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The Fatal Flaw in Weak Descriptions

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Note from Jane: This guest post is adapted from 5 Editors Tackle the 12 Fatal Flaws of Fiction Writing by C.S. Lakin, Linda S. Clare, Christy Distler, Robin Patchen, and Rachel Starr Thomson.

When James Michener wrote Alaska, he spent the opening chapters describing the geological formation of the North American continent, and readers “watched” the gradual emergence of the Alaskan terrain—at just about the speed of those glaciers moving across the earth’s surface.

That style—broad, distant, and comprehensive—followed a long line of novelists from Defoe to Hugo into the last century. But like most aspects of novel writing, description has grown sharper over time.

More than any other element of fiction writing, description creates immersion. It’s important to get this one right.

In modern writing at least, description is best understood as a function of point of view. It needs to be personal. Another way to say this might be “description must reveal character.”

A common pitfall in visual description is giving a laundry list of physical characteristics, ticking every box, so to speak. But it’s hard to pick out important details from a multitude of unimportant ones—and readers will fill in a lot of gaps themselves, so much so that they can find it annoying to have every feature of someone’s face spelled out for them.

(Personally, I never could picture noses the way nineteenth-century writers tried to describe them. In my mind’s eye everyone just ended up with a nose disproportionately affixed to their face.)

The key with visual description, then, is to give just a few details—but run those details through the “reveal character” filter.

Before

April heard the sound of a window being pushed open as Richard climbed out of the second-story lookout. He made his way gingerly across the shining shingles and sat down next to April, handing her a warm travel mug.

They made an odd couple. Richard was a six-foot-two black man with a neatly trimmed beard that outlined a square jaw beneath intense brown eyes and fine eyebrows. His hair was close-shaved. He wore a well-tailored black suit, polished shoes, and a red tie. A ring on one finger was a gift from his father many years ago. His features were chiseled yet gentle. Beside him, April was a five-foot-two blonde, her hair light gold. She was slender, with pretty features, but had a toughness in her face that spoke of a past. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and a grey wool blanket was swathed around her shoulders.

The coffee warmed her quickly, and she shed the blanket, revealing black track pants, an orange tank top, and blue Nike sneakers. A rose-vine tattoo inked across her right shoulder made her look even tougher, yet with a feminine grace. Warmed by the sun, April’s shoulders and arms were well-muscled—she had the frame of a runner.

After

April heard the sound of a window being pushed open and a grunt as Richard climbed out of the second-story lookout. He made his way gingerly across the shining shingles and sat down next to April, handing her a warm travel mug.

They made an odd couple, April thought—the six-foot-two black man with a neatly trimmed beard and close-shaved hair, wearing a suit, and the five-foot-two blonde with her hair in a ponytail and a blanket swathed around her shoulders.

The coffee warmed her quickly, and she shed the blanket. The sun warmed her bare shoulders and brightened the rose-vine tattoo inked across her right. She wore a tank top and track pants and sneakers. Ready to run.

The second example (from my novel Exile) gives far less detail about these characters. But it zooms in on important ones, heightening the contrast between them and hinting at aspects of their character: Richard’s professional, self-controlled demeanor, and April’s mix of tough and vulnerable. Details like the color of their clothing, specific facial features, and muscles just distract us from seeing what’s important in this scene.

When you’re describing setting, things get even more interesting (here I’m borrowing from Exile as well):

Before

Reese stood in the living room of a small cottage on a cliff, looking out over the ocean. The room was longer than it was wide, with low sloping ceilings. Windows covered three sides from a foot above the floor to just below the ceiling. The fourth side sported faded wallpaper patterned with fishing boats and nets. Cobwebs in the corners made it obvious the inhabitants didn’t clean much. Stacks of books and old magazines sat on the shag carpet next to a worn-out plaid wool couch. They were dusty. The air in the room was warm and smelled slightly burnt from the old electric space heater positioned behind the couch.

Outside, a storm raged over the water. Black tumultuous clouds. Forked lightning and thunder. Rain pelted across the water in sheets. Waves whipped up in a white-capped frenzy. To the right she could see the town and the masts of boats in the harbor, bobbing in the storm. Far below, the headlights of a car winding its way along a cliff road streamed through the wet darkness.

After

With windows on three sides that covered nearly the whole wall, the room made Reese feel enveloped by the storm. Black tumultuous clouds. Forked lightning. Thunder that shook the walls. Pelting rain. It was a classic coastal storm, wind slamming the cliffs and churning the sea in a white frenzy she could just see from here, despite the darkness.

She stood by the window, placed a hand on the glass. Thunder cracked, and the glass strained against the wind howling up the cliff and battering the cottage.

Surrounded by the storm—except that she stood behind windows, in the warmth, smelling the faint burnt smell of an old heater, wrapped up and clean and dry except for her hair.

She sighed and leaned her head against the window as if it were too heavy to hold up on her own.

I like the atmosphere conjured up by the first passage, but it focuses so much on various details of the room that it fails to use the setting effectively to reveal character and mood. Rather than revealing the story, it leaves it behind for a while.

The second passage, on the other hand, focuses on the storm, on the way Reese feels swallowed by it, and on the strong contrast between the turmoil outside and the warm atmosphere within, all of which mirrors what’s happening in Reese’s own heart and in the plot of the novel.

In this example, yes, we’re getting a setting. But we’re also getting insight into a character and forward motion in the story itself.

And well-written description doesn’t just create a setting for your story; it can also contribute to theme, and of course, mood. If you’ve ever read a story that felt dark, or light, or gritty, or weird, or mythic, chances are that mood owed a lot to the author’s use of descriptive detail.

One final word on the subject: while you’re writing, try not to overthink description. Throw yourself into the scene and write what comes. The example passages in this post strongly reflect the themes of the book, but I didn’t think about that while I was writing them. In fact, it’s overthinking that’s more liable to get you writing laundry lists.

Steep yourself into the mood of the story. Write. Then go back and make sure the details are doing what you need them to do.

For more before-and-after examples, check out 5 Editors Tackle the 12 Fatal Flaws of Fiction Writing by C.S. Lakin, Linda S. Clare, Christy Distler, Robin Patchen, and Rachel Starr Thomson.

Magazine Writing: How to Break In at the Very Top

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Note from Jane: This post is an excerpt from The Essential Guide to Freelance Writing: How to Write, Work, and Thrive on Your Own Terms (Writer’s Digest Books) by Zachary Petit (@zacharypetit).

Let’s take a moment to discuss a potential game changer in your career.

Common journalistic wisdom has always held that you need to start all the way at the bottom of the sea floor, and you can then work your way up to the gratifying oxygen gulp that is a major publication. It’s sound advice—and logical advice, when you consider how many people have gotten their start that way—but it’s not the only advice.

Want to write for the New York Times? Well, try it.

Allow me to explain. When I started at Writer’s Digest, I was put in charge of the nonfiction column, which at the time was written by a brilliant, charming, hilarious Manhattan writer named Susan Shapiro.

In one of the columns I edited, she suggested going straight for the top and writing for the big boys and girls right out of the gate. I’m a journalist by nature, meaning I’m overly skeptical and a tad surly about most things.

Bullshit, I first thought.

But over the years, I saw it work. Susan teaches a class, “Instant Gratification Takes Too Long,” which, again, may sound like snake oil for writers who should instead be toiling away for thirty years at a newspaper before attempting to pitch the big guns. But then you look at her students, all previously unpublished writers, and you see their first bylines in the New York Times, an assortment of major women’s magazines, and many other outlets.

She and her students are proof that you don’t necessarily have to start at the bottom. If you shoot for the top and you’ve got the chops, you might get there. Obviously, landing your first clip in general is a gratifying and thrilling prospect no matter where it is. But it doesn’t hurt to have a powerhouse under your belt.

So how do you do it? In my opinion, it depends on what you write.

The chances of having no clips or reporting experience and landing 
an investigative journalistic feature in Wired magazine are nil. Editors need to know and feel confident that you can do what you’re proposing to do for such a piece, and seeing previous examples of that work helps them sleep better at night. Moreover, the highest echelon of publications, like, say, the New Yorker, has thousands of writers querying it at any one time, and competition is hilariously fierce.

Once, at the New Yorker’s office high in the Manhattan clouds, I asked the features editor what it takes to break into the magazine with a feature article. His advice: Wait—years, if need be—until you have that one perfect, refined idea that you feel truly merits the scale and readership of the publication.

Now, that may sound like the sort of arrogant counsel you’d expect from the New Yorker, but it’s true. You’ve got to present your very best to such publications, and you’ve got to have an idea that will blow them out of the water. Otherwise you’re wasting their time and, moreover, yours. (For the record, I’m still trying waiting to come up with that pitch.)

