Fire is the most dramatic tool in a writer’s kit, and most writers use it like a special effect. It can be so much more than that.
I’ve written a zombie apocalypse that destroys civilization, a desert thriller where the clock ticks toward catastrophe, and dozens of short stories across horror, fantasy, and science fiction where things burn, explode, collapse, and fall apart. I’ve also survived the Northridge earthquake and multiple wildfire evacuations in California. I know what destruction looks like on the page and in person, and the difference between the two is what separates effective fiction from forgettable fiction. For more, see how to ground a scene in real detail.
Fire and destruction are about the most powerful tools I’ve got as a fiction writer, and I love writing them. They’re also among the most abused. Writers reach for explosions and infernos because they seem inherently dramatic, then wonder why the scene falls flat. The problem is almost never the fire. The problem is everything around it.
A fire scene too often turns out to be the laziest page in an otherwise good manuscript.
The writer knows it’s supposed to be the big moment, so they throw adjectives at it and hope. Readers can tell. They skim the inferno waiting for somebody to do something, and the scene that should’ve been the heart of the book becomes the part they’ve forgotten by dinner.
Why isn’t destruction the same as drama in fiction?
If the answer is vague (“everything” or “their life”), you haven’t done enough work yet.Share on X
This is the single biggest mistake I see in fiction coaching sessions. A writer puts a building on fire or drops an earthquake on a city and assumes the scene will be intense. Not automatically. For more, see how to use holidays in your fiction writing.
Drama comes from what the destruction means to the characters.
A fire scene too often turns out to be the laziest page in an otherwise good manuscript.
In Zombies, Murder, and Death, the apocalypse doesn’t begin with fire raining from the sky. It begins because a disturbed young man captures Death itself, and without Death collecting souls, every person who dies rises as a zombie. The destruction of civilization is catastrophic, but the horror is that one person’s obsession caused it. Karl’s victory becomes humanity’s doom. The fire is the consequence. The character is the drama. For more, see writing political persuasion in fiction.
When you’re writing a destruction scene, ask yourself one question before you write a single word: what does this character stand to lose right now?
If your answer is something vague like “everything” or “their life,” you haven’t done enough work yet. A house fire means nothing to the reader until they know whose house it is, what’s inside it, and why the character can’t walk away. I tell writers that if they can’t name the photo album, the dog or the letter in the drawer, they aren’t ready to light the match.
Watch: 10 BEST TIPS FOR WRITING A FIGHT SCENE, Writing with Jenna Moreci
What Does Real Destruction Look Like?
The Northridge earthquake hit at 4:31 in the morning. I wasn’t watching dramatic cracks race across the ground while heroic music played. I was in the dark, disoriented, with no power and no idea how bad things were. The sound was everything in the room moving at once: glass breaking, furniture sliding, the building itself groaning in a way buildings aren’t supposed to groan.
Wildfire evacuations are similar. There’s no slow buildup. You get the notice, you grab what you can, and you leave. The sky turns orange. Ash falls like snow.
You can taste the smoke before you can see the flames. And the thing nobody tells you about wildfire smoke is that it doesn’t smell dramatic. It smells ordinary, like a campfire, until there’s so much of it that your eyes burn and your lungs hurt and you realize the ordinary smell means your neighborhood might not be there when you come back.
Most fiction gets this wrong about fire and destruction. Writers describe what they’ve seen in movies instead of what people experience.
Real disaster is confusion first, fear second, and clarity much later. The senses don’t organize themselves into neat cinematic sequences. They pile up. You smell smoke and hear glass breaking and feel the floor move and none of it makes sense for the first few seconds. Those few seconds of confusion are more terrifying than any slow-motion explosion.
The 2025 Los Angeles wildfires showed this on a massive scale. Entire neighborhoods in Pacific Palisades and Altadena burned to foundations in hours. People evacuated with minutes of warning, grabbing whatever they could carry. The images that stayed with people were the specific ones: a mailbox standing alone where a house used to be, a car melted to its rims in a driveway, a swimming pool full of ash surrounded by nothing. Specific details make destruction real, on the page and in life. The melted toy in the ashes will wreck a reader faster than any explosion.
Disaster scenes written from the camera’s point of view, all sweeping shots and slow motion, ring false, because nobody lives through a disaster that way. Write the confusion.
Write the sensory overload and the gap between what the character expects and what happens. A writer who copies the movie version is borrowing somebody else’s spectacle and skipping the one thing only fiction can do: put the reader inside a frightened body.
How can fire put pressure on characters?
The most effective use of fire and destruction in fiction is pressure. Fire forces decisions. It compresses time. It strips away everything except what matters most to the character right now.
In Unlikely Hero, a career criminal and a traffic cop collide on a desert highway with a ticking clock and catastrophic stakes. The tension doesn’t come from describing the danger in elaborate detail. It comes from the decisions these two men have to make with no time to think. The destruction is the pressure cooker. The characters are what’s cooking.
That’s fire’s real function in storytelling. It’s a forcing mechanism. When a building is on fire, your character can’t sit and deliberate. They can’t weigh options carefully. They have to act, and how they act reveals who they really are. A character who runs back into a burning building to save a stranger tells the reader something. A character who runs back in to save a briefcase full of cash tells them something completely different. The fire is the same. The character is the story.
