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There’s an apocryphal anecdote about Hemingway being challenged to write a complete story, with all the emotional impact of one of his own short stories, in just six words. Hemingway offered a tale of an ordinary object: For sale: baby shoes, never worn. There are some who question if this ever actually happened. Or if Hemingway was the writer. But whether Papa Hemingway jotted it down or not, it’s hard to ignore the emotional impact of those six words. We went on quite a journey, with a very short runway. In modern storytelling, it’s easy to fall into the trap of chasing big. Big twists. Big stakes. Big guns. We love the high-octane ride — but what makes the danger hit harder is contrast. You aren’t stunned by the explosion if you don’t first feel the silence. It’s not the murder that rattles you. It’s the coffee still steaming on the kitchen counter next to the phone that won’t stop ringing. It’s the last casual text message of a wife telling her husband she’s just boarding the flight home. It’s the baby shoes that were never worn. Familiar Is a Trojan Horse There’s something subversive about using ordinary details in extraordinary stories. Readers come to the page looking for escape — but what hooks them isn’t the strange, it’s the familiar made strange. Stephen King’s a master at this. He doesn’t start with monsters. He starts with Maine. With a rusted-out Buick. With a kid riding a bike down a quiet street. Then the cracks show. Then the shadows crawl in. But by the time the supernatural hits, you’re already grounded. You’ve already bought into the world. That’s the trick. You build trust with the ordinary. You deliver impact with the unexpected. Weighing Emotional Anchors Readers don’t fall in love with plots. They fall in love with moments. The taste of copper in a character’s mouth after a fight. The buzz of a fluorescent light in a gas station bathroom. The way a father keeps reaching for the radio knob every time the silence stretches too long. Editor’s picks Small things. But they’re the things we remember. Mostly because they’re the grounded sort of experiences we have every day. Those are the details that say, “there but for the grace of God go I.” The real goal isn’t to describe the world. It’s to trigger a sense of the familiar in the reader. You’re not showing them your character’s kitchen — you’re summoning their kitchen. Their own childhood home. Their first apartment. You’re giving them a feeling of comfort and safety through what they know, and then… Well, you make them very uncomfortable. You make the drama and danger and horror of your story hit close to home by first reminding the reader of home. You can bend reality as far as you want — as long as you keep one foot on the ground. That’s especially true in speculative fiction. If your story involves cloning, time travel, psychic powers, fine. We’re in. But you better make sure your character still stops for gas. Still gets headaches. Still forgets people’s names at parties. Because that’s what we do, and for the duration of this story we’re living in the skin of that character, not just tagging along for the ride. The Rolling Stone Culture Council is an invitation-only community for Influencers, Innovators and Creatives. Do I qualify? Related Content The more out-there your premise, the more you need to anchor it in ordinary details. The moment a character does something recognizably human — hits snooze on an alarm, spills coffee on their shirt — you’ve won the reader’s trust. You’ve bought the suspension of disbelief. That’s how you sell the impossible. How to Find the Ordinary That Matters 1. Objects Are Mirrors Don’t describe a room — describe what that character notices in that room. A religious person notices the crucifix. A thief notices the jewelry box. A child sees the vintage toys or the candy dish. Same room. Different lens. That’s where character and setting merge. 2. Environment Echoes Emotion Characters don’t exist in a vacuum. If your protagonist is unraveling, let the house fall apart too. Let the faucet drip. Let the wallpaper peel. The environment doesn’t just reflect the world, it reflects the internal state of the character. Sometimes a cigar isn’t really a cigar after all. 3. One Detail, Not Ten Over description is where good writing goes to die. Don’t list everything in the kitchen. Pick one thing. If there’s a spilled bowl of cereal on the floor, maybe you tell us the brand. But we don’t necessarily need to know the label of every box on the top of the fridge. Unless, of course, that’s where the murder weapon is hidden. Give the reader the one detail that will anchor them in the space, and let their imagination fill in the rest. 4. Make It Matter Twice The best details are the ones that come back. Writers often hear about Chekhov’s Gun. It’s a storytelling principle coined by Russian playwright Anton Chekhov, who advised that if a shotgun appears on the wall in the first act, it better be fired by the third act. Every significant detail in a story serves a purpose — especially those that draw attention. Unused elements feel like broken promises, while intentional details create cohesion, tension and a satisfying payoff. In other words, if you mention it, mean something with it. Ordinary Is a Baseline Writers spend so much time trying to impress us. Big ideas. High drama. Perfect prose. But what readers remember — what sticks — is the stuff that feels real. The stuff that feels lived-in. Don’t write like you’re trying to win a contest. Write like you’re inviting someone into a world they already know — but haven’t seen quite like this before. Trending Stories Give them the sound of a screen door slamming. The smell of old books. The silence after a goodbye that didn’t get said. That feels like home. And that’s why it hits us so hard when we see things go veering off the road into danger and drama and weirdness.