Again, breaking into the top when you’re all the way at the bottom depends on what you write. A big journalistic feature? Not likely. But if you can pen a shorter piece ahead of time and submit it to an editor complete, rather than pitching it, then you’ve gained a rare advantage: Your writing can speak for itself. (This is called on-spec writing and is admittedly a controversial subject.)

Essay sections—which, as mentioned earlier, an overwhelming amount of magazines, online outlets, and major newspapers, publish—can be a great way to break into the big leagues. Write a great essay, and an editor will publish it. Simple as that. She doesn’t care in the least if you haven’t been published anywhere else first. She wants a fresh voice and a good piece. At Writer’s Digest, I published dozens of essays from people no one had heard of but who could write their faces off.

Susan is a big advocate of what she calls “The Humiliation Essay”—in which a writer reveals all and channels his most embarrassing story for readers in print. (Susan wrote a piece on this for me. Check out “No Reservations.”) And, as I’ve seen many times now, it works. Match your essay idea to a fitting section in a publication, and you’ve got a good recipe on your hands.

When it comes to that first clip: If you’ve got something good, go big (meaning send it to your favorite powerhouse publication). If it doesn’t hit, work your way down the list, get it published, and then work your way back up with your next articles.

For more on freelance writing, check out Zachary Petit’s The Essential Guide to Freelance Writing, just released from Writer’s Digest Books.

The Basics of Point of View for Fiction Writers

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Note from Jane: This post is an excerpt from Writing Your Novel from Start to Finish: A Guidebook for the Journey by Joseph Bates, just released by Writer’s Digest Books.

Point of view, or POV, has to do with the narrator’s relationship to what’s being said:

Is the narrator a participant in the events being told, an observer of those events, or someone reconstructing the events from a distance?
Does the narrator announce its presence openly or try to remain invisible?
Is the narrator seemingly dispassionate and detached, or does the narrator have a clear opinion of, or stake in, the story?
Is the narrator qualified to tell the story in terms of access to information and the ability to provide that information to us? And do we trust what’s being said?

All are questions you have to ask yourself of POV, as each kind opens up and allows certain freedoms in telling a story while limiting or denying others. The goal in selecting a point of view is not simply finding a way to convey information but being able to tell it the right way, making the world you create understandable and believable.

The following is a brief rundown of the basic forms of POV available to you and a description of how they work.

First-Person Singular

Characterized by the use of “I,” this POV reveals an individual’s experience directly through the narration. This is the most common form of first person, with a single character telling a personal story and what it means or meant, how it feels or felt, to him or her. The information given is limited to the first-person narrator’s direct experience (what she sees, hears, does, feels, says, etc.) and a certain degree of indirect experience (hearsay, conjecture, deduction, emotions, and anything else that has to do with interpreting or inventing information rather than witnessing it).

The payoff of first person is a sense of reader immediacy with what the character experiences—particularly useful in genres that truck in suspense—as well as a sense of intimacy and connection with the character’s mindset, emotional state, and subjective reading of the events described.

Consider the closeness the reader feels to character, action, the physical setting, and emotion all within the first paragraph of Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games via Katniss’s first-person narration (an immediacy furthered by the use of present tense):

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

Other examples of classic first-person singular novels include The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler, and The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (though this last might fall just as easily into the unreliable narrator category).

Pros: The first-person singular can make for an intimate and effective narrative voice—almost as if the narrator is speaking directly to the reader, sharing something private. This is a good choice for a novel that is primarily character-driven, where the character’s personal state of mind and development are the main interests of the book. It can also be an effective choice for novels wherein suspense plays a role in the basic plot, such as detective or mystery novels, so the reader shares in the protagonist or narrator’s level of tension.

Cons: Because the POV is limited to the narrator’s own knowledge and experiences, any events that take place outside the narrator’s observation have to come to her attention in order to be used in the story. A novel with a large cast of characters, or several crucial characters all doing and experiencing their own equally important things in different places, might be difficult to convey in a first-person novel unless the narrator happens to be a voyeur, or a spy, or a psychic who can observe different people in different locations at once. (This is a joke. Please don’t have a psychic first-person narrator who gets around this problem by saying, “I psychically intuited Bob was across town getting a haircut.”)

First-Person Plural

Characterized by the use of “we,” this POV uses a collective of individuals narrating as one. This is far less common than the first-person singular, but it can be powerful in that it combines the personality and intimacy of first person with some of the abilities of omniscient third person. This is a POV you might use when a community endures some common experience and begins relating it, trying to understand it as a group. The ready example is William Faulkner’s short story “A Rose for Emily” in which the fictional town of Jefferson, Mississippi, comes to terms with the eccentric life, death, and secrets of its most unusual citizen, Miss Emily Grierson, a holdover from an Old South that no longer exists. Note the communal, even gossipy, feel of the opening line of the story, fueled by the town’s morbid curiosity about the reclusive old woman:

When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant—a combined gardener and cook—had seen in at least ten years.

Some contemporary examples include The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides and Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris. The latter novel begins with the collective POV of office workers.

We were fractious and overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen.

Pros: Behaves like first-person singular in its personality and subjectivity but also like third-person omniscient in that it’s made up of not one person but many, able to witness more than a single person could. Individuals pop out of the “we” to provide needed information and then recede back into the collective.

Cons: Still a first-person voice and thus limited to the direct experiences of the members of the collective. It can also become tedious with the constant collective presence, so the author should take care to utilize both the intimate and public aspects, even letting the reader occasionally forget that the story is first person and not the more expansive third.

Second Person

The second person takes as its main character “you,” telling us what you do or who you are (“You walk to the sink and brush your teeth.”) or sometimes coming in the form of commands or instructions (“Walk to the sink. Brush your teeth.”). You’ll more frequently see this POV used in short stories, where there’s less room for error and redundancy; it can be especially difficult to sustain in a longer work for two (related) reasons: The novelty might be distracting for a reader in the long run, and the reader might rebel against being part of the narrative in the way the POV suggests, thinking to himself as the narrative orders him around No I don’t. No I won’t. No I’m not.

Nevertheless, the second person can create an unusual relationship between reader and text: On the one hand, the “you” character is always a distinct personality unto itself, with traits, motivations, and an identity all its own, but on the other hand, the reader slowly begins identifying with, and feeling close or even equal to, that persona. The character is separate from us but also the same. This can be particularly effective when we’re faced with a character who is in some way flawed and who we might be inclined to dismiss in the first person or the third. It’s more difficult to dismiss such a character in the second person because the character is, to some degree, you.

An example is Italo Calvino’s novel If on a winter’s night a traveler, which places the reader in the position of the main character:

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room.

Other examples of second-person POV include the novels Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerny and Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins, as well as the short story collection Self-Help by Lorrie Moore.

Pros: This POV creates a close bond between reader and character, with the second-person character both its own autonomous entity, separate from us, and at the same time an entity we identify with and feel equal to. This unusual relationship between reader and character—and the novelty of the voice and how it functions—can be interesting and engaging when it works.

Cons: The novelty of the voice alone isn’t enough to sustain a full novel. The second person must also be purposeful, bringing us in close to a character or situation that we might not automatically feel close to or identify with in other POVs; we believe it in the second person because it happens to us.

Third-Person Limited

This POV is characterized by the use of “he” or “she” and the character’s name, as in, “John hated math. He hated it immensely.” Unlike third-person omniscient, the third limited spends the entirety of the story in only one character’s perspective, sometimes as if looking over that character’s shoulder and sometimes going inside the character’s mind, and the events are filtered through that character’s perception (though less directly than first-person singular).

Thus, third-person limited has some of the closeness of first singular, letting us know a particular character’s thoughts, feelings, and attitudes on the events being narrated, while also having the ability to pull back from the character to offer a wider perspective or view not bound by the protagonist’s opinions or biases, thus being capable of calling out and revealing those biases (in often subtle ways) and showing the reader a clearer way of reading the character than the character himself would allow. Third-person limited is also useful in a novel where the protagonist is in a state of not-knowing regarding some aspect of plot, such as we see in mystery and suspense novels, and the tension that comes from the protagonist’s trying to piece things together, from his limited view, becomes the reader’s.

Saul Bellow’s Herzog offers a great example of the balance in third-person limited between closeness to a character’s mind-set and the ability of the narrator to nevertheless maintain a level of removal. The novel’s protagonist, Moses Herzog, has fallen on hard times personally and professionally and has perhaps begun to lose his grip on reality, as the novel’s famous opening line tells us. Using third-person limited allows Bellow to clearly convey Herzog’s state of mind, and to make us feel close to him, while employing narrative distance to order the prose and give us perspective on the character.

If I am out of my mind, it’s all right with me, thought Moses Herzog.