Use fire and destruction to compress decision-making time. Put your characters in situations where they have to choose under pressure, and let those choices reveal things about them that would never surface in ordinary circumstances.
Which Senses Do Writers Forget When Writing Fire?
Most writers describe what a fire looks like and stop there. Flames, smoke, orange glow, shadows. That’s the easy part and the least effective part, and I think it’s lazy, because sight is the first sense a real fire takes away from you once the smoke gets thick.
Smoke has a taste. It’s gritty and bitter and it coats the inside of your mouth. Heat has weight. It pushes against you physically, and the closer you get to a fire, the more it feels like a wall instead of a temperature. Fire has a sound that changes depending on what is burning and how fast.
A wood fire crackles and pops. A structure fire roars. A wildfire sounds like wind, except the wind is hot and it doesn’t stop.
The sense most writers neglect entirely in destruction scenes is touch. That means heat on skin and the physical impact of a world that’s falling apart. The vibration of an explosion through the floor.
The way smoke makes your eyes water so badly you can’t see. Ash settling on your arms and feeling like nothing and then you realize it’s still warm. The floor being hot through your shoes.
Write fire with all five senses and you’ll produce scenes that put the reader in the room instead of watching from a safe distance.
How does destruction transform a character in fiction?
Fire destroys and fire transforms. Both work in fiction, and most writers ignore transformation even though it’s the more interesting one.
After a fire, the landscape is different. The landmarks are gone. The character who walks through the aftermath is finding their way through a world that no longer matches their mental map. This is powerful metaphor for internal change, and it works because it’s also literally true. After the Northridge earthquake, familiar streets looked wrong. Buildings I’d driven past hundreds of times were rubble. The physical disorientation mirrored the psychological disorientation of realizing that the stable world you took for granted was never stable at all.
In Zombies, Murder, and Death, Karl creates the apocalypse and then wakes up inside it, transformed from predator to prey in the horror he built. The destruction of civilization is the physical manifestation of what his choices created. The ruined world is his character arc made visible. When you use destruction in your fiction, think about what it transforms psychologically as well as physically. What does the character believe before the fire that they can no longer believe after? What relationship, assumption, or identity burns with the building? The story is in that transformation.
How do you write large-scale destruction in fiction?
Writers default to large-scale destruction because it seems more impressive. An entire city on fire should be more dramatic than one house on fire. It’s usually less dramatic, because the reader can’t connect emotionally to an entire city.
Specificity creates emotional impact. Scale doesn’t. One person trapped in one room with smoke coming under the door is more frightening than a paragraph describing a metropolis in flames. The reader can imagine being in that room. They can’t imagine being in a burning city because nobody experiences a burning city. They experience their corner of it.
Even when you’re writing large-scale destruction (an apocalypse, a war, a natural disaster), the scene needs to be grounded in one character’s specific, immediate, physical experience. What do they see from where they’re standing? What can they hear? What are they trying to do right now, in the next thirty seconds? Ground the catastrophe in one person’s body and senses, and the reader will feel the scale without you having to describe it.
My take
Bigger fire doesn’t make a bigger scene. A burning city is wallpaper to a reader, and one person in one room with smoke under the door is terror. I’d cut the paragraph about the metropolis and spend those words on what one character feels through the soles of their shoes. Write the heat, the warm ash on the arms, the eyes too wet to see. Then ask what that character can’t believe anymore once the building’s gone.
When to Burn It Down
Fire and destruction should serve your story the way every other element serves your story: by advancing character, raising stakes, or forcing change. If the fire doesn’t do at least one of those things, it’s set dressing.
The destruction scenes that still haunt me do all three at once. The fire advances the character by forcing a decision. It raises the stakes by making that decision irreversible. And it forces change by destroying whatever existed before so the character must face what comes next.
When a fire scene feels flat, most writers add more fire. Bigger flames, more smoke, another explosion. That almost never fixes it, and it costs them the reader’s trust, because a reader who’s been handed spectacle with nothing at stake learns to skim every action scene that follows.
Go back to the character, the stakes and what the fire is supposed to change. If those are weak, no amount of sensory detail or dramatic description will save the scene.
The fire is the tool. The character is the story. Get the character right and the fire will take care of itself.
Resources for Fiction Writers
If you’re working on fiction that involves fire, destruction, apocalyptic scenarios, or survival situations, several of my AI-Enhanced Writer’s Handbooks cover related craft techniques in depth. The Fantasy Writer’s Handbook has long sections on writing supernatural threats and escalating familiar dangers. The World Builder’s Handbook covers how destruction shapes societies and cultures. And the Novel Handbook addresses pacing, tension, and the structural mechanics that make high-stakes scenes work.
You can read my fiction, including Zombies, Murder, and Death, Unlikely Hero, and my short story collection.
For fiction coaching, reach out here.
A building that burns because the writer got bored in chapter twelve is a cheap trick. Fire is the most expensive thing you can spend in a story, since it destroys something you can never put back, and a writer who spends it on noise has cheated the reader out of the scene the story promised them. Burn things for a reason. Let the fire change somebody, take something they can’t replace or force a choice they’ll have to live with. I hold client novels to the same rule, and it’s one reason ghostwriting science fiction takes more planning than people expect.
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