Writers are often told to “show, don’t tell.” One of the most impactful—and most overlooked—tools in a writer’s toolbox to accomplish that is the humble object.
Objects can do more than fill a setting. They can reveal character, foreshadow tension, anchor a scene, and underscore theme. A well-chosen object can carry meaning across multiple chapters, rewarding attentive readers and reinforcing story arcs without a single word of exposition.
I didn’t come to this insight on my own. It was a direct result of using Fictionary, where objects are one of the 38 story elements you can track across scenes. At first, it functioned like a checklist. Now, I build objects into my drafts almost like characters in their own right.
The things that surround your characters can tell us so much about who they are, how they think, and what matters most to them. More than props, these objects can become emotional shorthand—loaded with meaning and capable of doing some of your story’s heaviest lifting without fanfare.
Why Objects Matter
At first glance, objects might seem like minor background details. A pair of tweezers. A welcome mat. A half-dead plant. But when layered with emotional context—through a character’s relationship to it, through repetition, or symbolism—an object becomes a storytelling powerhouse.
What your characters notice, ignore, reach for, or fidget with can reveal personality, state of mind, or backstory.
Objects matter because they give your reader something concrete to hold on to while emotions swirl underneath. They can stand in for memory, desire, trauma, or transformation.
What Makes an Object Meaningful
An object becomes meaningful when it carries emotional weight for the character, and when the narrative treats it with appropriate significance. The object doesn’t need to be expensive or flashy. In fact, the more mundane, the greater the capacity to surprise the reader with its significance.
A character’s reaction to an object can tell us more than dialogue or exposition ever could. Do they shove it in a drawer? Hold it in a pocket? Avoid touching it at all?
If an object matters to the character, it should matter to the reader. And if it appears more than once—especially during high-stakes or intense scenes—it’s worth asking yourself whether it’s doing enough.
How a Necklace Became a Narrative Anchor
I discovered the potential of objects by accident, not by design.
A simple teardrop necklace worn by Dr. Aimee Sebastien, the heroine in my upcoming romantic suspense novel, In the Queen’s Service, began as a vehicle to tell the reader more about the hero. Jaden Everly is the Captain of the Queen’s Elite Guard, a trained observer who picks up on how Aimee fiddles with the necklace when she’s nervous or deep in thought.
In laying the breadcrumbs for his revelation, I saw an opportunity to use the necklace as a vessel for richer insight into the person he was observing.
I started asking myself what the necklace means to Aimee. And that’s when things got interesting.
I decided the necklace was a birthstone from a student Aimee had lost—a child whose death she believes she could have prevented. She wears it every day as a silent act of penance. It’s a reminder that the lives of the children in her care depend on her. The necklace has become her talisman of accountability. It keeps her focused, but it also keeps her tethered to grief.
As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that she’s not aware how visible that pain is—until the man she falls for points it out with understated compassion.
Jaden notices she touches it at certain times, even though she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. When he learns the story behind the necklace, he recognizes what she can’t yet articulate: it anchors Aimee not just to responsibility, but to misplaced guilt. His response reframes the necklace as a limitation.
Later, when the necklace is misplaced, his instinctive protectiveness kicks in—and Aimee, taken aback by his response, starts to experience her own emotional truth as never before. Part of what makes the moment land is the contrast between how Jaden regards the necklace and how her ex did.
Her ex, a wealthy surgeon, dismissed it as a tatty trinket—beneath someone of his status. The man she loves, on the other hand, handles it with care. He understands what it means to her, and that difference reveals volumes about each man’s motivations.
The way Jaden reacts to the necklace doesn’t just teach us about Aimee’s emotional arc—it illustrates his empathy, values, and respect for what matters to her.
She doesn’t let go of the necklace then. But when she does, it’s a pivotal emotional turning point. Not because she’s forgotten the student who died. Not because she doesn’t care anymore. But because she’s ready to forgive herself. She lays down the burden, not the memory.
The necklace, once a representation of shame and regret, becomes a poignant marker of how far Aimee has grown.
This is Chekhov’s Gun in Action
We all love a good red herring, but Chekhov’s famous writing advice still holds: “If you show a gun on the wall in Act One, it must go off by Act Three.”
The same is true for meaningful objects. If you introduce a necklace in Act One, it had better do more than sparkle.
When an object is not only present but essential—when it enriches theme, reveals character, and moves the emotional story forward—it earns its place.
Objects as Emotional Echoes
One of the most useful things about objects is that they let you echo emotional beats without repetition. Repetition can feel heavy-handed—but subtle echoes feel earned. Aimee’s necklace isn’t just jewelry. It’s a motif. And by the time she chooses to take it off, it speaks louder than any dialogue could.
But Not Every Object Needs the Spotlight
In the same wedding scene that introduces the necklace, Aimee takes a slug of Malbec to avoid interacting with a man she’s not interested in. The detail—Argentine Malbec—grounds the moment. It signals she knows what she likes and adds texture to the scene. She ends up choking on it when the Best Man catches her eye. It’s funny, awkward, and relatable.
I considered giving the wine more meaning—maybe it was her ex’s favorite or tied to a memory. But the scene already had plenty going on. In the end, it stayed a flourish, not a symbol.
That’s the beauty of objects: not all of them need to carry metaphorical weight. Sometimes a glass of wine is just a glass of wine. And that’s okay.
Five Tips for Using Objects in Writing
- Give It Meaning
The object should matter to your character. It doesn’t have to matter to everyone, but your reader should understand why it matters to them. - Let It Evolve
Objects, like characters, can grow. A treasured item might become painful. A forgotten token might gain new resonance. Let it shift alongside your character arc. - Use It to Show Intimacy or Tension
The way characters handle shared or personal objects—straightening a collar, borrowing a pen, sharing an umbrella—can signal chemistry, discomfort, or emotional stakes. - Contrast Reactions
Different characters’ relationships to the same object can reveal everything from values to privilege to power dynamics. - Let Them Go
Sometimes, the most compelling beat is when a character gives up an object that once defined them. When Aimee chooses to take off the necklace, she’s not shedding the past—she’s embracing the future.
Try This in Your Own Writing
Next time you revise a scene, look for these opportunities:
- Does your character touch, react, or return to an object in key moments?
- Can a small or ordinary object carry emotional weight?
- Can the object evolve over time—or serve as a mirror for the character’s growth?
- What happens when the object is lost, damaged, or gifted to someone else?
Track these beats across scenes. You may discover that what started as window dressing is now a major emotional touchstone that pushes you to write with increased clarity.
That’s what happened to me. In giving my hero something to notice, I gave my heroine something to hold. And it changed the whole story.
Final Thought
Objects don’t need to shout to be heard. A mug, a chair, a pair of shoes—all can have profound resonance if given the weight of memory, emotion, or intent.
When used thoughtfully, they’re not just props.
They’re mirrors. Magnifiers. Milestones.
So, the next time you write a scene, ask yourself:
What’s in your character’s hand? And why does it matter?
Want to see how this plays out on the page?
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