point to you advice on writing opening chapters.

This series from Helping Writers Become Authors is brilliant:

• Part 1 (Hooking Readers) discusses opening with a brilliant first line, a curious situation, a domino to set up the main conflict, and a tonal hook.

• Part 2 (Writing the Opening Scene) discusses the main character and their goal for the scene, hints at the antagonist and introduces other important characters, and establishes the setting.

• Part 3 (Introducing Your Story) discusses how to introduce the protagonist, the main story goal, what the character wants, and the lie they believe. It also discusses how to build the “normal” world that the story will disrupt and how to foreshadow the story’s first plot point.

That’s a lot, so let’s boil it down to essentials:

A good opening chapter will establish character, setting, plot, and tone.

Now let’s turn back to Harry Potter…

A Chapter: “The Boy Who Lived” from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

This is the sentence that started a $25 billion franchise.

But what I’ve always found curious about the opening of Harry Potter is that it starts not with Harry but with his aunt and uncle. More specifically, it starts with his uncle—and not even his blood uncle but rather his wife’s husband.

For anyone who hasn’t read the book, the opening chapter is split into two parts:

• In the first, Vernon Dursley goes about a seemingly normal day, until he starts noticing odd things going on and whispers of the Potters. This establishes the book’s contrast between the normal Muggle world and the magical world.

• In the second, the scene pivots to Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid leaving Harry on the Dursleys’ doorstep after discussing what happened to the Potters. This establishes side characters, the antagonist, and hints at what is to come.

So let’s take each part one by one:

• Character: Most advice says to start with the protagonist. But Harry Potter doesn’t show up until the end of the chapter. And he’s a sleeping baby. Instead, the opening chapter fleshes out side characters: Vernon Dursley, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid. Small details in their interactions, like Dumbledore unsticking lemon drops, give hints about their personality.

• Plot: We learn that a baby defeated a terrible dark wizard and is off to go live with his aunt and uncle for safety. So the seeds of a continuing conflict are planted.

• Setting: We only gets hints of the magical world, but we learn it lives in parallel with the normal world. And we get a hyper-specific indication of the setting: Number Four, Privet Drive. An ordinary house on an ordinary street.

• Tone: The opening line, cited above, casts a whimsy and humorous tone. Vernon’s part of the chapter continues this tone—but becomes darker as the third-person limited voice gets into his paranoid head. Once the chapter pivots to Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid, the voice switches to a third-person objective narration, making the magical world appear distant and mysterious.

In the end, we see that the first chapter upends some conventions—the protagonist is barely present, after all—but masterfully plants other seeds to keep readers engaged.

A Classic Pick: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

Longtime readers will have guessed that Daphne du Maurier is my favorite author, so this week, I simply can’t ignore its haunting first chapter, which is one of my favorite pieces of writing. Ever.

The chapter establishes the character’s voice, hints at mystery and conflict, and sets an eerie tone.

Read it, and be swept away.

What’s your favorite opening chapter of all time? Share below!

Until next time,

N.J.

Some tales have stuck in our cultural consciousness. They form part of our shared vocabulary, even if we haven’t read the original work. Cinderella. Robin Hood. Frankenstein.

And then there’s Romeo and Juliet.

You see, last week, I went to see an outdoor production of Romeo and Juliet—well, the first half, at least (the baby needed to go to bed!)—and I enjoyed it more than I had in the past.

So let’s dive into Shakespeare this week…

A Classic Pick: Romeo and Juliet

For anyone under a rock, Romeo and Juliet is Shakespeare’s classic tale of teenage love and dueling families.

As I watched the troupe perform the first half last week, I was struck by how accessible the play is and how perfect its opening is.

So let’s dive into the prologue, which is a gorgeous sonnet whose 14 lines set up the whole play:

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

In a nutshell:

• The first four lines establish the setting and the conflict between families.

• The next four lines introduce the lovers from the warring families and their fate.

• The next four lines foreshadow more about how the lovers’ fate ends the conflict.

• The last two lines directly address the audience to bring them into the play.

