Writing Tics: Definition, Examples, and How to Spot Yours Before They Drive Readers Mad
Hello fellow fiction writers.
Most people see the word “tic” and immediately picture a tick—that tiny bloodsucker that latches onto your dog, gorges itself on haemoglobin, and swells to the size of a grape.
Well, it’s not a bad metaphor. Because a tic in writing behaves almost the same way. It starts small, almost invisible. Then it grows, bloats, and suddenly your story’s voice is swollen with repetitive quirks you can’t quite squash.
🩸 A Tic by Any Other Name
In writing, a tic is a frequent quirk in the narrative—a repeated word, phrase, or stylistic habit that worms its way through your manuscript.
The operative word there is frequent. We all have writing habits; a tic becomes a problem when it shows up so often it draws attention to itself. Like the parasite it’s named after, it feeds unnoticed at first. But eventually? Your readers start to itch.
🗣 “You Know?” Applies to Writing Too
We’ve all had that friend who peppers every sentence with “you know?” or “like.” After a few minutes, you can’t hear the story they’re telling—you can only hear them telling it.
The same thing happens in fiction. When a narrative relies on the same rhythms, beats, or descriptive crutches, it stops sounding like a story and starts sounding like a loop.
Common offenders include:Chuckled — not everyone in your novel needs to chuckle, grin, or smirk every third paragraph.Looked — if your characters spend half their lives looking, glancing, and staring, it’s time for an eye-rest.Suddenly — the universal sign that something isn’t actually surprising.Breathed / sighed / smiled softly — once per chapter, fine. Ten times, it’s a tic.
🧠 Why Writing Tics Happen
Tics are comfort zones. They’re the verbal equivalent of doodling spirals during a phone call—your brain’s way of filling silence. When we draft, we don’t notice them because they feel natural.
But readers do notice. Those repeated quirks chip away at immersion, turning vibrant prose into white noise.
🔍 How to Spot Your Writing TicsUse “Find” like a bloodhound.
Search your manuscript for words you suspect overusing—look, grin, suddenly, just, very. You might be horrified.Read aloud.
Your ear catches echoes your eyes gloss over. If you start predicting your own sentence endings, that’s a red flag.Get a second pair of eyes.
Beta readers and editors are excellent at spotting tics because they don’t have emotional ties to your pet phrases.Make a “Do Not Touch” list.
Write down your top five repeat offenders and keep it beside you during edits.
✂️ How to Get Rid of Writing TicsVary sentence openings. If everything begins with “He looked…” or “She sighed…,” shuffle the structure.Use synonyms sparingly. Replacing “looked” with “gazed,” “peered,” and “glimpsed” isn’t a cure—it’s camouflage.Replace action with subtext. Instead of “She smiled sadly,” show it through tone or dialogue.Trust your reader. You don’t have to emphasise every emotional beat; sometimes silence is stronger.
👣 My Own Writing Tic Confession
Early on, one of my beta readers circled forty-two instances of “just.” In one chapter. Her note: “Delete most. You’re not writing a contract.”
I did, and suddenly my prose felt tighter, more confident. The parasite was gone.
🧶 Wrapping It Up
Writing tics are like weeds in a beautiful garden: they sneak in quietly, multiply fast, and crowd out everything else. The cure isn’t perfection—it’s awareness.
So, next time you edit, go on a little safari through your manuscript. Hunt those sneaky “looked,” “chuckled,” and “just” creatures. Your prose—and your readers—will thank you.
Your turn: What’s your personal writing tic? (Mine used to be “suddenly.” Ironically, I never noticed it coming.) Share yours in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
Most people see the word “tic” and immediately picture a tick—that tiny bloodsucker that latches onto your dog, gorges itself on haemoglobin, and swells to the size of a grape.
Well, it’s not a bad metaphor. Because a tic in writing behaves almost the same way. It starts small, almost invisible. Then it grows, bloats, and suddenly your story’s voice is swollen with repetitive quirks you can’t quite squash.
🩸 A Tic by Any Other Name
In writing, a tic is a frequent quirk in the narrative—a repeated word, phrase, or stylistic habit that worms its way through your manuscript.
The operative word there is frequent. We all have writing habits; a tic becomes a problem when it shows up so often it draws attention to itself. Like the parasite it’s named after, it feeds unnoticed at first. But eventually? Your readers start to itch.
🗣 “You Know?” Applies to Writing Too
We’ve all had that friend who peppers every sentence with “you know?” or “like.” After a few minutes, you can’t hear the story they’re telling—you can only hear them telling it.
The same thing happens in fiction. When a narrative relies on the same rhythms, beats, or descriptive crutches, it stops sounding like a story and starts sounding like a loop.
Common offenders include:Chuckled — not everyone in your novel needs to chuckle, grin, or smirk every third paragraph.Looked — if your characters spend half their lives looking, glancing, and staring, it’s time for an eye-rest.Suddenly — the universal sign that something isn’t actually surprising.Breathed / sighed / smiled softly — once per chapter, fine. Ten times, it’s a tic.
🧠 Why Writing Tics Happen
Tics are comfort zones. They’re the verbal equivalent of doodling spirals during a phone call—your brain’s way of filling silence. When we draft, we don’t notice them because they feel natural.
But readers do notice. Those repeated quirks chip away at immersion, turning vibrant prose into white noise.
🔍 How to Spot Your Writing TicsUse “Find” like a bloodhound.
Search your manuscript for words you suspect overusing—look, grin, suddenly, just, very. You might be horrified.Read aloud.
Your ear catches echoes your eyes gloss over. If you start predicting your own sentence endings, that’s a red flag.Get a second pair of eyes.
Beta readers and editors are excellent at spotting tics because they don’t have emotional ties to your pet phrases.Make a “Do Not Touch” list.
Write down your top five repeat offenders and keep it beside you during edits.
✂️ How to Get Rid of Writing TicsVary sentence openings. If everything begins with “He looked…” or “She sighed…,” shuffle the structure.Use synonyms sparingly. Replacing “looked” with “gazed,” “peered,” and “glimpsed” isn’t a cure—it’s camouflage.Replace action with subtext. Instead of “She smiled sadly,” show it through tone or dialogue.Trust your reader. You don’t have to emphasise every emotional beat; sometimes silence is stronger.
👣 My Own Writing Tic Confession
Early on, one of my beta readers circled forty-two instances of “just.” In one chapter. Her note: “Delete most. You’re not writing a contract.”
I did, and suddenly my prose felt tighter, more confident. The parasite was gone.
🧶 Wrapping It Up
Writing tics are like weeds in a beautiful garden: they sneak in quietly, multiply fast, and crowd out everything else. The cure isn’t perfection—it’s awareness.
So, next time you edit, go on a little safari through your manuscript. Hunt those sneaky “looked,” “chuckled,” and “just” creatures. Your prose—and your readers—will thank you.
Your turn: What’s your personal writing tic? (Mine used to be “suddenly.” Ironically, I never noticed it coming.) Share yours in the comments! I reply personally to every comment.
James
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