There’s a point in every writer’s journey when you realise the rules, the ones you've been diligently following, are not commandments but conventions. They're guidelines. Or handrails. Ideas that work brilliantly until they don’t. And sometimes, the best writing happens when you break them.
This isn’t a green light for chaos. You have to know the rules before you break them. You have to understand how rhythm works before you fragment a sentence. You need to learn what a story arc is before you bend it, or break it. But once you do, experimentation can lead to extraordinary storytelling.
So when should you consider breaking the rules? And how can you do it well? Luckily there are loads of great examples.
1. When voice demands it
Sometimes, the voice of your narrator resists tidy grammar. Fragments, repetition, odd phrasing – these all have power when they reflect a character’s inner life.
Example: Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo. The novel abandons conventional punctuation and capitalisation, using a free-flowing, poetic style to reflect each character’s perspective. It’s bold, but it’s precise – and it deepens the emotional resonance.
'Carol hated her mother, who didn’t do hugs or anything soppy and said things like don’t expect me to be proud of you. You haven’t done anything to be proud of yet.'
Evaristo’s style strips out formal boundaries in a way that mirrors her characters' emotional and cultural complexity. It’s not careless – it’s a deliberate, crafted rhythm that lets voice carry the story.
What to consider in your own work: Does your character have a voice that feels constricted by grammar or sentence structure? Would bending those rules give you greater emotional depth?
2. When structure is part of the story
You don’t always need a neat beginning, middle and end. Playing with form can open up new ways to engage the reader and echo your themes.
Example: Trust by Hernan Diaz. This Booker Prize-shortlisted novel is told through four distinct narratives that revise and contradict each other. The fractured structure becomes the point: it explores how stories are shaped, who gets to say to them, and what’s left out.
'A narrative is only a collection of events if you are prepared to believe the person telling it.'
Diaz plays with truth and authority, using the very shape of the novel to destabilise the reader. What you think you know shifts with each section.
What to consider in your own work: Could a non-linear or fragmented structure mirror your themes? Would telling the story from multiple perspectives change what it means?
3. When genre is just a starting point
Rules are often genre-specific – what works in crime might not fly in autofiction. But blending and subverting genre expectations can be powerful.
Example: This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. This time-travel romance breaks form with lyrical, epistolary storytelling that feels more like poetry than sci-fi.
'Burn before reading. That’s what it said. And the words are embossed, so I feel them in the tips of my fingers, as though they’ve been branded there.'
The book blends speculative fiction with emotional intimacy and high lyricism. It’s genre fiction reimagined as a love letter to language.
What to consider in your own work: Are you writing in a genre that could be opened up? Would adding elements from another style – poetry, reportage, speculative fiction – make your story more distinct?
4. When chronology gets in the way
Linear storytelling isn’t always the best way to explore memory, grief or trauma. Disrupting time can let readers experience the story as the character does.
Example: A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. This Pulitzer Prize-winning novel shuffles through time and characters, revealing connections and consequences in unexpected ways.
'Time’s a goon, right? You gonna let that goon push you around?'
The fragmented timeline reflects the instability of its characters’ lives – how decisions echo forward and backwards. It’s a story about time, told through time.
What to consider in your own work: Would telling events out of order enhance tension or deepen character development? Could memory, flashback or parallel timelines reveal more than a straight line ever could?
5. When simplicity can be sacrificed for style
Clarity matters. But sometimes a long, elaborate, even overwhelming sentence can be the right choice – if it serves the voice, tone or rhythm.
Example: Duck, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann. This 1,000-page novel is written as a single sentence (with recurring breaks). It’s intentionally overwhelming, mimicking the relentless swirl of modern anxiety.
'the fact that I just can’t stop thinking, the fact that I just can’t stop thinking, the fact that…'
Ellmann’s novel is a radical act of style. The repetition and rhythm become a kind of music – hypnotic, chaotic, and deeply human.
What to consider in your own work: Does your voice demand something more intense than simplicity? Would rhythm, run-ons, or repetition help evoke a particular psychological state?
Final thoughts
Breaking the rules should be a deliberate act, not a shortcut. When done with purpose and control, experimentation creates new ways to tell stories – and connect with readers.
As Zadie Smith once said: 'Don’t confuse honours and prizes with the achievement of a form.' The form is yours to shape.
So, if a rule is holding your novel back, question it. Test the boundary. And if breaking it makes the work more alive, more honest, more you – then go ahead. Break it.
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