The Obituary Method: How to Mine Dead People’s Names for Living Characters (They Won’t Mind, They’re Dead)

Estimated reading time: 25 minutes

Creating characters from obituaries is the writing hack nobody talks about because it sounds vaguely ghoulish, like robbing graves but with less dirt under your fingernails and more coffee stains on your laptop.

But here’s the thing: it works.

And unlike most writing advice—which typically involves either “write every day” (thanks, Captain Obvious) or “find your voice” (is it in the couch cushions? Behind the fridge? Inside this bottle of cheap wine?)—the obituary method for character development is actually practical, free, and requires nothing more than access to a newspaper and a willingness to be the kind of person who mines death notices for profit.

When you’re stumped and don’t have a creative angle for a new piece of writing, do what I do: I hit the obituaries and start creating character names. Mind you, I don’t lift them right off the page like some kind of lazy slug. That would be tacky, possibly invite hauntings, and definitely get you weird looks at the coffee shop when someone glances over your shoulder and sees you’ve circled “beloved grandmother of twelve” with a highlighter. Instead, I look at last names and Frankenstein them together into new combinations. It’s like Mad Libs for the creatively bankrupt, which, let’s face it, is all of us on Wednesday mornings.

The Raw Material: This Week’s Harvest from The Washington Post

For example, look what I pulled from the Washington Post obits this week:

• Beckley Bell
• Diamond Funderburk
• Wigs St. Jean
• Hinkley McCormick
• Doxie Gilchrist
• Burgan Stokes

That’s a bevy of possibilities, isn’t it? Names that couldn’t possibly exist but absolutely do. Names your brain would reject if you tried to invent them because they’re too perfect, too weird, too real. This is the magic of creating characters from obituaries—you get authenticity you could never manufacture, even with a random name generator and a dartboard covered in census data. Nobody in the history of fiction workshops ever came up with “Doxie Gilchrist” on purpose. That’s a gift from the universe, delivered via someone’s tragic passing and possibly questionable parenting decisions made in 1943. You’re welcome, dead people. Your legacy lives on, just not the way you planned.

Why the Obituary Method Works (Beyond the Obvious Grave-Robbing Advantages)

Here’s what makes mining obituaries for character names superior to other character creation techniques, including that one you read about where you’re supposed to interview your characters like they’re real people, which is just talking to yourself with extra steps:

Real Names Have Weight: When you invent a name like “Scarlett Steele” or “Brick Hardcastle,” everyone can smell the desperation wafting off the page like burned popcorn. These names scream, “I’m a character in a book written by someone who thinks people in real life have names like action figures or strippers with delusions of grandeur.” But “Burgan Stokes”? That’s a name that existed in the world. It carried a social security number. It appeared on tax returns and probably several restraining orders, and at least one incident report involving a pontoon boat and questionable judgment. That history, even though you’re inventing an entirely different person, gives your character gravitas, or at least the illusion of it, which is close enough for fiction.

You’d Never Dare Invent These: Your brain has governors, little editors that say, “That’s too much,” or “Nobody will believe that,” or “Maybe don’t have your protagonist named after a disease and a geographical feature.” The obituaries don’t have those stops. Real life is absurd. Real parents looked at their newborn baby and thought, “Wigbert. Yes. That’s perfect. He’ll thank us for this.” And then were shocked… SHOCKED… when he grew up, changed his name to Wigs, and developed trust issues. The universe hands you comedy gold if you’re willing to look in the death notices, which is also where the universe keeps its best jokes.

Regional Authenticity Included: Obituaries are geographically specific. The Washington Post obits give you Mid-Atlantic energy, where everyone has three last names and property in Rehobeth Beach they never mention. Florida obituaries give you names that sound like they came with a meth lab, an alligator, and a very specific story about why they’re no longer allowed at that particular Waffle House. The obituary method automatically grounds your story in a real cultural landscape without you having to do any actual research, which is the best kind of writing advice: the kind that lets you be lazy while looking smart and judging everyone else who’s doing actual work.