Some people thought he was cracked and for a time he himself had doubted that he was all there. But now, though he still behaved oddly, he felt confident, cheerful, clairvoyant, and strong. He had fallen under a spell and was writing letters to everyone under the sun. He was so stirred by these letters that from the end of June he moved from place to place with a valise full of papers. He had carried this valise from New York to Martha’s Vineyard, but returned from the Vineyard immediately; two days later he flew to Chicago, and from Chicago he went to a village in western Massachusetts. Hidden in the country, he wrote endlessly, fanatically, to the newspapers, to people in public life, to friends and relatives and at last to the dead, his own obscure dead, and finally the famous dead.

Some other useful examples of third-person limited narration include Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, and the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling (though Rowling sparingly enters omniscient mode to cover all of the events and significant backstory of the books, even if the novels are primarily presented through Harry’s perspective via the third limited).

Pros: It offers the closeness of first person while maintaining the distance and authority of third and allows the author to explore a character’s perceptions while providing perspective on the character or events that the character himself doesn’t have. It also allows the author to tell an individual’s story closely without being bound to that person’s voice and its limitations.

Cons: Since all of the events narrated are filtered through a single character’s perceptions, only what that character experiences directly or indirectly can be used in the story (as is the case with first-person singular).

Third-Person Omniscient

Characterized by the use of “he” or “she,” and further characterized by having the powers of God, this POV is able to go into any character’s perspective or consciousness and reveal his or her thoughts; able to go to any time, place, or setting; privy to information the characters themselves don’t have; and able to comment on events that have happened, are happening, or will happen. The third-person omniscient voice is really a narrating personality unto itself, a kind of disembodied character in its own right—though the degree to which the narrator wants to be seen as a distinct personality, or wants to seem objective or impartial (and thus somewhat invisible as a separate personality), is up to your particular needs and style.

The third-person omniscient is a popular choice for novelists who have big casts and complex plots, as it allows the author to move about in time, space, and character as needed, though this is also a potential drawback of the voice: Too much freedom can lead to a lack of focus, spending too many brief moments in too many characters’ heads so that we never feel grounded in any one particular experience, perspective, or arc.

Here’s a good guiding principle: As a general rule, each chapter—and perhaps even each individual scene—should primarily focus on one particular character and perspective. Imagine how exhausting it would be to read a scene with five characters sitting around a table, each with something to hide, and the narrative moving line by line into each character’s shifty mind: “I wonder if Johnny knows about Bob?” “Kay is looking at me funny. I wonder if she knows what Johnny knows.” “If only Johnny knew that I know about Bob and Kay.” “I’m Kay and I’m not sure why everyone is looking at me and Bob.” Yikes. So you want to use the powers of the POV selectively and for a reason, without abusing those powers. In other words, don’t use the freedom of omniscience as a substitute for, or as a shortcut to, real tension, drama, and revelation.

An example is the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke, which uses an omniscient narrator to manage a large cast. Here you’ll note some hallmarks of omniscient narration, notably a wide view of a particular time and place, freed from coming through solely one character’s perspective, and it certainly evidences a strong aspect of storytelling voice, the “narrating personality” of third omniscient that acts almost as another character in the book (and will help maintain book cohesion across a number of characters and events):

SOME YEARS AGO there was in the city of York a society of magicians. They met upon the third Wednesday of every month and read each other long, dull papers upon the history of English magic.

Other examples include The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and White Teeth by Zadie Smith.

Pros: You have the storytelling powers of God, able to go anywhere and dip into anyone’s mind-set or consciousness. This is particularly useful for novels with large casts and where the events or characters are spread out over, and separated by, time or space. A narrative personality emerges from third-person omniscience with the narration becoming a kind of character in its own right, able to offer information and perspective not available to the main characters of the book.

Cons: Jumping from consciousness to consciousness—especially as a shortcut to dramatic tension and revelation—can lead to a story that is forever shifting in focus and perspective, like a mind reader on the fritz. To avoid this, consider each scene as having a particular character and question as its focal point and consider how the personality that comes through the third-person omniscient narrative voice helps unify the disparate action.

Making the Right Choice for Your Story and Genre

To a certain degree we don’t really choose a POV for our project; our project chooses POV for us. If we were writing a sprawling epic, for example, we wouldn’t choose a first-person singular POV, with our main character constantly wondering what everyone back on Darvon-5 is doing. If we were writing a whodunit, we wouldn’t choose an omniscient narrator who jumps into the butler’s head in chapter one and has him think I dunnit. Our story tells us how it should be told, and once we find the right POV and approach, we realize our story couldn’t have been told any other way.

For more on point of view in fiction from Joseph Bates, check out Writing Your Novel from Start to Finish.

Can You Promote a Book without Making Yourself Miserable?

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Note from Jane: Today’s guest post is adapted from Write without Crushing Your Soul: Sustainable Publishing and Freelancing by Ed Cyzewski (@edcyzewski).

“I’ve never seen an author work as hard as you,” my publicist wrote after a book release.

I wanted to print out that email so that I could either frame it on my wall or burn it in the alley behind our house. I couldn’t decide which I wanted to do more.

I love to write books, but I don’t love book releases, even if my publicist praised my effort.

Almost every author I know jumps into book marketing with very mixed feelings. Authors are committed to the long, slow process of writing, so the fast-paced, socially awkward, time-sensitive demands of promotion prove difficult and draining for many authors. Even worse than that, many new authors know next to nothing about marketing and feel slimy when jumping into it, but we’re still tempted to measure our personal worth and the value of our books based on our sales numbers.

How do you promote a book well without bringing misery on yourself? Here are a few ideas that I discuss in my book Write without Crushing Your Soul.

When Bad Marketing Happens to Good Writers

The first time one of my books completely bombed, I went into a tailspin of self-doubt, self-loathing, and an overall sense of doom about my career. Some of my sales struggles in the past have come from a poorly titled book or a marketing plan that didn’t effectively target my core audience, but regardless, I’ve always been tempted to take my sales numbers personally.

When I finally turned my sales around on a subsequent project, I finally accepted that sales are just numbers. Book sales tell you a very small slice of the story about your book and your work, but they are far from the full picture. Slumping sales may indicate that you need to change some things, but they aren’t definitive proof that you need to give up or even that your book is worthless.

Very few authors believe they have sold enough books. Don’t seek personal validation for your career through book sales.

Commit to your writing as a mission or calling to serve a particular audience, and let the feedback from your audience determine whether you have been successful. The results of marketing campaigns are difficult to predict, so don’t let sales numbers determine whether you have served your readers effectively or whether you should keep writing. However, don’t ignore your sales numbers completely, since they may indicate that you need to try something else in order to reach your audience.

Stop Imitating Another Author’s Path to Success

During a meeting with one author, she shared with me how much she loved helping a friend with a podcast, but blogging was an absolute chore for her. However, she persisted in blogging because “That’s what you do to get noticed by publishers.”

I’ve been there, and it’s true that many of my contacts with publishers have come about because of my blog. For many authors today a thriving blog is all but assumed.

However, I suggested to my friend that many of the most successful bloggers I know live and breathe blogging. In addition, I personally can’t stop thinking of ideas I want to blog about. In her case, she had untapped artistic and audio talents that she had overlooked. I was also able to share how I had unintentionally copied the way another author uses Twitter because I thought successful authors need to use Twitter just like him. However, I made myself miserable in the process and ultimately struggled to make progress in my career by copying him.

Don’t lose your personality, quirks, and passions by trying to imitate the success of another author. In fact, you may not find your voice or tap into your greatest talents if you try to duplicate what made a fellow author successful. One of the most successful bloggers I personally know told me that she has reached more readers through her podcast than her blog.

Marketing Experts Disagree about What Works

At a writing conference I had some time to sit down with my publicist to plan my next book release. I mentioned that I was just wrapping up a fairly traditional publicity campaign for a book with a different publisher that included radio interviews and ads in magazines. She startled me with her reply: “It’s not working, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really not working,” I replied.

“That doesn’t work for most books,” she said.

Mind you, there are some well-known authors who can drive book sales through interviews and ads, but for the majority of midlist or independent authors, we’re going to run into conflicting advice from one publisher to another. In most cases, a relatively unknown author will struggle to sell books through traditional media advertising.

Having worked with several publishers over the years, I’ve noticed how different publicity departments can be from each other. While one publisher emphasizes Twitter followers, another looks at your email list, and yet another wants connections at magazines, conferences, and bookstores. There are certain trends that appear more common than others, but if a particular publicity practice strikes you as draining or ineffective for your book, there are plenty of options out there to consider, and there’s a chance you can find an expert who can walk you through it.

That also means that authors should consider whether a publisher’s marketing team is a good fit for reaching their particular audiences. Most publishers have a standard marketing plan that is the basis of what they do, and it may be wise to find out how your network and viability as an author match up with your publisher’s marketing preferences.

