My villain has no name. That's not just a writing problem.

The story can't be polite anymore. It wasn’t working. Turns out, neither was the villain.

There’s a moment in every story draft, especially ones you’ve avoided, when you hit the wall.

Sometimes that wall is the middle.

Sometimes it’s the end.

For me right now, it’s the villain.

When I sat down with Girl in Pieces again, trying to map a real plan to move forward, I realized something was missing. Something glaring.

My villain doesn’t have a name.

He has a short list of half-hearted contenders. But none of them stuck. And for me, that matters, because a name means I’ve locked into the character. It’s the difference between a cardboard cutout and a living, breathing force on the page.

I actually find it really difficult to write a character when I don’t know their name.

So no wonder this book got stuck.

It wasn’t just my heroine Nic I left dangling. (Though yes, I did leave her emotionally marinating in coffee and Kahlúa.)

It was my villain.

My villain is currently a chalk outline

He’s got a role.

He’s got a shape.

But he’s still just a sketch.

A shadow.

He’s not the only antagonist in my story, but he’s the one who forces the real pressure. And I haven’t looked him in the eye yet. I haven’t asked the hard questions about what he wants, what he needs, and how those things collide with my heroine’s. I know the obvious answers, but not the real ones.

So it’s no surprise the story stalled.

I’ve been easing back into Girl in Pieces in fits and starts. Some days, the clarity comes easy. Other days it feels like trying to remember a dream someone else had. And I’ll admit this, too — because I’m also launching my business right now, I haven’t put new words on the page yet.

But I’ve definitely realized this:

A thriller without a strong villain is just dramatic walking and bad decisions.

The villain is the pressure point.

He’s not a plot device. He’s the shape that gives every decision weight.

Without him, Nic’s struggle doesn’t sharpen.

Her choices don’t escalate.

The scenes go fuzzy.

The stakes feel polite.

And let’s be clear: no one likes a polite thriller.

The structure snapped into place when I remembered this:

A strong story has a shape. And structure is what gives emotion something to grip.

The midpoint of a story isn’t the emotional high point, it’s the first clearly formed, understood goal. Before that, the character is reacting to the world and losing the tools they use to navigate it. After that, they’re rebuilding, but only if they know what they’re building toward.

So if I don’t know the ending?

If I don’t know what the villain wants, or what Nic will have to face off with?

Of course the middle feels like quicksand.

No villain = no pressure = no shape.

What makes a villain work?

Good villains aren’t evil for evil’s sake.

They don’t create chaos just for the sake of drama.

A great villain comes from certainty. Complexity. Deep, personal logic that often only makes sense to them.

And in truth… they aren’t that different from your hero/heroine.

The biggest difference is what a villain is willing to do to get what they want.

Some of the best villains I have loved from TV, movies and books embody this very thing:

• Sloan from Alias. He was convinced he was right. He was strategic. Steady. Terrifying because of his convictions, and what he was willing to do to meet his goals.

• Elias from Criminal Minds Evolution. He’s a meticulous planner, always ten steps ahead. His trauma twisted him into purpose.

• Cersei Lannister from Game of Thrones. She was pure cold ambition, and provided a dark mirror about what it takes to stay in power and control.

• Amy Dunne from Gone Girl. She’s the architect of the story and the narrative she wants to be true, no matter what it takes.

• Annie Wilkes from Misery. She believes she’s the hero, that her purpose is true, as any good villain does.

And a surprising example came up on a recent call with a client I’m coaching:

National Treasure.

It’s a perfect illustration of character motivation:

• how what they want and what they need don’t always match. But it also helps define what they’re willing to do to go after that.

In National Treasure, the thing on the surface that Nic Cage’s hero, Ben Gates, wants is to find the treasure. It’s what he’s been seeking for years.

But if you ask why he wants that, what that will give him… he isn’t doing it for greed or money. (Like Sean Bean’s villain is.) Ben is doing it to make his family name to be less of a joke. He needs to restore & vindicate his family name.

To achieve that need, he’s even willing to steal the Declaration of Independence… because the only route he’s figured out how to vindicate the Gates name is through finding the treasure. At what cost?

But in choosing this path, he risks ruining his family’s name for good.

The actions that Ben Gates takes are some of the same decisions as Sean Bean’s villain, Ian Howe. But it’s the why —the need driving it — and the lines they’re unwilling to cross that can be the very thin line between a hero and a villain.

Imagine flipping Nic Cage and Sean Bean’s characters. Up to a very specific point, they are willing to do some of the same exact things:

• chase a treasure at all costs

• steal a priceless historical document

• evade the police and authorities

• lie and manipulate to achieve their goal

• willing to destroy property and put lives at risk

Ben Gates has a moral threshold. A line he won’t cross, even when the stakes are high.

The villain always goes a step (or five) further. His moral code? Murkier. We never learned exactly why Sean Bean needed the treasure. We knew that greed was why he wanted it. But to have a worthy villain in your story, you need to understand their needs as much as your hero.