From Names to People: The Biography Speed-Round

Once you’ve got your names, and trust me, creating characters from obituaries gives you names that are already 60% of the way to interesting, which is 60% more than you’d get from “character worksheet exercises.” Now, it’s time to breathe life into them. Not too much life. You’re not writing a novel yet. You’re probably avoiding writing a novel by reading this essay, if we’re being honest. Just enough biography to make them exist as fully formed disasters.

The key is specificity without backstory bloat. You don’t need to know their childhood traumas, their college major, or what their relationship with their father was like (spoiler: it was bad, it’s always bad, that’s why they’re interesting). You need to know the one or two details that make them immediately, painfully real. The kind of details that make readers nod and think “oh yeah, I know that guy,” even though they definitely don’t, but they know someone like that guy, and that guy owes them money.

Here’s how you apply the obituary method for character development to our collection of the recently renamed:

Beckley Bell – 52, middle manager at a regional insurance company who has weaponized mediocrity into an art form and possibly a religion. Brings egg salad sandwiches to work every day and microwaves fish every Friday at exactly 11:47 AM, because if he’s suffering through life, everyone else should too, and also because the microwave is usually free at 11:47 and he likes predictability more than he likes his wife. Drives a beige Camry with a “My Other Car Is Also Disappointing” bumper sticker he doesn’t realize is ironic. His most outstanding professional achievement is creating a seventeen-step approval process for office supply requests that has reduced sticky note theft by 3% while increasing employee resentment by 847%. Married to a woman who calls him “Bell” because even she’s forgotten his first name exists. Their sex life is scheduled for the second Tuesday of every month at 9 PM, unless there’s a good documentary on PBS, which there usually is, thank God.

Diamond Funderburk – 68, owns a struggling “vintage boutique” called Vintage Treasures by Diamond that’s really just a hoarding problem with a business license and an LLC that may or may not be filed correctly. Has been “going out of business” for seven years, which is just long enough to make the closing sale signs look authentically distressed and also to avoid paying back taxes. Tells everyone she used to be a model, which is technically true if you count the Sears catalog shoot in 1979 where she modeled “slacks for the fuller figure” and “acceptance of one’s limitations.” Collects disability checks for a workplace injury that may or may not have involved a rhinestone-bedazzling gun and definitely involved a lawyer with a catchy jingle. Her Yelp reviews average 2.3 stars, and she responds to every single one with “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ART” in all caps, followed by thinly veiled threats that may or may not constitute actionable defamation.

The Rest of Your New Cast (They’re So Much Worse Than They Sound)

Wigs St. Jean – 47, professional hair stylist who has been threatening to write a memoir called “Scissors and Secrets: A Cut Above the Rest” for twelve years but keeps getting distracted by other people’s drama, his own drama, and an awe-inspiring collection of drama he’s manufactured entirely from scratch. Knows every affair, bankruptcy, plastic surgery, secret pregnancy, and questionable life choice in a six-block radius. Runs a salon called “Wigs & Whispers” that’s definitely not a front for anything illegal, officer. However, the amount of cash transactions and lack of a proper booking system would suggest otherwise to anyone with a functioning brain or a basic understanding of tax law. Has a Pomeranian named Versace who wears better accessories than most of his clients and has his own Instagram account with more followers than Wigs, which is a source of tension in their relationship. Currently engaged to his fourth fiancée, a Hungarian personal trainer named Blade (birth name: Balázs, but he Americanized it for “brand purposes” and because Americans kept pronouncing it like they were having a stroke). Blade speaks five languages, bench presses 300 pounds, and has the emotional intelligence of a decorative throw pillow. He may or may not be aware of fiancées two and three, who may or may not still think they’re engaged, and who definitely still have keys to Wigs’s apartment. Wigs considers this “keeping his options open.” Everyone else considers it “a felony waiting to happen.”