Diminishing Returns for Trying to Do It All

I once asked an editor at one of the Big Five publishers about balancing traditional with new media advertising, and she said to do all of the traditional stuff and to then do the new media stuff until I dropped. That may have been realistic for success with a Big Five publisher, but it’s hardly possible for the average author who wants to have family time, personal pursuits, or some sort of spiritual practice each day.

I tried to follow her advice for a season, but over time I found that trying to dive into all of the social media marketing options out there at the same time meant I did all of them poorly. Instead, I focused on improving my newsletter, sharing my real-time, off-the-record thoughts about being a person of faith in the publishing industry. I got more specific and personal with my audience, and I immediately noticed an increased response from my readers. I also built my email list by giving away short ebooks, which I find much more enjoyable to write than anything I can cobble together on social media.

Most strikingly, connecting with readers in a personally authentic way ensured that my newsletters receive the highest engagement when I’m true to myself rather than writing sales pitches or offering “special deals.” I’ve unintentionally built something that only works if I interact with it in ways that I personally find healthy and authentic. I don’t want to spend my day crafting pithy, quotable tweets or hunting down potentially viral content for my Facebook page, but the people who appreciate my newsletter are more likely to follow me on social media after reading my longer form content.

You’re Never Done Promoting a Book

The hardest thing about sustainably promoting a book is that you’ll never reach an official finish line. There’s always one more book to sell and one more reader to ask for a review. That alone can bring about burnout and misery.

This may be the worst publishing advice you’ll ever read, but I don’t set sales goals or anything numerical as a goal during my book promotions.

I budget a set amount of time and prioritize certain actions. For instance, I make sure I write some guest posts, send some emails to my list, share copies with my friends and colleagues, and run a few sales or ads on ebook promotion sites.

When I run out of time, that’s that. I need to wait until the following week in order to follow up on anything else that didn’t fit into my release week time slots. In the weeks that follow, I try to find a few new ways to share my books with readers rather than constantly pushing for more exposure. Even saving the most popular book-related posts on my blog in Pocket and then dropping them into Buffer each week can help keep your book in front of new readers. Publicist Tim Grahl calls this slow and steady approach a “long game” book release.

Finding Your Voice in Book Marketing

Spiritual director and author Tara Owens shared in a recent interview on my blog that an author’s voice is perhaps one of the most important aspects of a writing career. Without finding, nurturing, and guarding your voice, you’ll most likely struggle, burn out, or quietly wish you could do something else.

Book marketing is much the same. Just as you need to find your voice to write a book, you need to find your voice in order to share a book with your audience.

There are more publicity tasks than you could ever learn, there are never enough hours in a day, and publishers are far from united in their opinions on the best way to market a book. You may as well develop a few key ways to reach readers that are sustainable and authentic that capitalize on your strengths.

You can’t always control the effectiveness of your book marketing plan, but you can control the way that book marketing impacts your relationships, mental health, and spirituality. If you hope to make a career out of writing, it’s especially important that your publicity practices leave something of yourself for the next book.

For more about writing sustainably, check out Write without Crushing Your Soul: Sustainable Publishing and Freelancing, on sale for $1.99 the week of November 9 via Kindle, iBooks, Nook, and Kobo.

So You Want to Write for Television?

Note from Jane: Today’s guest post is by Greg White (@eatgregeat), a TV industry vet who contacted me more than a year ago about the editing and publishing of his memoir, The Pink Marine. This month, he celebrates the launch of that book, and I invited him to offer some insight into the differences between writing for the page and writing for the (small) screen.

I’m a new author but an old writer. I have a TV writing background, so I thought all of my sitcom experience would translate into the literary world.

Wrong. It’s like using my Spanish to find a restaurant in France. I eat; but I don’t recognize everything on my plate.

I wanted to write my Marine Corps bootcamp story as a book. How hard could it be? I dove in and typed “Chapter One” instead of “Fade In.”

As I moved past the first draft The Pink Marine, and into the business part of the book process, I called my TV agent. I needed his business guidance, contacts—his muscle. I went on and on for five minutes about how thrilled he must be to bring my book to market.

Turns out “It’s your lucky day, I’m finally writing that book!” sounds to a TV agent like the teacher on the TV show Peanuts.

“Wahhhhh whaaa wwwwahhh.”

Thankfully, I have that Marine Corps thing that I call into action. I made a plan, found Jane Friedman and she got me speaking the right language. And I continue to write sitcoms as well as cook on television (and write those scripts) while I work on my next book.

I still have gobs to learn about the book world, but I’d love to share a few bits about the TV genre. I wrote for Norman Lear (don’t worry, as a Marine, I’m strong enough to pick up any name I drop). He once stopped me in the hall; I’m guessing he smelled my newness.

“There’s room enough in this business for everyone,” he said.

He’s right. It’s not easy to find that room. If it were, imagine the crowd.

Still want to write TV?

Great! Wait, not so fast.

First, watch TV—really watch it.

Study the type of show to which you feel most connected. Pay attention to what happens the moment before a commercial—and there are still Act Breaks on ad-free networks like Netflix and Amazon shows, #thankyouShakespeare.

Listen to the characters.

I recommend Friends. It’s not only funny, but also the writers served six main characters. Notice if Monica enters a room that’s on fire, she reacts only with the words available to her based on her background, education, and experience. Now let Phoebe walk in that burning room and you’ll hear an entirely different speech. And Ross? We all know he won’t even go in the room.

Point is, like in your novel, your characters can’t sound the same. They’re not you, yet you have to get inside their imaginary minds and be them.

Rome the miniseries wasn’t written in a day. Once you can guess the character’s next move—and you’re ruining television watching for anyone in the room with you—you’re ready to write a spec script. There are two types: one of an existing show, and one of a show you create.

Write a script for an existing show.

Kind of like an audition, you’ll write a script for a show already in progress. Yep, in order to be considered to write on any show, producers must see that you can copy someone else. Not just mimic—be better, be clever, be great. A voice that “gets it.” Gandhi preached “be the change,” but the Marines taught me to “fit the mold.” I don’t have to tell you who wins in a Gandhi/Marine battle. (Note to self: write that script.)

Make it look right.

Hollywood’s all about appearances. Search a site like Simply Scripts and legally download one from the show you plan to emulate. Type your pages as they do. Some have Scene A, B, C, etc. Others list them by 1, 2, 3. How many act breaks? How many pages are they? Yours must look exactly like that. Am I saying that TV executives aren’t very intelligent? Not the ones reading this. #letsdolunch

TV is formulaic.

Act One, Act Two, sometimes Act Three, then Fade Out. Many shows are now filmed; therefore they look like a movie script where there’s a new scene with any time or location change.

Here’s a sample of a single-camera filmed script scene. Notice that you write with a greater economy of words in a script. In a book, you can use a hundred words to describe how the color green makes you feel, but in script, paint the scene quickly and then get your characters talking. It’s okay to write entertaining stage directions but always put clever words in your character’s mouths. They need to spit out gold nuggets.

INT. SQUADBAY – Night

Gandhi and a Marine wrestle. Twenty other Marines are crowded around. Mother Teresa is in the corner taking bets. It’s not going well for Gandhi.

GHANDI

I wish you peace, brother.

MARINE

I wish I could quit you.

MOTHER TERESA

Less talking, more fighting, bitches.

Old people cussing is comedy gold. Along the way I’ve learned a few other rules, brief enough to embroider on a pillow:

I never learn anything from praise.
If I have to explain a joke to someone, cut it.

Of course you’re also free to create your own show and write the pilot episode. They say there are only six great ideas, so go for it. Your own life is probably a sitcom or a drama right? I bet you work with a bunch of characters. That’s how shows happen. And it can happen to you. But before the hijinks commence …

Make your show unique.

Why your show? Those TV execs I spoke of don’t have all day. Shape your idea into an “elevator pitch.” You enter with eight Warner Brothers suits. You’re already going down—you get six floors to lift them up with your fascinating tale. When you hit the lobby, you don’t want them to change the channel.

My book is optioned for television. The producers go out with this pitch: The Pink Marine is Orange Is The New Black meets Private Benjamin.

Were I pitching Pride and Prejudice: Sex in the City meets Downton Abbey.

Make your show last.

In addition to the pilot script, your situation must have storylines that are sustainable for at least four years. That’s the number of seasons that produced shows hit syndication and pay dirt for all. Those mink-lined indoor swimming pools don’t pay for themselves after one episode.

Tell us what happens in episode two. And then? After that? You’ll boast of wild plot twists in year two. And bizarre stuff in year three. Guess who dies at the end. Oh wow—I have to watch that show!

About the business side …

Today’s writing staffs are smaller. Gone are the days where Roseanne had thirty-two writers. She issued football jerseys and called for a joke, “You, #28, what’s a funnier word for orange?” #28 replied, “Kumquat” because “k” sounds are funnier in television dialogue (see rumaki, kabob, kaboom).