The sonnet spoils the whole plot, giving us a taste of what we’ll see.

In just a few lines, we hear about a family feud and how two lovers from both sides of the aisle ended their lives—and thus ended the feud.

We see from the get-go that Romeo and Juliet will tell us how tragedy can make others overcome their differences. Romeo and Juliet is a romance, yes, but it also has this emphasis on the interplay between love and hate.

And it’s all there in the prologue.

A Web Series: Jules and Monty

Romeo and Juliet has been adapted to infinity. There’s Romeo + Juliet and West Side Story and even Gnomeo & Juliet.

But today, I’m going to focus on an obscure adaptation I’m confident few of you have heard of…

About a decade ago, there was a craze of adapting classic literature as vlog-type web series. The most famous was The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, a modern take on Pride & Prejudice.

Jules and Monty was a production of college students from Tufts University. While it’s not as polished as The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, it’s charming in its own way—and it says something about the timelessness of Romeo and Juliet that it could be adapted in this way.

Rather than using the backdrop of two warring families, Jules and Monty follows two warring fraternities at a university. The title characters tell their story through a vlog for a class project.

Check out the first episode and see how these students updated Shakespeare:

If there’s a writing lesson, it’s this:

Never forget that you don’t have to be original. The public domain is here for a reason, and we can always rework, remix, and take inspiration from the classics.

A Resource (or Two): The Culturist on Shakespeare and Timeless Tales

This week, I’m going to suggest you read two articles from The Culturist:

• This piece on where to start if you want to read Shakespeare (spoiler: Romeo and Juliet is a great place)

• This piece on why we keep updating the classics

So read them, read Romeo and Juliet, check out Jules and Monty, and let me know what you think.

What’s your favorite modern take on a classic? Share below!

Until next time,

N.J.

If you’re a writer, you’re in the business of persuasion—whether you know it or not.

• Write copy? You’re persuading someone to buy.

• Write fiction? You’re persuading someone to believe your story.

• Write research? You’re persuading someone to believe your findings.

If you want to understand how persuasion works, you should read Robert Cialdini’s Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion. It’s the playbook for persuasion and describes six foundational principles. After the jump, I’ll give a brief overview of them before diving into this week’s digest…

So here are Cialdini’s six principles of persuasion:

1. Reciprocity: People want to return favors.

2. Commitment and Consistency: People value when someone else chooses to commit to an action.

3. Social Proof: People want to see if other people have done what they want to do.

4. Authority: People trust experts or others in positions of authority.

5. Liking: People trust people they like.

6. Scarcity: People do not want to miss out on opportunities.

Let’s see these principles in action…

A Tweet: Kieran Drew’s Sales Tweet

This week’s example is a tweet that had me stop the scroll this morning:

A sales tweet from writer Kieran Drew. Click the photo to read the whole tweet:

[Before you ask, no, I’m not an affiliate for the program—I didn’t buy it myself!]

Let’s look at some of the lines to see the how he used the six principles:

Authority:

Over the past 4 years, I’ve sold 3,500+ digital products.

Commitment and Consistency:

So after hundreds of hours of iterating, I created a repeatable system to make it as effortless as possible.

Liking:

If you want more freedom in your business, you need an offer not tied to your time.

And I'd love to help you nail it.

Scarcity:

Productize Your Knowledge is available for just 7 more hours (until 8 pm BST tonight).

Reciprocity:

There are some great bonuses when you invest today

Social Proof:

Come see why 170+ entrepreneurs picked up the product here:

When you look at it this way, it’s simple:

Drew used the six principles of persuasion to perfection.

A Classic(ish) Pick: Super Size Me

Let’s shift gears and talk about this week’s classic pick.

I hesitate to call a 21-year-old film a “classic,” but here we are. This week’s pick is Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me (2004), a documentary with an irresistible premise:

Spurlock decided to eat nothing but McDonald’s for 30 days. If a server asked him if he’d like to “super size” his order, he’d agree.

And then he documented his life and health as both deteriorated during those 30 days.