Hinkley McCormick – 43, corporate wellness consultant who has never been well a day in his life and wouldn’t recognize wellness if it punched him in his chronically tense jaw. Sells “mindfulness programs” to Fortune 500 companies while personally subsisting on gas station coffee, spite, and what appears to be a ketamine microdosing habit he thinks nobody notices, but everybody notices. Has seventeen different productivity apps on his phone and uses none of them except the one that tracks how many steps he takes, which he obsessively checks while sitting at his desk eating Combos. His LinkedIn profile includes the phrase “thought leader in synergistic wellness architecture” and a headshot that cost $400 and makes him look like he’s being held hostage. Nobody knows what “synergistic wellness architecture” means, including Hinkley, but it impressed the HR department at Amalgamated Whatever, which tells you everything you need to know about Amalgamated Whatever. Divorced twice, both times because he scheduled “strategic intimacy sessions” with his wives using Google Calendar invites with reminder notifications and a timer that played a gentle chime when the session was “complete.” Currently dating his life coach, Serenity (born “Sharon”), who is absolutely scamming him, but doing so mindfully, holistically, and through a monthly subscription model that auto-renews.

Doxie Gilchrist – 81, retired elementary school librarian who terrorized three generations of children into loving books through a combination of shame, intimidation, chocolate chip cookies that were somehow both bribe and threat, and a stare that could curdle milk at twenty paces. Still volunteers at the library, where she judges everyone’s reading choices out loud with the confidence of someone who’s never once questioned whether this is appropriate behavior. Tells romance novel readers they have “weak minds and weaker morals” and mystery readers they’re “training to be criminals.” Recommends Dostoyevsky to people looking for Grisham and then acts surprised when they never come back. Recommends Grisham to no one because “he’s a hack who makes lawyers look competent.” Banned from two book clubs for starting physical altercations about character motivation and one literary festival for telling a visiting author that his protagonist “wouldn’t behave that way and you should know better.” Lives alone with nineteen cats, all named after Brontë characters, even the males, even the ones who clearly have self-esteem issues about being named “Emily.” Her grocery store loyalty card has been flagged for suspicious wine purchases—not because of the quantity, which is substantial, but because she buys the expensive stuff and pays in cash like she’s running some kind of wine-based money laundering operation. She’s not, but the store manager isn’t convinced.

Burgan Stokes – 59, river tour boat captain who got the job because he was the only applicant who showed up sober to the interview, and even that’s debatable. Has been coasting on that low bar for seventeen years like a man who’s discovered the secret to life is having absolutely no ambition whatsoever. Gives historically inaccurate tours with the confidence of someone who’s never been fact-checked and the enthusiasm of someone who’s explaining how to operate a toaster. Makes up ghost stories about every bridge, landmark, and occasionally passing kayaker. Claims the river is haunted by the spirits of Confederate soldiers, Union soldiers, British soldiers from 1812, Vikings who “got really lost,” and at least one “angry mermaid with boundary issues.” His tour boat is called “The Titanic Jr.” and he thinks it’s hilarious. Nobody else thinks it’s funny. There’s a Yelp review that says, “I paid $30 to fear for my life,” and it’s rated one star. Wears the same captain’s hat every day; it’s never been washed, has achieved sentience, and is possibly planning a mutiny. Recently divorced after his wife found his OnlyFans account, where he models nautical-themed knitwear in “artistic” poses that can only be described as “aggressive” and “a cry for help.” The account has six subscribers, one of whom is his ex-wife’s lawyer, who used the evidence in court. Still thinks he’s “pretty good with the ladies” despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, including a restraining order from someone he met at a marina and a strongly worded letter from the Rotary Club.

Putting the Obituary Method into Action: A Short Story Emerges

Now that they exist (thanks to creating characters from obituaries and a willingness to ask “what would make this person not just annoying, but memorably annoying?”), it’s time to imagine some interplay in short story form. This is where the magic happens. This is where names become people and people become problems for each other and eventually, if we’re lucky, problems for law enforcement.

The beauty of this approach is that you’ve already done the hard work. You know who these people are. You know their damage. You know their trauma. You know what they smell like (egg salad, hairspray, essential oils, desperation, and river water, respectively). Now you need to throw them in a room together and see what breaks first: the furniture, their dignity, or local zoning ordinances.