Hours are long and you might be in the same room with these weirdoes, so as in any job interview you have to be someone they want to spend fourteen hours a day with. (BTW, a script doesn’t get funnier at 4 a.m., just more weird.)

You got homework.

Read Variety and Deadline every day. They’re free and you must know who the players are. Yes you do have time; get off Facebook (unless you’re following my EatGregEat page).

If you’re still turned on by the idea of television writing, I’m sure you’ve heard it’s a humbling business. Remember how I told you that The Pink Marine is optioned as a TV series? I’m not an executive producer/showrunner level writer, so I probably won’t get to adapt the book.*

Look, I had no idea what I was doing when I enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. But I reached the rank of Sergeant. If I can become a U.S. Marine, you can write for television.

I wish everyone success. Television is a good medium for writers to find work. If you’re not in Los Angeles, you can still start the process. Write your spec scripts, send queries to agents, take an online course from UCLA. And be a shameless self-promoter—you probably don’t even realize that I plug myself all the time on Twitter and Instagram and in case I forgot to mention it, I have a book you should buy.

Don’t give up. And never ever ever listen to anyone that says too much TV is bad for you.

* In case my agent reads this, please know that I am totally up for that job.

5 On: David Corbett

David Corbett discusses the oft and widely lamented decline in our country’s writing skills, his personal approach to marketing, writing to the market vs. writing to the passion, and more in this week’s 5 On interview.

David Corbett (@DavidCorbett_CA) is a recovering Catholic, ex-PI, and onetime bar band gypsy who’s written five novels, numerous stories, multiple scripts, and far too many poems. One novel was a New York Times Notable Book, another an Edgar nominee. The latest, The Mercy of the Night, was published in April 2015. Two of his stories have been selected for Best American Mystery Stories and his book on craft, The Art of Character, has been called “a writer’s bible.” He lives with his adorable wife and insane dog in Vallejo, California, which really, truly isn’t the hellhole it’s cracked up to be.

5 on Writing

CHRIS JANE: You’re eleven years old and someone happens upon you (where would you be? bedroom? dining room table? tree house?) reading. What are you likely to be reading, and what book or author (or TV show/play/film) first made you want to write?

DAVID CORBETT: By age eleven I’d pretty much read all the Hardy Boy offerings then available as well as most of the We Were There books, a young adult series of historical novels I devoured, with each one placing young teens at historically significant events: We Were There at the Battle of the Bulge, We Were There on the Oregon Trail, We Were There at the Opening of the Erie Canal, etc. Also around this time I was either transitioning out of or into a series of young adult sports novels (primarily football, my passion) written by Sports Illustrated legend Tex Maule.

If I’m not mistaken, I’d moved on to the Random House Landmark series by then—histories for young readers—and I remember in particular loving the books on Wild Bill Hickok, the Pony Express, the battles of Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima (and a more general history of the Marine Corps), and the French Foreign Legion. I also developed an interest in the Civil War (and a particular obsession with John Singleton Mosby, the “Gray Ghost”), as well as World War II, and read just about anything I could get my hands on about either. I was, after all, a boy.

But then, in sixth grade, a new kid moved into our parish and enrolled at Our Lady of Peace, the parochial school I attended. His name was Mike Enright, he became my best friend, and we bonded in particular over books. He turned me on to Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, and H.P. Lovecraft (and later would be responsible for introducing me to Tolkein, Kafka, Wallace Stevens, and John Hawkes).

I also remember both of us in sixth grade slogging unhappily through Treasure Island, which for whatever reason failed to appeal to me then. Now it’s one of my fondest reading experiences, but perhaps I wasn’t yet ready at eleven for a real prose stylist like Stevenson. An embarrassing admission, but …

I didn’t seriously begin reading crime fiction until I began working as a private investigator in my thirties. I watched a lot of crime-related films, but my understanding of the genre was woefully limited until then.

As for where you’d find me reading at age eleven: virtually anywhere. My brother, who was not much of a reader, resented how often I had my face planted in a book, especially during long car trips, because it meant he had no one to talk to.

You ask readers in your book The Art of Character to think about who they identify as their ideal reader when they want to feel inspired to do their best work. Who is (are) yours these days?

I tend to write as though one of several of my favorite writers might be reading. Specifically Richard Price, Pete Dexter, Kate Atkinson, and/or Martha Gellhorn (unfairly known primarily as Hemingway’s wife, but a brilliant writer who deserves wider acclaim). I think if I tried to envision my historical idols—Kafka, Conrad, Austen, Stendahl—I’d never be able to write a word. So my advice comes with a caveat.

With all the details you load into your three-dimensional characters, how do you track them all, and how do you keep their images, their Selves, clear in your mind? Do you keep notes in a spiral? Have an Excel spreadsheet?

I write out extensive biographies of my characters that are largely composed not of information but scene sketches: moments in their lives when they turned one way or the other at a juncture between the promise of life and the pain of life. I often try to identify a piece of music that, for me, captures the deepest yearning in their soul: the kind of person they want to be, the way of life they want to live. The rest emerges through the writing, and I think I just have a good memory for details, because I don’t keep a log or (shudder) a spreadsheet.

Rushworth M. Kidder asks in a 1983 Christian Science Monitor article whether computers will “reverse the decline in students’ writing skills” blamed at the time on TV or a “collapse of school discipline.”

If computers did fix anything, that work has apparently been undone by today’s culprits, which (depending on who you ask) are texting and Twitter—both of which encourage minimal characters for maximum message—or, as Natalie Wexler argues in “Why Americans Can’t Write,” the fact that schools simply aren’t teaching writing the way they used to.

What skills trend are you seeing as a writing instructor and as an editor under your book-doctor services? Is the writing getting noticeably worse? And if fundamental writing skills aren’t being taught in middle and high school, how much can reasonably be taught later in life? Are we going to be short good writers and well-written stories, or will there just be a lot more work out there for editors?

I’m fortunate in that many of my students and clients are reasonably educated and self-motivated. That said, I see a great many of the common mistakes—dangling participles, incorrect punctuation (semicolons—don’t get me started), improper use of pronouns, mangled syntax, etc.—but the major mistakes I encounter can’t be blamed on computers, though they might be blamed on the general lowering of educational standards, reading and writing in particular: how to stage conflict, how to plot, how to write credible dialogue, how to create engaging characters.

Yes, I do believe editing (both developmental and copyediting) is a growth industry, especially with so many writers thinking that self-publishing is a painless way to fame and fortune.

What subject matter is most emotionally challenging for you to write, even if only a scene, and what will you absolutely not write about (barring a future change of mind)? How do you work your way through the challenging scenes?

I don’t think it’s subject matter that daunts me as I face a scene. Rather, it’s the understanding that to make the scene truly engaging I have to makes matters far worse than I’d like them to be. I’d prefer to let my characters (and myself) off the hook, but that’s not the game. I have to ruin my character’s life, and I have to make that ruination believable, engaging, satisfying, and surprising.

A friend of mine, Mark Haskell Smith, once said he begins every scene asking himself What’s the worst that can happen? I think that’s brilliant, but it forces you to go through the meat grinder with your characters, which can be harrowing.

5 on Publishing

You said this: “You write what you can write. You try to do as well as you can. And you will find readers. You might not find the audience that a multi-million seller does, but that’s not your job. Your job is to be as honest and true to what you can write as possible.”

This is an inspiring and encouraging thought (really) I think many writers have tried to convince themselves is true beyond the short week they’re actually able to believe it. But inevitably the agent or publisher rejections arrive as other, arguably less-good books continue to be churned out, or the Amazon ranking for a self-published author hovers somewhere around 1.3 million, and the writer clenches his jaw or closes her eyes and, through clenched teeth, recites, “What matters is that I’m creating something honest, something valuable, and that I’m doing my best. What matters is that I’m creating something honest, something valuable …”

How much time passed between the day you decided to write novels and the day you started getting a paycheck for the work? Were you fortunate enough to automatically write what sells, or was there some trial and error involved, some study of and adherence to what more than a few (precious, but still, few) readers wanted, some period of wondering whether—if you never found a solid readership—just being true to yourself would be enough?

First, I stand by my advice. You can’t write somebody else’s book. You are, due to circumstances beyond your control, obliged to write your own. This is why I often compare reading to dating: you can’t make someone fall in love with you. Trying to be what someone else wants seldom ends well, and if by some quirk of fate it doesn’t end badly, whatever good does emerge seldom lasts.

This leads to another important point: you can’t control what you can’t control.

Now, this doesn’t mean ignoring market demands or the simple fact that publishing is a business. You need to have some idea of how your work fits into the larger picture of contemporary publishing, so you understand which kinds of readers may want your book, and how to “give them what they want in a way they don’t expect,” the core goal of every piece of writing.