A villain isn’t defined by what they do. They’re defined by why they do it, and what they’re willing to break to get it.

The lengths the villain will go are what forces the hero to evolve or unravel. It’s part of the tension that builds a great character pairing, and creates the pressure that reveals who your hero really is.

They are the friction. The push and pull. And friction is what builds story.

My plan to name my villain

So here’s where I am:

Right now, I’m going deeper into understanding the force behind the pressure in this story. The shadow in the room. The man Nic can’t quite see clearly, and neither can I.

And maybe it’s time I finally tell you a little more about Girl in Pieces.

I posted the first chapter, if you want to read it:

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It’s a psychological thriller about a woman who buried a chapter of her past so deep, she built a whole life pretending it never happened. She has the perfect fiancé, the perfect career, the perfect little future. Until a PI shows up at her door with questions she thought she’d never have to answer.

Now she’s caught in the storm of a trial tied to a man she once named in a police report—accused again. This time, of a deeper crime. This time, accused against multiple women.

The past Nic thought hadn’t shaped her is threatening everything she built. She not only has to come to terms with her past, but also with the guilt that if she’d done something differently, maybe the women impacted now would never be there.

It’s a story about how our past shapes our future—especially when we pretend it doesn’t. Maybe especially when. It’s about the lies we tell ourselves to feel safe. And the moment when telling the truth is the only way out.

The villain in this story hides in plain sight.

He creates fear and chaos not by announcing himself, but by hiding behind another.

He doesn’t need to be known.

He needs to feel powerful.

In control.

Smarter than everyone else in the room.

And in writing this newsletter, I also realize… the very thing that Nic is hiding from in herself is the very thing this villain feeds on.

He feeds on silence. Shadows. Hiding from truth.

The villain lives on the page — and sometimes off it

He’s getting clearer to me, which is ironic because he’s deep in the shadows.

I still don’t know his name.

But I will. I’m close.

And in getting closer, I’m also starting to notice a pattern: not just in this draft, but everywhere else I’ve been showing up lately, too.

The villain isn’t just on the page.

• He shows up in how I build.

• In what I avoid.

• In the edges of my work where I don’t want to look too closely.

And it’s got me thinking, not just about what I’m writing, but how I’m writing.

Stepping back into this draft has shown me something I keep bumping into in my business too:

You can’t build a strong arc without a clear antagonist. Not in fiction. Not in marketing. Not in the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we’re allowed to want.

That pressure point—the thing we’re up against—has to be defined if we want to do anything more than wander in circles.

Story. Structure. Systems.

Finding your voice as a writer is a journey, and it’s one I stepped away from for far too long. I truly know that now.

And now that I’m back, it feels a little itchy. Like putting on something you used to love that doesn’t quite fit the same anymore.

It’s still you, but it’s a version you have to learn how to wear again.

That’s what I’m doing. In fiction. In business. In this exact moment.

I’m not just trying to write my story. I’m trying to align with it.

Story isn’t just in the words we write down.

It’s the shape we give to our truth.

And that’s what structure gives you: shape. Order. A spine to hold up the weight of the truth and make sure it stays on track.

And that’s what systems give you. Consistency. Visibility. A repeatable way to keep showing up even when the words feel far away.

The same way I’m building Girl in Pieces, I’m also building the next chapter of my business—by aligning what I want to say with the shape it needs to hold. By naming what I’m up against, by knowing what my clients are up against.

By choosing not just what I want, but what I won’t allow anymore.

Because just like in fiction, clarity doesn’t come from writing more.

It comes from writing true.

So I’ve been asking better questions. About my villain. And about me.

And funny enough? They’re mostly the same.

Questions I’m asking about my villain (and myself)

So if I want this story to move forward, on the page or in my work,

I have to stop circling the shadows.

And ask the harder questions.

The ones that build both pressure and the path.

Here’s where I’m starting:

About my villain:

• What does he want?

• What does he need underneath that?

• What lie is he protecting, and why does it feel so true to him?

• What part of my heroine is most vulnerable to his version of truth?

• What’s he willing to do that my heroine isn’t?

• What would it cost her to become him?

And for my business, the reflection flips:

• What do I want to build?

• What need is driving it?

• What lies have I believed about how I’m “supposed to” show up?

• Where am I still being polite when I should be powerful?

• What does my story actually need to say and how do I build the system that supports it?

Your story doesn’t stall because you’ve lost your talent. It stalls because you’ve stopped naming the thing you’re really fighting.

So name it. In your plot. In your marketing. In your voice. In your work.

Because the moment you do? The story starts to move again.

And this time… it’s not polite.

It’s true.

—Jeannie

PS sharing a photo of one of our dogs (Wyatt says hi) enjoying a mountain breeze on one of our RV trips recently. Wish I was back with that view!