The Absolute Last Final Ultimate Going-Out-of-Business Sale (We Mean It This Time) (Seriously) (The Raccoons Are Witnesses)

Diamond Funderburk stood in the doorway of Vintage Treasures by Diamond and surveyed the crowd with the suspicion of someone who’d spent seven years crying wolf about closing and was now genuinely surprised the wolf had actually shown up. Except this time, the building inspector had slapped a neon orange condemnation notice on her door that was so bright it was basically a beacon for anyone with functioning eyesight and a basic understanding of municipal code violations.

“This is it, folks! Everything must go! The city is forcing me out!” She gestured dramatically at the notice, which specifically cited “structural instability, hoarding violations, one unauthorized raccoon colony, and what appears to be a load-bearing pile of 1987 TV Guides.”

Beckley Bell arrived first, not because he wanted to, but because his wife had circled three items in the newspaper ad with red Sharpie, added threatening marginal notes, and told him not to come home without them or “we’ll see what the divorce lawyer has to say about your collection of commemorative state quarters.” He clutched the clipping like a treasure map, disappointed, scanning the densely packed merchandise with the enthusiasm of a man scheduling his own colonoscopy. The store smelled like mothballs, broken dreams, and what might have been a dead bird but could also have been vintage potpourri.

When Characters Collide (Badly) (Really, Really Badly)

“Do you have the art deco lamp from the ad?” he asked Diamond, who was busy moving price tags from one dusty item to another in what was either fraud, creative merchandising, or possibly both.

“That sold in 2019,” she snapped. “I just reused the photo because it photographs well, and also, I lost the original in a storage unit auction I couldn’t afford after the incident with the bedazzling gun. But I have this genuine Tiffany-style lamp—”

“It says Tiffany-style. My wife specified Tiffany. She was very clear. She color-coded her specifications.”

“Your wife doesn’t understand art. Or joy. Or how to support small business owners who are being persecuted by Big Government and also raccoons.”

“Raccoons are persecuting you?”

“It’s complicated.”

Wigs St. Jean burst through the door next, trailing the scent of expensive cologne, cheaper secrets, and what might have been arson. “Diamond, darling! I heard you’re actually closing this time—is it because of the thing with the… you know.” He made a vague gesture that could have meant raccoons, tax evasion, the bedazzling gun incident, or the mysterious fire at the storage facility that definitely wasn’t insurance fraud. The timing was purely coincidental.

“There is no thing, Wigs.”

“Of course not, sweetie. Your secret is safe with me.” He picked up a sequined jacket that looked like it had been worn by either Liberace, a very optimistic pimp, or possibly both at the same time in some tragic collision of bad taste and worse judgment. “Is this real Halston? Because Blade would look amazing in this. He keeps saying he needs something ‘bold’ for the gym’s anniversary party. I think he means ‘shiny.’ His English is improving, but his fashion sense is getting worse. It’s a whole thing.”

“Which Blade?” Beckley asked, despite every instinct, every fiber of his being, and several warning signs from the universe telling him not to engage.

“The current one. The Hungarian.” Wigs said this like it explained everything, which it somehow did and also didn’t. “His birth name is Balázs, but he goes by Blade now because Americans can’t pronounce anything with more than two syllables, and also he thinks it makes him sound ‘dangerous.’ I’ve told him it makes him sound like a Marvel character from a direct-to-video movie, but he doesn’t listen. The language barrier is convenient like that.”

The door opened again, and Hinkley McCormick entered, consulting his phone like it contained the secrets of the universe instead of seventeen productivity apps he’d never opened and a meditation timer that hadn’t been used since the day after he downloaded it during a panic attack at a Hampton Inn in Duluth. “According to my wellness app, I’m supposed to do something ‘spontaneously joyful‘ today. I have fifteen minutes scheduled for it between ‘strategic hydration’ and ‘intentional breathing,’ which is just breathing, but I’m supposed to think about it more. Is there anything here that promotes mindful living? Or at least looks like it does on Instagram?”

The Fellowship of the Terrible Decisions (And One Unauthorized Raccoon Colony)

“There’s a yoga mat under that stack of 1987 TV Guides,” Diamond offered, gesturing at a pile that was definitely a fire hazard, possibly a biohazard, and certainly a violation of at least seven different municipal codes. “It’s vintage. From the original yoga craze in the ’80s. Very authentic.”