It probably took me fifteen years before I started writing a novel and had it published. I learned how to write in those fifteen years. This gig is hard. There’s a lot to know.

But I’ve also been told (by people in publishing) that, despite my excellent command of craft, I am “too male” or “belong to a branch of American literature that’s died out” (the literary crime novel, for lack of a better term, with a lineage that includes Newton Thornburg, Kem Nunn, Don Carpenter). I’ve had my share of rejections—and they’ve come mid-career. Not fun, I assure you. But I’ve adjusted course without either throwing in the towel or wholly reinventing myself, and things seem to be trending better. We shall see.

But what I learned was exactly what I said above: you have to own your own artistic vision and accept the consequences. There are no guarantees.

How heavily are your books edited once you’ve sent off the manuscripts, and how well do you respond to editor suggestions?

I tend to write a pretty clean manuscript, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some serious post-submission work to be done. In two of my novels there was some rearranging of material that needed to be done—in particular, at the opening of each book, to get things rolling quicker, sooner.

As for copyediting, I have a very distinct voice and use punctuation somewhat inventively at times. This tends to drive copyeditors to despair. We usually work things out, and I’ve learned to choose my battles.

What in a review of one of your books will most please you, and what in a review will most bother you (by that I mean what is the one thing a reviewer might say about your writing that would hurt a little bit)?

The thing that pleases me most is simply when a reviewer “gets” the book, i.e., recognizes what I’m trying to do. I don’t think I’ve ever been hurt by a review. Angered? Oh yeah. Frustrated? Sure. But these are almost always when the book has been criticized for failing to do something I never intended (or would want to intend), or when I’ve been personally criticized. “Them’s fightin’ words,” as Popeye was known to say, and even men who shave their heads can get their dander up.



Authors market their work in any number of ways: trying to be conversational on social media, giving readings and signings, contributing to known blogs or publications, showing up on Reddit. When it comes to marketing, what’s hardest for you or feels the least natural, and what do you enjoy or have the easiest time with? Has one thing, whether or not you enjoy it, proven to be more effective, sales-wise, than another?

I’ve come to a decision about all this, and it’s similar to the decision I made about my work. I realized I just wasn’t comfortable shilling my books like a shoe salesman (a job I had in high school), so I had to find a way to get my name out there in a manner that conformed to both my ambition and my personal sense of dignity.

The most important men in my life were my father, my high school football coach, and my math professors (I majored in mathematics in college). I decided I did not want to do anything that would betray the respect I wanted from these men, and so I’ve decided to work hard and to write nothing I’m not totally proud of. Once one novel is finished I begin the next, and I turn down almost no offers to write an article or story, since I consider those shorter pieces a form of advertising. I also focus on teaching as conscientiously (and as often) as I can, being generous to other writers, and on occasion joining the Facebook or Twitter banter among my writer friends. I limit my self-promotion to letting people know about an upcoming class, publication, or special offer.

What was your professional goal when you began selling novels, and what’s your goal now?

When I started, I was happy to get published. Now, I want to be recognized as one of the most widely respected writers of crime fiction in America.

Thank you, David.

Conquering the Myths of the Writing Life

Hamed Masoumi / Flickr

Is there such a thing as a happy writer? A creative person who doesn’t have a secret torment? An authorial genius absent of anxiety?

Fiction writer Douglas W. Millikin offers an honest and insightful essay about the biggest myths writers face about their profession, such as:

Real writers must constantly and everyday be writing
Depression is a muse
Writers take to the bottle

Milliken himself has anxiety disorders that he’s seeking treatment for. While it pushed him forward at first, eventually it became destructive. He writes:

Angst-fueled ambition ceased to be a motivator. Instead of spurring me on, it wore me down. The more anxious I became, the less I wrote. The less I wrote, the more I drank. The more I drank, the deeper I sank into my depression and anxiety. And even as apparent as this self-destructive cycle was, justifying my actions came easily because there were the admirable precedents of addicts and suicides abounding on all sides. … I was buying into my mythologies, and getting exactly what I paid for. So how long do you have to tell yourself the same bogus story before you finally correct the narrative?

Read Milliken’s entire essay at Glimmer Train: A Weapon or a Crutch

Also this month at Glimmer Train:

The Wars of Vocation by A. Campbell
Punctuation Is when You Feel It by Noy Holland

What Writers Need to Know About Freelancing for Content Mills, Business Websites, and Information Portals

by Sonia Belviso | via Flickr

Note from Jane: This post is an excerpt from Digital Writer Success: How to Make a Living Blogging, Freelance Writing, & Publishing Online by writer and entrepreneur Leslie Truex (@DWSWriteOnline).

There are tons of writing jobs available online, which tremendously vary in quality and pay. Some are short-term projects, while others are ongoing. Some allow you to write as much or as little as you want, while others require a set number of articles per week. Here are some common sources of writing work found online.

Content Mills

You’ll find differing opinions about whether you should write for content mills. Part of the issue is their history: most content mills started out needing keyword-rich (SEO) articles to fill sites, get good search engine ranking, drive lots of traffic, and ultimately make money. At the time, most of the mills weren’t too picky about the quality of writing. As a result, most of the content was poorly written and not viewed as quality or real writing.

Although many content mills have more stringent writing quality controls now, they are still perceived negatively. In fact, you’re often better off saying you have no clips than offering clips written for a content mill.

The other issue is low pay. Many writing experts say that if you want to be a professional writer, you should command a professional-level fee. Professional writers usually try to earn at least 50 cents or $1 per word, although some breaking into the field may write for 10, 15 or 20 cents a word to build a portfolio and command higher fees.

Most content mills offer a flat rate, usually only $5 to $15 per article, with a few, like Demand Media, paying $20 to $35 or more for specialty articles. That comes down to as low as 1 cent a word or less. Some mills pay through ad revenue, which is essentially working for free and hoping people will read your article and click on an ad. I don’t recommend that option.

Finally, the biggest reason to not write for content mills is that once you’re in and counting on it for income, it can be hard to get out. If you want to move on to higher paying markets, you’ll have to cut back on your content mill writing, which can reduce your income. Plus, since many media sources don’t consider clips from content mills, you have to start from scratch if you want to expand to higher profile publications.

With that said, there are reasons that a content mill might work for you. If you’ve never made a living writing, they can be a great place to get your feet wet and decide if writing is for you. Because working for content mills requires a lot of writing to make a living, you get practice, and when it comes to writing, the more you do it, the better you get. Many content sites require articles with references and resources, so you’ll increase your knowledge of how to research and find valuable information. Finally, the content mills that pay a flat fee often pay weekly or even twice a week, so it can be a quick source of income.

If you want prestige, don’t write for content mills, or at least don’t use content mill writing on your résumé. But if you want to make several hundred dollars a week cranking out articles, then a content mill might be for you. Here are some tips on writing for a content mill:

Choose mills that pay at least $15 to $30 or more per 400-word article (that’s 3.75 cents to 7.5 cents per word). Because articles for content mills can be written quickly and are usually 400 words, you can crank out several a day. There are people writing five articles (usually in five hours or less) and earning $100 to $150 or more per day. Some are writing ten articles a day, making $150 to $300 per day. Never go with ad revenue as a source of payment.
Make your submission the best it can be the first time around. Many content mills have editors that will kick back an article if they don’t think it’s ready to publish. You maximize your time and income by avoiding edits. Some content mills will increase your fee based on the quality of writing, which is another reason to submit the best writing you can.
Write on a variety topics to avoid getting bored. The highest paying content mills have a database of articles from which to choose. While writing on the same topics means faster writing (but don’t plagiarize yourself), it also means tedium and boredom.
Plan your exit from the beginning. If you’re writing for content mills just to get practice, make sure you plan a way to move on. That might mean spending part of your day writing for a mill and another part of the day pitching online resources so you can expand your career.

Business Websites and Blogs

Many businesses hire writers to create compelling articles to draw in consumers. The amount of work, pay, and prestige varies depending on who you work for. For example, you can get hired by a realtor to post five blog posts a week at $20 per post. I once worked for Internet Brands on a short-term project writing articles related to anxiety. I was paid $40 to $45 per article until the project was over. Later, I wrote one article a week for WAHM.com, also a part of Internet Brands, for which I was paid $25 per piece.

Writing for businesses can offer a little more pay than content mills, especially if you write in a market that requires specific knowledge, such as law, medicine, or real estate. Plus, writing content for businesses offers more prestige and a source of clips to use for future writing jobs or pitching ideas to publications.