Super Size Me led to several changes:

• McDonald’s introduced healthier food to its menu.

• McDonald’s removed the “super size” menu options.

• Consumers became more aware of the risks of fast food.

• Various states in the United States passed calorie label laws for restaurants.

So why did it work? Persuasion.

While Spurlock didn’t use all six principles as perfectly as Drew did, here’s what he did:

• Commitment and Consistency: Spurlock ate nothing but McDonald’s for 30 days.

• Liking: Spurlock’s everyman personality shone through the documentary.

• Authority: Spurlock didn’t rely only on his narrative; he consulted doctors and other experts to lend authority to his claims.

Importantly, much like Kieran Drew, Morgan Spurlock did something.

Drew showed that he’d created successful products before—so he’s equipped to tell you how to make them.

Spurlock ate McDonald’s for 30 days—so he’s equipped to tell you that you shouldn’t try it.

And both asked you to do something after reading or watching their content.

Which leads us to this week’s resource pick…

A Resource: Fr. Roderick on Calls to Action

I could have easily chosen Influence as this week’s resource, but it’s almost ubiquitous. Instead, I want to share something shorter:

This Substack post from Fr. Roderick Vonhögen.

Fr. Roderick, a Catholic priest and media commentator from the Netherlands, succinctly explains the basics behind good calls to action and how you can persuade people to take action.

So take the lessons learned in this week’s roundup, and go start influencing the world.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. You thought I’d leave you without a call to action? This week, I’ll ask you one simple question:

What’s the most persuasive piece of writing you read this week? Share it below.

I recently pitched my novel to two agents while suffering from a bad headache.

Anyone who’s had regular headaches knows the feeling. The pain that creeps up. The pounding feeling. The brain fog that won’t clear to let you think.

I had woken up with the headache that morning and still braved the hourlong drive to the writing conference I’d signed up for because I knew it was an opportunity not to be missed.

A few hours later, I parked my car and checked in for the conference. I attended a session and found myself looking at the time.

The minutes crept by, and my first pitch session was arriving faster and faster…

So I got up and walked over to the agent when the time came. She was friendly and bubbly. Her smile and introduction put me at ease.

But I still felt the pain encircling my head.

Mentally, I knew what I had to do. I had to put my best foot forward. I had to make my book interesting.

I told myself, You’ve got this. You wrote the book. You know you have something.

I put the pain aside. I got through my pitch. I described the inciting incident, the characters, the overall story, the comparable titles—whatever I was supposed to get through.

And then at the end, I said, “And I almost forgot to mention I have a PhD and academic publishing experience on both sides of the aisle, as a writer and editor at a journal.”

The pitch was a success. The agent requested to see the first 50 pages of the book—and told me I should center my academic experience in future pitches because it differentiates me.

And just like that, my nerves evaporated. I felt confident. Even the pain of the headache couldn’t stop me from smiling.

And then a couple of hours later, I found those nerves creeping up again as I sat in front of the second agent.

This time, I stumbled over my words. The pain was getting to me more and more.

But I got through it. I pitched. And the agent requested to see the first two chapters.

While I kicked myself for not doing a better job at the second pitch, the experience taught me that I can do this.

I can pitch in person. I can sell my story well.

And most importantly, I belong.

Because as I’ve been making the pivot to (hopefully, eventually) becoming a fiction author, I often struggled to imagine myself belonging in that world.

Pitching my novel to two agents was a crucial step for me along the way.

So never forget:

You miss 100% of the shot you don’t take.

I could have let my headache stop me from going to the conference and pitching. But I didn’t.

I don’t know what will come out of the agent pitches. But I do know I don’t regret doing them.

Because I learned how to position myself. I learned that yes, indeed, there’s something interesting to others in the book I’ve written. And I learned that I belong.

And that means the world.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. I’m still accepting clients for my Clear Writing Launchpad. If you struggle with clarity and focus in your writing and want to work with a published writer and former editor, check out the link below to book your slot:

https://clearwritinglaunchpad.carrd.co

P.P.S. I hope you enjoyed this monthly writing update! As a reminder, I’ll be sending one of these on the first Friday of every month.