“Has it been sanitized according to holistic cleaning protocols?”

“It’s been under magazines for six years. That’s basically sanitized by abandonment. Also, I think a raccoon may have nested on it briefly, but raccoons are very clean animals despite what the liberal media wants you to believe.”

“I don’t think the media has a position on raccoon hygiene.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

(This is the obituary method for character development in action, folks. Watch what happens when you throw people together who have nothing in common except zip codes, poor life choices, and a shared proximity to what is rapidly becoming a crime scene.)

Doxie Gilchrist entered next, moving through the door like she was preparing to judge it and finding it wanting, which she found everything, including sunshine, kittens, and joy. She carried a canvas bag that said “Well-Read Women Are Dangerous” in embroidered letters, though in her case, it was less of a threat and more legal documentation, and possibly evidence in several ongoing harassment complaints.

“I’m here for the books,” she announced, with the authority of someone who’d spent forty years telling children their reading choices were wrong and would lead to moral decay, poor posture, and probably communism. “The newspaper said you had a collection of rare first editions of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner.”

“Those were raccoon casualties,” Diamond admitted, which was either the truth or the most specific lie she’d ever told, and honestly, both options were equally plausible at this point.

“The raccoons ate Hemingway?”

“Nested in him. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not sure there is.”

“But I have some lovely Reader’s Digest Condensed editions from—”

“Reader’s Digest is literary vandalism printed in saddle-stitched form and distributed to people who think attention spans are a myth perpetuated by liberal arts colleges.”

“Says the woman who banned Harry Potter from the children’s section and replaced it with a 47-page manifesto about why whimsy is the enemy of critical thinking.”

“Those books promote rule-breaking and disrespect for authority figures.”

“You mean librarians?”

“I mean me. I am the authority figure. The only authority figure. The books answer to me.”

“The books are books. They don’t answer to anyone.”

“That kind of thinking is why society is collapsing.”

When Everyone’s Past Comes Home to Roost (Also: There Are Still Raccoons)

The final member of this involuntary fellowship arrived when Burgan Stokes wandered in, still wearing his captain’s hat despite being nowhere near water and also despite the hat being what the divorce lawyer had described as “Exhibit C in a pattern of increasingly concerning behavior.” “Diamond! I heard you got shut down! That’s rough. The city shut down my dock last month for ‘safety violations,’ just because I tied off to a decorative bollard at the marina, and it turned out to be decorative because it wasn’t actually bolted to anything. It was just sort of… sitting there. Looking decorative. Who knew?”

“Did anyone die?” Beckley asked, his insurance adjuster instincts kicking in like muscle memory, or PTSD, or both.

“No, but the lawsuit is still pending, and my lawyer says I should stop talking about it. So I’m not going to mention the tourist from Ohio or the lifeguard who ‘overreacted’ or the jet ski that technically wasn’t mine.”

“You just mentioned all of those things.”

“Did I? My memory is fuzzy. Probably from the concussion. Which I also shouldn’t mention.”

“I’m litigating three wellness-related lawsuits currently,” Hinkley offered, because misery loves company and also billable hours and also the validation that comes from sharing trauma with strangers in what appears to be a condemned building. “Apparently, telling employees their depression is ‘just a mindset issue’ opens you to liability. And also telling them to ‘manifest their own salary increases.’ And also the thing with the trust falls in the parking lot. Who knew traffic was a factor?”

“Everyone,” Doxie said, with the weariness of someone who has spent eighty-one years watching people be idiots and has long since given up hope for humanity. “Everyone knew that. That’s not even specialized knowledge. That’s just… knowing things. Basic things. Things an intelligent child would know. Things a raccoon would know.”

“Well, my lawyer didn’t tell me until after the second lawsuit. And technically, the third one isn’t about the traffic, it’s about the ’emotional trauma’ from watching someone fall into traffic. Which seems like splitting hairs to me.”

“It’s not splitting hairs. It’s how the law works.”

“The law is a conspiracy against small business owners trying to help people achieve synergistic wellness.”

“The law is why we don’t have anarchy.”