However, writing for businesses usually requires writing for more than one company to meet your income goals. This is a good thing, because the other disadvantage is that the work can dry up in an instant. The more places you write for, the less impact there will be on your income if one writing job goes away. Here are some tips on writing for businesses:

Know the business and the market it caters to. Each business will operate differently in terms of what you write. Some will give you a list of article titles, and others will want you to come up with ideas. Regardless of how work is assigned, to make the client happy, research the business. What does it market? What is its brand (value to the consumer)? What is the style and tone of the website? Who makes up the market (demographics)?
Deliver well-written articles on time. Businesses outsource writing to save time and money. If they’re unable to publish because you haven’t delivered the material or if your work needs a great deal of editing (not all businesses have editors), you risk getting fired.
Keep a calendar and develop good time management. Working for multiple clients can be a little like plate spinning. I have a calendar on which I use color coding to mark days and titles I need to deliver. Further, if you’re the one who develops the article ideas, keep an ongoing list and schedule them in advance. Writing is hard enough, but it’s nearly impossible if you have an article due, but don’t know what to write about.
Monitor payments. Each business will pay on a different schedule and method. Some pay weekly, while others pay every thirty days. Some will direct deposit, others will pay by PayPal, and still others will send a check. Keep track of the articles you’ve submitted, when payment is due, and when payment was received. I’ve never not been paid, but that doesn’t it mean it can’t happen.

Information Portals

Information portals are one-stop websites with tons of information, such as About.com or HowStuffWorks.com. Each information portal operates differently. About.com hires experts who focus on a single topic area. HowStuffWorks.com takes on generalist or specialist writers, assigning work when available on a project-by-project basis.

Because information portals are built around delivering information, a strong background either through education or experience is required. What’s most fun about information portals is the vast and interesting number of topic areas. About.com has topic areas in soap operas, board games, crafts, travel, and more.

Information portals vary in requirements. While some simply want articles, others are looking for someone to write and maintain a portal topic. For example, the portal may want blog posts, newsletters, and discussion board moderation, as well as articles.

Information portals vary in how they pay. About.com has base requirements that, if met, can garner several hundred dollars a month, with bonuses that can bump up earnings even more. Other portals will pay per published piece. Here are some tips on working for an information portal:

Know the topic inside and out. These writing jobs tend to be competitive, so the more you know, the better your chances.
Be a good writer and self-editor. Not all portals have editors to check your work.
Be able to make a commitment. Portals that ask you to be the resident expert will have expectations that need to be met.
Study the style and tone of the site to get an idea of what is expected from writers. Some portals have a training program to help with this, but the better your application fits the needs of the site, the better the chance you have to get hired.
Get a basic knowledge of Internet content platforms. Most portals will ask that you publish the article in their system, which means you need to add the bullets, bold formatting, and hyperlinks. Most have easy-to-use interfaces that don’t require knowledge of HTML. But you should be comfortable using online publishing systems.

For more information about making a living with online writing and publishing, check out Digital Writer Success (Koehler Books) or visit Leslie at DigitalWriterSuccess.com.

How to Publish an E-Book: Resources for Authors

About the only thing that remains constant in e-book publishing is that it changes—everything from the services to marketing strategies. Here, I’ve attempted to round-up all the good resources I know of related to (1) how to publish an e-book, (2) finding the right e-publishing services, and (3) staying on top of changes in the industry.

Excellent Book-Length Guides

Write. Publish. Repeat. by Sean Platt and Johnny B. Truant
How to Market a Book by Joanna Penn
Let’s Get Visible & Let’s Get Digital by David Gaughran
The Naked Truth by Self-Publishing by 10 NYT bestselling authors
How I Sold 30,000 eBooks on Amazon’s Kindle by Martin Crosbie
Your First 1,000 Copies by Tim Grahl
Secrets to E-Book Publishing Success by Mark Coker (free)

Getting Started & Principles

How to Self-Publish Your Book (Jane Friedman)
The Basics of E-Book Publishing (David Gaughran)
10 Questions to Ask Before Committing to Any E-Book Publishing Service (Jane Friedman)
How an Enterprising Author Sold a Million Self-Published Books (Copyblogger)
How to Make Money on E-Books (JA Konrath)
5 Observations on the Evolution of Author Business Models (Jane Friedman)

Producing a Solid Product

Writing Your Book’s Back Cover Copy (Jessi Rita Hoffman)
The Importance of Categories, Keywords, and Tags (M. Louisa Locke)
How to Improve Your Amazon Book Description and Metadata (Penny Sansevieri)
How to Self-Publish Children’s Books Successfully (Darcy Pattison)

Sales, Marketing, and Promotion

Book Promotional Sites & Tools for Authors (Martin Crosbie)
How Authors Can Find Their Ideal Reading Audience (Angela Ackerman)
The Strategic Use of Book Giveaways (Jane Friedman)
Should You Join KDP Select? (Lindsay Buroker)
Hit the eBook Bestseller Lists with Preorders (Mark Coker)
Why (Many) Publicists Don’t Work With Self-Published Authors (Dana Kaye)
Top 5 Money Wasters in Book Publicity (Dana Kaye)
The Perfect Book Sales Page (Tom Morkes)
Social Media Marketing That Reaches Your Audience
How to Sell Books With BookBub (Skipjack Publishing)

Getting Reviews

Author Tools and Promo Sites (Martin Crosbie)
The Ultimate Guide to Goodreads for Authors (The Creative Penn, Mayor A. Lan)
10 Ways to Find Reviewers for Your Self-Published Book (Empty Mirror)
The Indie Reviewers List (The Indie View)
7 Strategies and 110 Tools to Help Indie Authors Find Readers and Reviewers (Digital Pubbing)

Tools for Creating & Formatting E-Books

Scrivener: not free, but can export EPUB files
Calibre: free formatting and conversion tool
EasyEdit: easy-to-use software for PC users that generates ebooks for Kindle (trial version is free)
Jutoh: free software for creating e-books, paid version available with more functionality
PressBooks: free formatting tool (up until a point), WordPress-based
Apple Pages (can export EPUB files)
Vellum: easy-to-use software for Mac users only to produce EPUB files
Here’s a list of educational resources and tools if you want to learn about ebook formatting and development.

Tools for Creating Enhanced, Multimedia, or Full-Color E-Books

KDP Kids’ Book Creator: for creating children’s picture books
Apple iBooks Author: will limit you to Apple iBookstore, but the software is free
Blurb: great for producing print + digital full-color books; distributes to Apple platforms
Book Creator: iPad app for illustrated books, great for children’s authors
Tablo.io
Creativist
If you need assistance preparing your ebook files, try Brady Typesetting

Major E-Book Retailers

Note: for reviews and insight into all of these retailers and more, read the reviews at The Independent Publishing Magazine by Mick Rooney

Amazon. Sells 60-80% of all e-books, more for some authors and titles.
Apple iBookstore. Widely considered the No. 2 ebook retailer in U.S.
Barnes & Noble Nook Press. Considered No. 3 e-book retailer in U.S.
Kobo. Gaining ground, international presence. Important for the Canadian market.

Major E-Book Distributors & Services

Note: for reviews and insight into all of these retailers and more, read the reviews at The Independent Publishing Magazine by Mick Rooney

Smashwords. The largest ebook distributor of self-published titles
Draft2Digital. Similar to Smashwords, but smaller and more customer-service focused
BookBaby. You pay for a publishing package upfront (which includes ebook formatting), then you receive 100% of net sales.
eBookPartnership. Compare with the services above and see which fits your needs best.

Authors Who Blog About E-Book Publishing

Joanna Penn
CJ Lyons
Joel Friedlander
Self-Publishing Podcast
JA Konrath
David Gaughran
Kristine Rusch
Dean Wesley Smith
Lindsay Buroker
Bob Mayer

News & Trends About E-Book Publishing

Digital Book World
The Independent Publishing Magazine by Mick Rooney
Mike Shatzkin
FutureBook
Kindle Boards Writer’s Cafe (popular hangout for self-publishers)
The Hot Sheet (my email newsletter for authors, subscription required)

Crafting a Compelling Novel Concept

by jpmm | via Flickr

Note from Jane: Today’s post is an excerpt from Story Fix: Transform Your Novel from Broken to Brilliant by Larry Brooks (Writer’s Digest Books).

A weak concept can be strengthened and saved.

Almost always, the source of weakness and dysfunction within a story dwells in the nature of the concept itself; i.e., the degree, or complete lack, of something compelling within the concept. It’s hard to turn a boring concept into a compelling premise, and yet, this is the golden ring of revision. We need to do precisely that, usually by adding a conceptual layer rather than by looking to the premise to fix the problem.

This means that recognition of weakness as the first step in the repair process, because that recognition allows you to jettison the weakness and replace it with something better.

Concept is a tricky issue.