Have you ever read a story, had a revelation, and then had to flip back to reread a part?

I did that this week.

I was reading a short story by Daphne du Maurier called “Angels and Archangels”—and two of the character names had me scratching my head…

A Story: Daphne du Maurier’s “Angels and Archangels”

“Angels and Archangels” is a minor du Maurier story published in the collection The Rendezvous and Other Stories; almost no one discusses it.

Which is why I’m excited to talk about it today.

This is going to spoil a few parts of the plot…

“Angels and Archangels” involves a vicar and a curate:

The vicar has to leave his parish in the hands of his curate for a few weeks. He returns and is shocked to see what happened to the parish.

Part of the story deals with hypocrisy:

When the vicar leaves his parish at the beginning, we find him interacting with a woman named Norah. When he returns, he calls out his curate for having a woman in his apartment—even if the curate may have had a perfectly innocent reason for it. But then the vicar receives a call from a woman named Nancy.

When I got to that part, I thought, Oh, it’s the same woman calling him.

And then I flipped back and noticed that the names were Nancy and Norah. Not Nancy and Nancy and not Norah and Norah.

Two names. Two characters.

My confusion made the vicar’s hypocrisy hit harder.

But why was du Maurier able to pull this off?

It might have been neglectful reading on my part.

But it’s common writing advice to not name characters with names starting with the same sound, especially if they have the same number of syllables and similar silhouettes (the overall shape the letters in the word make).

So let’s look at Nancy and Norah:

• Same starting sound? Check.

• Same number of syllables? Check.

• Same silhouette? Not quite—though they have the same number of letters, and the first four have the same silhouette.

So no wonder my brain skipped over this and assumed they were the same person.

Now, all of this is to say that sometimes, you can confuse your reader. Sometimes, you can confuse them to make a certain effect. Sometimes, you can name characters similarly to make a point.

After all, rules are mean to be broken.

A Resource: Reading Shortcuts

If I thought I was a lazy reader, I should cut myself some slack based this article about reading shortcuts. In fact, it’s common for readers to skip about a third of words on a page, especially short words.

What does this mean for us writers?

If we want our meaning to be clear, we have to remember that most readers skim. Most readers skip words.

So unless you have a real reason to confuse your reader, pick your words carefully. Make every one count. And repeat your points if you want them to stick.

A Classic Pick: Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights

With my discussion of similarly named characters, I would be remiss not to recommend Wuthering Heights this week.

Why? Because it has two Catherines. A Heathcliff, a Hindley, and a Hareton. Many characters with the surname Linton—and one with the first name Linton.

The character confusion helps underscore how entangled all the characters are with each other.

But read it to be shocked. Read it for the Gothic mood. Read it for its unconventional structure. Read it to be saddened Emily Brontë never got to write another novel.

Read it.

What’s your favorite writing rule to break? Share it below!

Until next time,

N.J.

Last week, one of the greatest films of all time celebrated its 50th anniversary.

I’m talking about Jaws.

Before you laugh, I’m serious:

It’s suspenseful. It has an iconic score. It arguably kicked off the era of the summer blockbuster.

There’s a lot we can learn about storytelling from Jaws, but I’m going to take a different tactic for this week’s digest:

I read several pieces of film criticism about Jaws—but one hooked me from the first paragraph…

An aside:

Since this is the first Issa Writes Digest, here’s a peek at what you’ll get each week:

• Content breakdowns: articles, books, tweets, movies, TV—you name it. I’ll decode what makes the writing tick.

• A writing resource related to the lessons learned in the content breakdowns.

• A classic pick: a book or movie I’m thinking about this week and how it relates to this week’s lesson.

With that out of the way, let’s dive in…because once you’ve digested this week’s roundup, you’re gonna need a bigger boat to fit the new readers you’ll hook…

An Article: Celebrating Jaws’s 50th Anniversary by Chris Nashawaty

In Esquire magazine, Chris Nashawaty celebrated Jaws with a personal reflection on why it’s his favorite movie of all time.