“Says someone who’s never tried to file a DBA in this county.”

Wigs gasped, which he did frequently and dramatically because it was basically his brand and also because he had the theatrical sensibilities of a 1940s radio drama actress who’d been stung by a bee. “You’re the consultant who got fired from that tech company! Blade’s cousin Zsófia worked there! She said you made everyone do trust falls in the parking lot, and someone fell into traffic! She said they had to call an ambulance, HR, and possibly a mortician!”

“The traffic was light. And trust falls are scientifically proven…”

“To cause back injuries, workers’ comp claims, and existential crises about whether your coworkers actually care if you die,” Beckley finished, because he’d seen Hinkley’s file and it was thicker than a phone book. If phone books still existed, which they don’t, which tells you everything you need to know about how long Hinkley’s been screwing this up and also how old these metaphors are getting.

The room fell silent, which in a room full of people who all desperately need to talk, to be heard, to be validated, to be literally anything other than alone with their thoughts, is basically a miracle on par with the loaves and fishes, except sadder and with more raccoons.

“You’re Bell from Midstate Insurance?” Hinkley’s eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he was either having a profound realization or suffering from the early stages of a migraine. “You denied my client’s claim last month! For ‘spiritual whiplash’ sustained during a mandatory wellness retreat where I may have pushed people slightly harder than their bodies and minds could handle!”

“Your client tried to claim ‘spiritual whiplash’ from a motivational seminar. That’s not a real diagnosis. I checked with three doctors and a priest.”

“The priest?”

“He seemed like he’d know.”

“Did he?”

“He said to tell you that God doesn’t take sides in insurance disputes, but if He did, you’d be screwed.”

The Interconnected Web of Terrible People (Who All Know Each Other’s Secrets)

(This is what happens when you’re creating characters from obituaries—you get real-sounding names attached to people who feel like they could walk into your local coffee shop and ruin everyone’s day just by existing too loudly. And when you throw them together in a confined space with poor ventilation and possibly rabies, they have history. They have connections. They have receipts.)

“You captain that disaster boat!” Doxie pointed at Burgan with the same finger she’d probably used to shush three generations of children and at least one Lutheran minister who’d made the mistake of talking during story time. “You told my book club that Mark Twain died in a steamboat explosion! He died in his bed in Connecticut! I have a degree in American Literature! I wrote my thesis on Twain! You gave my book club trauma!”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Burgan protested, which was technically accurate since he’d made the whole thing up twenty minutes before giving the tour, and he’d been drinking since 11 AM.

“Because you’re making it up! You make everything up! You told a group of middle schoolers that Lincoln was assassinated on your boat!”

“He could have been.”

“Your boat is from 1987, and it’s mostly duct tape!”

“It’s a replica.”

“Of what?”

“A boat. Generally. The concept of boats.”

“Listen, lady, I’ve been giving tours for seventeen years—”

“And lying for all of them,” Wigs interjected, because he knew everything about everyone within a six-block radius and most things about people within twelve, and honestly some things about people three counties over because gossip travels fast when you’re a hair stylist with boundary issues and a social media addiction. “Everyone at the salon knows your historical accuracy is worse than your OnlyFans photography. And the lighting in those is criminal. I mean, you can barely see the knitted codpiece. What’s even the point?”

“You know about that?”

“Honey, everybody knows about that. You tagged the location. You tagged the marina. You used hashtags. You hashtagged #NauticalDaddy and #KnitFluencer. You made it very, very easy to find.”

“That was supposed to be anonymous!”

“Then maybe don’t use your real name and a photo of your actual boat with the registration number visible. Just a thought. From someone who’s had to manage three different online personas and none of them have been linked to me in court documents.”

“Yet,” Doxie added.

“Yet,” Wigs agreed.

Diamond clapped her hands once, loudly, the way you clap when you’re trying to scare away pigeons or customers or possibly both, because at this point they’re equally unwelcome. “If you’re not buying anything, GET OUT! The raccoons are getting nervous, and when they get nervous, they get bitey, and I’m already dealing with one lawsuit from the bedazzling incident, and I don’t need another one!”