You could write a novel from this concept: “a story about a guy living alone in a big city.” That actually is a concept, just not a very compelling one. At first there’s nothing interesting or unique about the protagonist, the setting, or the situation. It’s flat, and therefore dead on arrival. You don’t need to chuck it, but you do need to enhance it to save it. Good concepts go beyond the banal to offer something fresh and, most of all, compelling, and this example is nothing if not generic and bland.

A better concept might look like this: “a story about a wealthy widower who suddenly finds himself alone after thirty years of marriage and moves to Los Angeles to live with his younger brother, a film director who enjoys life in the fast lane. The man must negotiate his staid values and comfort level with the onslaught of aggressive, sophisticated women who seem to want to rescue him from his depression.”

To me that sounds like a significantly more compelling story than the first concept. If you don’t agree, then the issue resides with your story sensibility, which is the key variable for what you decide to write.

I encounter this particular concept issue frequently with my coaching clients, and often their response to my feedback is something like, “Well, I intended that. It’s obvious that something else will be in play that complicates his situation.”

It’s not obvious. Never assume an agent, editor, or reader will expand the scope of your concept in his mind because it’s obvious to you. If the juice of your concept is layered, define the layering at square one.

The second example meets several of the criteria for a compelling concept, one of which is this: The reader hasn’t encountered this story before, or if she has, this offers a new and intriguing twist.

The acid test of a compelling concept is simple.

If you pitch your concept—without having to add elements of the premise to make it interesting—and your listener responds, “Wow, now that is interesting. I can’t wait to read a story based on that idea,” then you’ve hit pay dirt. If you received that response, then your concept is, by definition, compelling and intriguing, at least to that particular listener. The trick is to offer something that a stadium full of listeners would respond to in the same way.

The word compelling, however, is a mixed bag.

Reaching for the bar labeled compelling presents an opportunity to add depth and richness to your concept. Yet, “compelling” always remains a matter of opinion. What is compelling to some may be considered trite and ridiculous to others. That’s why we have different genres. Readers of romances may not find the notion of traveling to a different dimension to encounter an alien life force all that compelling. Even if it’s a romance, if you set it in an alternate universe, then it is also something else.

There are no hard and fast guidelines for attaining a “compelling” level of appeal. One agent’s next Hunger Games is another’s been-there-read-that story. For the writer sitting alone in his office, this leaves little to work with other than his instincts. This is why it’s important to develop a cutting-edge, highly market-accurate story sensibility, because without a commercial nose for what masses of readers will find appealing, a writer’s notion of “compelling” may fall short.

The goal of all of this, at its highest level, is to evolve your story sensibility.

You want to be able to look at your existing story concept and say, “Yeah, that’s good,” or admit, “Well, I thought this was cool, and it is cool for me, but I can see now how others might not agree, because the story is nothing special.”

You may like mustard on your peanut butter sandwiches. But good luck trying to launch a chain of sandwich shops based on that concept.

Elevating your story sensibilities becomes the most potent tool of all in the revision of a story. With concept, an idiosyncratic story sensibility shows itself immediately, via the criteria and then via reader reaction to the idea itself. Thus a concept can either make or break your story before you write a word.

Here are some examples of inherently conceptual concepts.

These concepts meet the criteria for a compelling concept without delving into premise. Notice how there are no heroes here, no plots, no actual story. Each of these is an idea for a story that has been imbued with a conceptual layer, which renders it immediately compelling, at least to the market sensibilities of the people you are trying to impress. It may not be your thing, which means you shouldn’t write that story … just as you shouldn’t write it if your story sense tells you that you alone hold affection for it. Some of these have been taken from best-selling stories you might recognize, while some are concepts that promised a story the writer(s) couldn’t quite deliver on.

 “Snakes on a plane” (a proposition)

“The world will end in three days.” (a situation)

“Two morticians fall in love.” (an arena)

“What if you could go back in time and reinvent your life?” (a proposition)

“What if the world’s largest spiritual belief system is based on a lie, one that its largest church has been protecting for two thousand years?” (a speculative proposition)

“What if a child is sent to Earth from another planet, is raised by human parents, and grows up with extraordinary superpowers?” (a proposition)

“What if a jealous lover returned from the dead to prevent his surviving lover from moving on with her life?” (a situation)

“What if a fourteen-year-old murder victim narrates the story of her killing and the ensuing investigation from heaven?” (a narrative proposition)

“What if a paranormally gifted child is sent to a secret school for children just like him?” (a paranormal proposition)

“A story set in Germany as the wall falls” (a historical landscape)

“A story set in the deep South in the sixties, focusing on racial tensions and norms” (a cultural arena)

In general, if you can add “hijinks ensue” to the end of your concept, you may be on to something good. If the hijinks themselves lend a conceptual essence to the idea, then include them in your statement of concept.

High Concepts vs. Real-World Concepts

High concepts depart from the norm. They exist at the extreme edge of imagination and possibility. High concepts are simply more conceptual than more common, real-world concepts. Examples would be Superman and Harry Potter and the Avengers, which bring in fantastical and supernatural elements. Examples of reality-constrained concepts that are equally compelling would be James Bond or Alex Cross or The Help or Gone Girl.

Stories about real people in real situations also benefit from something that creates a compelling context for the story. Something about a hero can be conceptual, or something a character does or believes or must deal with can be conceptual. For example, one of the main characters in Gone Girl conspires to kill herself while framing her husband for her death; this becomes the concept itself.

Concepts, high or otherwise …

can be character-centric, like the above examples.
can be a speculative proposition, like The Da Vinci Code or Star Wars.
can be thematically conceptual, like The Help or The Cider House Rules.
can be lifted from perspectives and drama in the real world, like a story about the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team or Apollo 11.
offer a setting, time, or place rendered conceptual by virtue of the promise it makes: The forthcoming story will play out there. Historical novels live and breathe by this conceptual potential.
could be about stories set within a given culture, such as Fifty Shades of Grey or a story about the Blue Angels or even the Hells Angels.

Notice how all of these examples are different than—more conceptual than—a “story about a guy living alone in a big city.” Nothing about that particular concept is unique or fresh. It doesn’t push buttons; it doesn’t appeal to a given demographic, interest, or fascination; it doesn’t pose an intriguing (at least, intriguing enough) speculative question or proposition; and it doesn’t unfold within a setting, time, or culture that would allow the reader to take an appealing, vicarious trip into such a place.

Great concepts always promise a vicarious ride for the reader. They can take readers somewhere or place them into situations that are not possible, realistic, or even something they would choose in real life. A strong concept takes readers on a ride of a lifetime, one they will never know in their personal reality.

A concept can define the story world itself, creating its rules and boundaries and physics, thus becoming a story landscape. (Example: A story set on the moon is conceptual in its own right.)

A concept can inject speculative, surreal possibilities, such as time travel, ghosts, paranormal abilities, cloning, etc., into an otherwise normal reality.

In short, a concept is simply the compelling contextual heart of the premise and story built from it. It imbues the story atmosphere with a given presence. It elicits that sought-after response: “Wow, I’ve never seen that before, at least treated in that way. I really want to read the story that deals with these things.”

It does not include a hero … unless the hero is, by definition, a conceptual creation, which is the case in several of the examples just given. A story is built around a protagonist leveraging her conceptual nature. The character isn’t the concept—because every story has a protagonist or hero. What makes her fascinating, and therefore conceptual, is the proposition that renders her unique and appealingly different (think Nancy Drew, Stephanie Plum, or Wonder Woman). When that difference screams for a story to be told, you have a great concept on your hands.

It might be helpful to consider what another story without a vivid concept would sound like in a pitch: Two people fall in love after their divorce. It’s not a bad story if you can pull it off. But divorce is all too familiar and therefore not a strong concept by itself. An agent wouldn’t quickly invite you to send him a draft; he’d want more from the concept, leading into a premise that picks up the conceptual power it offers. If you could bring something contextually fresh to it—for instance, Two people who both want to murder their ex-spouses fall in love—then the story is already strengthened from its conceptual promise alone.

Agents and editors are looking for something fresh and new—in other words, they are looking for the conceptual. Imagine, for instance, that you are an agent and this pitch crosses your desk: “My story is about a detective who is assigned to find the killer of a girl.” This common concept crosses my desk regularly, and my feedback is easy: “There’s nothing here that sets your story apart. You’ve defined the genre itself without adding anything inherently appealing.” You might as well have said, “My story is a by-the-book detective mystery.”

No sale.

When I say, “Agents and editors are looking for something fresh and new,” it may be tempting to say, “Well, I’m not dealing with them. I’m going directly to readers, so I don’t have to worry about all this fresh concept stuff.” That’s risky thinking. Readers screen titles online, looking for pitches—concepts and premises—that draw them in. It’s the exact same dynamic.

For more story-fixing tips, check out Story Fix: Transform Your Novel from Broken to Brilliant.