Set the Intention, Not the Limitation
A warning should serve the story’s integrity, not dilute it. Before adding one, ask why you’re including it.
- Why it works: A well-placed note communicates respect. You’re telling your reader, “This work may be hard to look at—but you’re safe deciding when or whether to face it.” That decision is empowerment, not a filter. When authors like T. Kingfisher (The Twisted Ones) and Paul Tremblay (A Head Full of Ghosts) weave trauma into their narratives, the unease comes from empathy. Their content advisories—when present—frame the emotional terrain, not the plot. The goal isn’t to sanitize horror; it’s to show the reader where the edges are before they start cutting.
- How to do it: Write your content note as if you were writing lab results—clear, neutral, unembellished. Use plain language to name what appears without summarizing how or why. Keep tone consistent with your brand voice, so the transition from warning to prose feels seamless. Revisit older works and retroactively add concise notes where necessary. A warning that honors truth, not fear, sets the stage for meaningful discomfort.
Do
Be brief and factual. A single line—“This story includes medical trauma and themes of confinement”—is often enough.
Place the warning somewhere readers can find it before they begin, such as an author’s note or dedicated content page.
Avoid
Defensive phrasing. Readers don’t need to be told “it’s just fiction” or that you “don’t mean offense.”
Over-disclosure. Long lists spoil tension and remove discovery. A good warning respects both the reader’s agency and the story’s mystery.
Let Tone Do Some of the Warning for You
If your prose already signals dread, your audience will brace themselves without needing to be told.
- Why it works: Foreshadowing acts as emotional consent. Readers sense unease in the rhythm of a sentence long before the violence occurs. Think of Shirley Jackson’s opening in The Haunting of Hill House: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.” The line doesn’t warn of horror—it is horror, wrapped in civility.
- How to do it: Before writing your trigger-heavy scenes, re-establish mood in the preceding paragraphs. Let imagery thicken: a light that hums too long, a silence that overstays. Craft language that mirrors heartbeat and breath. The goal is for the reader to feel the warning before they encounter the harm. Tone, handled with precision, becomes an invisible hand on the reader’s shoulder saying, “Look closely—this will hurt.”
Do
Build warning into atmosphere. Mood prepares the reader as effectively as any preface.
Trust subtext—tension in dialogue, sensory distortion, and pacing all cue emotional readiness.
Avoid
Abrupt tonal pivots. A cheerful chapter that swerves into torture without groundwork feels manipulative, not powerful.
Relying on gore to “announce” seriousness; emotional texture will always resonate longer than shock.
From My Work
“No clear connection between cases. No known pathogen linking them.“
In Salt & Bone, Dr. Lisa Calloway’s tone performs the same function. Her calm observation tells the reader everything. She doesn’t need to scream; the detachment itself becomes the alarm.
Respect the Reader’s Right to Step Away
Readers come to horror seeking catharsis, not punishment. Give them the tools to choose when to stay and when to breathe.
- Why it works: Control is the first casualty of trauma. When a writer offers forewarning, they return a small measure of that control. The act isn’t censorship—it’s consent. Authors like Silvia Moreno-Garcia (Mexican Gothic) and Stephen Graham Jones (My Heart Is a Chainsaw) understand this instinctively; they confront atrocity but give their audience agency to step back.
- How to do it: Integrate a small author’s aside in your digital editions or blog posts: “If you need to skip this section, the next safe scene begins at Chapter X.” In print, consider page references in back matter. This approach invites inclusivity without diminishing impact. Crafting a sustainable reader relationship often matters more than a single gasp.
Do
Give readers permission to disengage. A quiet author’s note, a header like “Content Advisory,” or a toggle on your website allows choice.
Remind them that opting out is valid.
Avoid
Using warnings as dares or marketing hooks. “Too disturbing for some readers” commodifies trauma.
Mocking sensitivity; the ones who step away may still champion your work tomorrow.
From My Work
“Jack stepped aside just in time as the man slammed into the corner at full speed. The force dropped him to the floor. He twitched once. Then went still. The shard was buried deep.”
In Salt & Bone, Lisa’s confrontation with her attacker is brutal but contained within her perspective. The reader feels every tremor but never becomes a voyeur. The difference isn’t what happens—it’s whose story it is.
Use Warnings to Deepen Conversation, Not Close It
A thoughtful warning shouldn’t end discussion—it should begin one.
- Why it works: Readers remember stories that help them process the unspoken. Octavia Butler’s Kindred isn’t less powerful for its honesty about violence; it’s unforgettable because she contextualized it. Warnings can do the same: they frame horror as confrontation, not exploitation.
- How to do it: Pair your stories with brief “Behind the Pages” notes like this one. Explain why you made certain creative decisions, not what those decisions were. Invite discourse, not apology. In dark fiction, readers don’t need safety—they need clarity and honesty. When they trust that you’ve thought about their experience, they’ll follow you anywhere, even into the dark.
Do
Accompany heavy content with postscript reflection. Transparency about intent fosters trust.
Welcome conversation where readers unpack discomfort—comment sections, newsletters, or Q&As can become healing spaces.
Avoid
Vague disclaimers like “mature themes.” They help no one.
Defensive tone when explaining choices; vulnerability communicates better than justification.
Final Thoughts
Trigger warnings don’t make horror safe. They make it honest.
When handled with empathy, they tell readers: I see you. I respect your thresholds. And I’ll still take you somewhere dark—just not without a light to find the way back.
Extras
- Read about Salt & Bone (WIP)
- Sign up for the newsletter to get weekly tips
- The Twisted Ones by T. Kingfisher
- A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay (Wikipedia)
- The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (Wikipedia)
- Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
- My Heart Is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones (Wikipedia)
- Kindred by Octavia Butler