They all looked at her.

“There are still raccoons in here?” Beckley asked, his insurance adjuster brain already calculating liability, premium increases, and the likelihood that his company would drop Diamond entirely and possibly burn the file.

“The city said I had to evict them, but they’re not on the lease, so technically they’re squatters, and I need to go through the formal eviction process, which takes 30 days, and also they might have tenant rights now because they’ve been here for six months.”

“Raccoons don’t have tenant rights.”

“Show me the statute that specifically says that.”

“I don’t need a statute. It’s implied in the definition of tenant.”

“That’s what the city said, but my lawyer—who I found on a bus bench—disagrees.”

A chittering sound came from behind a stack of artificial Christmas trees that had been there since the Clinton administration and were possibly planning to run for office themselves.

Another chittering sound answered it.

Then another.

Then what sounded like a whole conversation among raccoons, possibly about unionizing.

“How many raccoons are there?” Hinkley asked, his voice rising in pitch like a man confronting the physical manifestation of all his poor life choices.

“I don’t like to put labels on things,” Diamond said. “But if I had to estimate… a colony. A thriving colony. A very thriving colony. They’re very happy here. Happier than most of my customers.”

“That’s not a high bar,” Wigs muttered.

The Moral of the Story (There Isn’t One, But Here’s Some Writing Advice Anyway)

Six people who had absolutely nothing in common besides terrible judgment, shared zip code, and a collective inability to make good decisions fled through the door simultaneously, leaving Diamond alone with her merchandise, her delusions, her unauthorized tenants, and a rapidly growing sense that maybe the building inspector had a point.

She looked at the condemnation notice, then at the raccoons emerging from the vintage clothes.

Then, at the raccoons emerging from the vintage furniture.

Then, at the raccoons emerging from what she’d been selling as “vintage luggage” but was clearly just raccoon condominiums.

“Well,” she told them, “at least you understand art. And property law, apparently.”

One of them knocked over the Tiffany-style lamp.

It shattered beautifully.

Another one picked up a piece of the glass and appeared to be examining it critically.

A third one chittered something that sounded suspiciously like “told you so.”

“This is fine,” Diamond said to no one in particular. “Everything is fine. This is just a temporary setback. A learning experience. A chance for growth.”

The raccoons exchanged glances.

They’d heard that before.

Why This Works (And Why You Should Absolutely Try It)

And there you have it: instant creativity thanks to the dead, supplemented with absurdity, poor judgment, and possibly rabies. The obituary method works because it gives you names that sound real, which lets you build characters that feel real, which enables you to throw them into situations where their realness can collide with other people’s realness in entertaining ways that would get you arrested if you tried them in real life.

This is better than any writing prompt you’ll find online because writing prompts are usually variations of “what if a girl found a mysterious key,” or “write about a character who can’t tell lies,” or “imagine a world where everyone can fly except for one person and that person is sad about it.” Boring. Useless. Generic. Written by people who’ve clearly never read an obituary or experienced true chaos.

But mining obituaries for character names? That’s specific. That’s weird. That’s the kind of technique that actually works when you’re staring at a blank page at 2 AM, wondering why you ever thought you could write, why anyone would want to read what you write, and whether it’s too late to go to dental school.

So next time you’re stumped, crack open the obituaries. The dead won’t mind. They’re dead. And they’re leaving behind a legacy more valuable than money, possessions, or those heartfelt memories their families keep talking about: ridiculous names that absolutely deserve a second life in fiction, probably causing problems, definitely making questionable choices, and possibly involving raccoons.

Follow me for more Writer Slump-Busting Tips that your creative writing professor would definitely frown upon but which actually work, unlike most things your creative writing professor told you, which is why you’re reading this instead of their book, which doesn’t exist, which proves my point.

---

Related Links

• How To Write Dialogue: A Masterclass From The Morons Who Shot Out My Internet
• NEW: The 10-Items-or-Less Apocalypse
• My Covid Diary: March 19, 2021
• Five for the Famous: Bill Griffith
• The Satirical Commencement Speech I’ll Give When I’m Finally Famous (Spoiler: It Won’t Be Inspirational)