His argument is sound, but the writing is even better.

Here’s how Nashawaty opens his piece:

I’ll never forget June 20, 1975. The date is permanently tattooed on my brain for two reasons. First, it was the day that I turned six. If I shut my eyes, I can still picture my birthday haul from that year: A brand-new three-speed and a factory-sealed box of Topps baseball cards. The bike is memorable mainly for being purple—a color I would have never chosen. The cards, however, were an absolute gold mine. I still remember that the last card in the last pack I ripped open was a holy-grail rookie card of my favorite player, Fred Lynn, who would go on to win 1975’s Rookie of the Year honors as well as being named the AL’s MVP. The second reason why I’ll never forget that day is what my family did after we polished off the last melting slices of my Carvel ice cream cake. We went to see a new movie called Jaws on opening day.

Seriously, what great writing. Here’s why it works:

First, specificity, specificity, specificity:

They aren’t just baseball cards but Topps baseball cards. It’s not just ice cream cake but Carvel ice cream cake.

Nashawaty transports us into his six-year-old memory.

But second, Nashawaty uses an open loop:

Anytime you read a piece that starts with “I’ll never forget…”, aren’t you intrigued? Don’t you want to know why?

In this case, Nashawaty gives us a hyperspecific date he’ll never forget:

June 20, 1975.

And then he says there are two reasons he’ll never forget it. The first is his birthday, and he spends several sentences describing it.

But the second reason? He makes us wait. He builds anticipation. And then once we get to it…we’re even more shocked.

He spent several lines talking about his sixth birthday. The vivid description of bicycles, baseball cards, and cake shows us just how much of a child he was.

And then he says he went to see Jaws—a brutal movie for a six-year-old.

That opening paragraph does so much work, and the rest of the article is equally brilliant. You won’t regret reading it.

A Tweet: My Biggest Regret by Dakota Robertson

As I thought about Nashawaty’s piece, I remembered another piece of writing that struck me when I came across it:

This brilliant longform tweet from Dakota Robertson:

Read the tweet, and read Nashawaty’s piece.

They’re similar, right?

First, they’re similarly vivid:

Can’t you can smell the vodka? Can’t you imagine Robertson’s mother? Can’t you see those maggots crawling on the mattress?

But second, like Nashawaty’s piece, this tweet’s brilliance lies in that opening line:

My biggest regret in life is the night I walked past her.

Much like “I’ll never forget,” this line opens questions. Why is this Robertson’s biggest regret? Who did he walk past?

Both are strong statements. Never/biggest—these aren’t weak words. And writers wouldn’t throw them around lightly.

By opening in these ways, Nashawaty and Robertson tell us there’s something important—something they need to talk about.

And then we keep reading…

A Resource: Narrative Debt by Nathan Baugh

If you want to dive deeper into this topic, consider this piece from Nathan Baugh on narrative debt.

[The full version is paid, and if you read this newsletter, you’ll love Nathan’s.]

The idea that every story has a debt. If you as a writer introduce an question, you’d better pay that debt off by answering it.

Baugh’s piece unpacks Steve Jobs’s announcement of the iPhone and the opening of The Hunger Games.

Read it, and you’ll start spotting how storytellers use this trick. And then with practice, you’ll start applying it as well.

A Classic Pick: The Iconic Film Noir Laura (1944)

This week’s theme made me think back to the classic film noir Laura (1944). It’s iconic for its sharp script, beautiful music, and jaw-dropping twist.

But read this opening narration, and tell me if it doesn’t hook you from the get-to:

I shall never forget the weekend Laura died. The silver sun burned through the sky like a huge magnifying glass. It was the hottest Sunday in my recollection. I felt as if I were the only human being left in New York. For with Laura's horrible death, I was alone.

If you haven’t seen Laura, do yourself a favor and watch it today.

Until next time,

N.J.

P.S. There are still spots open for my Clear Writing Launchpad. If you’ve ever struggled to put your ideas into words, work with me: