Jane Friedman's Blog: Jane Friedman, page 25

What the MFA Does and Does Not Do for Aspiring Novelists

Today’s post is by MFA director Nancy Wayson Dinan.

I wrote my first novel mostly on vibes.

That’s not quite a fair statement. At the time, I had an MFA in fiction, and I was working on a creative writing PhD. I’d gone to graduate school because I wanted to write books, and I do believe that, in school, I got better at writing. [Editor’s note: Need a definition of MFA? Start here.]

What I didn’t get better at was understanding novel structure. And when it came time to query and later promote my book, I had no idea what I was trying to market. I liked the book, and I still do, but I think a lot about what I would do differently now.

In the first edition of The Business of Being a Writer, Jane Friedman states that “it’s not an exaggeration to say that an MFA could even be detrimental to a successful freelance career, because it trains you to be aware of how writing succeeds not on a commercial level, but only on an artistic one—which you may then need to be trained out of.” As the director of an MFA program, and as a working novelist, I find myself agreeing with this statement. One of the things I wrestle with as an instructor is how to make the MFA a more useful degree for aspiring commercial novelists. At the same time, I’m thinking about how to recreate the most useful parts of the MFA experience for novelists who can’t devote years to graduate school.

Now in my classes, we explore the differences between art’s success on a commercial level versus on an artistic level, and what those terms mean. We also look at what the MFA doesn’t usually do, which is the in-depth and explicit craft work that most aspiring novelists crave. We also talk about what the MFA does do—providing professionalization, feedback, and the opportunity to see and submit work in progress—and we discuss ways in which a novelist can learn those things without a graduate degree. I would argue, by the way, that all aspiring novelists should be doing these things, with or without the MFA.

Art’s Success on a Commercial Level Versus on an Artistic Level

When I first encountered Jane Friedman’s quote, it stopped me in my tracks. I felt I knew instinctively what it meant—in the MFA world, we often push back against the idea that MFA graduates’ work often sounds the same. I also know many MFA graduates who spend years writing their first novel, sell it (sometimes for a great deal of money), and then flounder writing the next one. Something about being overly invested in the artistic side of writing can really mess with your writing and selling of books.

But part of me, too, resists this idea. What could possibly be so wrong about learning how to write on an artistic level that MFA graduates must then “be trained out of?”

This is a tough question to answer, and I could actually write pages just trying to define my own stance here. Instead, however, I want to reference Robert McKee’s Story, which does a great job of discussing how artistic merit differs from commercial merit in the screenwriting industry. (By the way, I want to make a case that novelists can learn a lot from screenwriting texts!)

In Story, McKee argues that there is a classical design for storytelling, and here’s where the commercial side lies. Readers expect a chain of cause and effect, a closed ending, linear time, and an active protagonist, among other things. Language might not be the focus of a commercial novel, but that doesn’t mean the language is less skilled—it just means that the story is the focus of a commercial novel, and we expect that story to have some conventional structure.

McKee also discusses other forms of story, noting that, as we move away from that classical story structure, we encounter open endings, more internal conflicts, passive or multiple protagonists, nonlinear time, or inconsistent realities. In other words, something that pulls the reader away from that classical story structure, and here’s where the literary novel goes. It might focus on language or on invention or on a unique structure, but it departs from the expected beats of commercial structure. And this is not necessarily a bad thing—many readers love this sort of experimentation. What it does do, McKee warns, is that it shrinks the possible audience of the work, though the audience might now be more dedicated.

In MFA programs, we’re often encouraged to seek alternatives to traditional storytelling, to focus on character and not plot (though, for many reasons, I think this is a false dichotomy). We’re taught to value language and image more than a strong chain of cause and effect. It’s not that we’re actively told to avoid the traditional modes of storytelling, it’s just that other modes are privileged. And when we do see a genre piece in workshop, there’s often a palpable disdain (though this attitude is changing and not something that would ever happen in the program in which I teach).

If literary fiction is what you want to write, then that’s great—here’s where I might slightly disagree with Friedman’s point, because if that’s what you want, then you don’t need to be trained out of it. But if you want to write for a commercial audience, the MFA might not be the best place to learn to do that.

What the MFA Does DoProvides Professionalization

Unfortunately, this is an opaque industry, and it keeps its secrets well (though, thanks to resources like Jane Friedman’s blog, things are becoming more transparent all the time!). One of the things the MFA does do is teach you how to be a professional, but you have to be willing to learn.

You have opportunities to meet visiting writers, to attend conferences, and to learn how to handle being edited. You spend a lot of time reading writers that are part of the national conversation and being explicitly invited into conversations that discuss major issues in our field. At some point, you will likely have an opportunity to ask questions of a literary agent (usually done via zoom), and that agent will likely tell you about the querying and submission process. You might meet an editor in the same way. You will often have an opportunity to work on a literary journal, to peek behind the scenes. All of this access, though it doesn’t translate into you getting an editor or an agent or a publication, invites you into the industry in a very specific way.

How to find professionalization without an MFA program

Find writing organizations, and particularly genre groups: Several years ago, I recommended Romance Writers of America to nearly every writer who turned in a story with romantic elements. They were fantastic at professionalization, especially for novelists who were just starting out, but after some well-publicized issues, they seem to be in a rebuilding phase. For now, I recommend organizations like SCBWI (the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators), SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association), WFWA (Women’s Fiction Writers Association), and MWA (Mystery Writers of America). If you can, go to a conference. Join a local chapter. Get involved in whatever way you can.Gives You Feedback and Allows You to Submit and to See Work in Progress

An MFA also gives you feedback on your work, both from your peers and from your instructors, who have hopefully published something in the field and have been professionally edited. Giving feedback is more important here than receiving feedback—you are not likely to publish anything you present in your first year or two of workshop, and you’re probably not even going to publish your thesis, though some writers do! Instead, what this process teaches you is to edit yourself, to see what you’re missing in story and language and motivation, to push a nascent draft into a more developed draft.

In fact, I think this is one of the biggest benefits of the MFA, this opportunity to submit and to see work in progress. You get to experience the development of fiction, not just the finished product, and this can be really helpful. Over the course of two years of workshop, you’ll submit maybe a dozen or so pieces, but you’ll read and respond to hundreds.

You also get to see creative attempts that never go any further. Seeing these false starts is so important for a writer—it takes some of the pressure off. The best writers try things, and sometimes, those new things don’t have legs. It’s okay, and a valuable lesson to learn. You’re almost always a better writer for having tried, because you taught yourself something.

How to give and get feedback outside of an MFA program

You’re going to have to find a critique group or partner, and preferably one who is just as serious as you are about craft. You’re going to need to learn to read unfinished work, and that’s harder to do with someone who’s at a more beginning level than you are. I recommend, again, the genre groups mentioned in the previous answer, as they often have matching programs. Your local library is often a good source—do they have resources for creative writers, including groups that meet? Can you take a class at your local university or extension, and then try to make connections with your classmates that will last beyond the semester? Can you join an online group?A more expensive but very personal option is a book coach. Having a book coach is like having a workshop every week, only your work is always the focus. You can learn a lot very quickly from a good book coach, but you also don’t get the chance to see other people’s work and to train your editorial eye.Be careful with your critique group. You want readers who encourage you, who make you excited to revise. You don’t want—and you never want to be—a reader who makes the writer want to quit writing. (Also, if this does happen to you, recognize that this is almost always coming from a place of insecurity.)Surrounds You with Writers

In your program, you’re surrounded by writers, and since you’re part of this community, you start thinking of yourself as a writer. You have conversations about writing, about POV, about what makes Lauren Groff or Jesmyn Ward so dang good. You learn to take yourself and your craft seriously.

But you also learn to deal with artistic jealousy, to handle a competitive feeling, to genuinely feel joy for somebody else’s success. To get excited when you see the publication of a piece that you saw in its very early stages. To marvel at how far your friend has come, and to realize she might be thinking the same thing about you.

Again, super valuable experience. You don’t have to do an MFA to find a writing community, but you enter the MFA with a cohort, people with whom you’re thrown together.

How to find community outside of a program

You probably already know what my first answer is going to be here: those genre writing groups. One of the most useful things about these communities is that everybody takes each other seriously. You’re rarely going to find a pereson who would ask you why you’re wasting your time with your little writing hobby when you have a family/job/significant other/etc. Social media seems to be good in this space, and Facebook is still one of the best, I find. These days, I only keep my Facebook account for writing, and I’m a member of AWP Community of Writers, WFWA Members-Only, Female Writers, Writers Helping Writers, Women Writers, Women’s Books, Creative Writing Pedagogy, Binders Full of Creative Nonfiction, alumni groups, conference groups, among many others. Find your spot out there—there are a lot of options!Find what your local community has. The library, again, is a great place to start, as are extension classes.Gives You a Credential to Teach in Higher Education

This is the only part of the MFA experience that you really can’t recreate. If you want to teach in higher ed, you will need at minimum a master’s degree, and even this is usually not enough for a tenure-track job. No amount of writing workshop or conference experience can duplicate this credential.

The unfortunate other side of this point, however, is that the MFA (or a creative writing PhD) does not guarantee you a job. In fact, there’s no way that it can—every year, programs graduate far more degreed writers than there are jobs available. Any university creative writing program will tell you about the hundreds of applicants for each job opening. That’s not to say that you can’t get a job teaching creative writing, but that the odds are against you, and you shouldn’t attend an MFA program just to get that teaching credential. However, many of our graduates teach K-12, and in many states, a master’s degree means an automatic bump in pay, so the MFA can definitely pay off in this way. (I also have thoughts about how to be much more competitive in the tenure-track professor job market, as well!)

What the MFA Does Not Usually DoIn-Depth and Explicit Craft Work

In an MFA program, you will read a lot and write a lot, and of course, these two activities are the most important craft work you will do. However, when I say that the MFA does not provide in-depth and explicit craft work, I mean that you are not going to encounter craft books that teach you how to do specific things with narrative. You’ll likely encounter craft essays, such as many by Flannery O’Connor or Richard Russo, that will advance a theory or aspect of fiction, but you won’t get instruction that says here’s what an audience expects after the inciting incident, or here are the usual components of a satisfying ending.

I still occasionally meet up via zoom with writers from my PhD program, and I find it interesting how we all went through the program without this type of instruction, but how we all found ourselves, unbeknownst to each other, finding the same craft books after the program was over. Writing a novel is like entering a wilderness, and it is really helpful to have signposts helping us to navigate. Craft books can provide these signposts. How do I tell a story? Robert McKee’s Story and John Yorke’s Into the Woods are fantastic resources (again, both screenwriting resources!). How do I develop a character? Lisa Cron’s Story Genius and Wired for Story are amazing. How do I approach structure (Save the Cat! Writes a Novel is a good basic place to start), navigate plot twists (Mastering Plot Twists by Jane Cleland), or develop my prose (Steering the Craft by Ursula K. LeGuin)? The point is that, even if you do get an MFA, there are times as writers when we’re out there on our own trying to get better. These craft books are a very good place to start, and I’m beginning to include these in my MFA coursework, as well.

Teach You How to Query an Agent

It just doesn’t happen, or at least, I’ve never seen it happen. Part of the issue is that, even after 3 years, most people don’t have a polished manuscript ready. You spend a year writing your thesis project, and that generally isn’t enough time to finish it and revise it. Most students leave their thesis defenses with a list of things they know they still need to work on.

But there’s also this sense that the MFA is to practice the writing side, not the business side. And I know this sentiment is changing, but you’re much more likely to find useful querying and publishing advice at a conference panel.

Plus, there are amazing resources out there: Jane Friedman’s blog, for example, has a ton of information about query letters. Literary agent Carly Watters used to host a super helpful blog, and now she is part of a podcast called The Shit No One Tells You About Writing. SFWA has a great example of a query letter on their site. Seek out quality advice and examples, and see how far you can get. And, again, those genre conferences are great—you can often sign up for a spot with an agent for a query critique.

Also, if you’re interested in the business of writing, selling, and launching a book, I highly recommend Courtney Maum’s Before and After the Book Deal.

Where I Am Now

I’m doing my best to have a foot in both worlds—both the academic creative writing world and the professional creative writing world—because I believe both arenas add value to aspiring novelists. But the truth is that Friedman is right: MFA programs do not teach writers how art succeeds on a commercial level. We live in a connected world, however, one in which industry insiders often put their expertise up for public consumption.

I still remember one day in my MFA program when a professor asked me what I was reading those days. “Oh, you know,” I said. “Some craft books.” The professor looked horrified, as if I’d confessed to somehow cheating. “Hmm,” she replied. “I hope they don’t mess you up too much.” After that remark, I didn’t touch a craft book for five years, and when I finally did, I felt like the act was somehow shameful. But it’s not—let’s take the expertise where we can, especially in a profession that is often frustratingly opaque.

Create Compelling Suspense and Tension No Matter What’s Happening in Your Story

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Today’s post is by editor Tiffany Yates Martin. Join her on Wednesday, Dec. 11, for the online class Mastering Suspense & Tension.

Unless you’ve been living in an underground bunker devoid of wifi access for the last months—or let’s say decades—chances are you’ve been experiencing a fair amount of conflict and uncertainty recently.

These are uncomfortable feelings, and most of us peace- and security-craving people try to avoid them. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling all full up on tension and suspense at the moment, thank you very much.

But as is so often the case, what makes for effective story doesn’t necessarily reflect our everyday lives, and questions, uncertainties, and friction are the lifeblood of story.

These crucial story elements may be easy to instill in scenes of setback, conflict or challenge, but not every story or scene lends itself to overt tension and suspense. You won’t always have obvious antagonists or arguments. Not every car ride ends in a crash. There aren’t knife-wielding killers lurking behind every door (hopefully).

Some stories are “quieter.” So how can you keep tension strong without scenes of overt tension and suspense?

Lean away, instead of leaning in

It’s an understandable instinct to lean in, full speed ahead, when your characters are headed in the right direction: meeting the love interest, surmounting a challenge, moving closer to a goal. But though you may be moving the story forward, if the road is too smooth, readers may lose interest.

Authors tend to relax tension in these moments: letting their characters lean into the romantic attraction, bask in the victory and enjoy the spoils, relish and flourish in the desired situation.

But tension is the rope pulling your readers through the story—and you are the sherpa holding the other end and leading them forward. The moment you let the rope go slack, movement stops. Even when the path evens out, you must keep that rope taut and pull your reader along.

Let’s use an example to explore what that looks like in story. Say your story premise is that your main character is being stalked by an ex and feels unsafe in her home, so she takes a job at a kids’ summer camp to hide out.

The bulk of the story may take place in the camp, where the protagonist makes new friends, finds romance, and discovers new purpose in her life with the job of leading the kids. But if your main source of story tension is the threat of her stalker and the suspense of whether he will find her, that’s not strong enough to sustain the entire story, and the urgency dissolves as soon as she’s “safe” at the camp. So you still have to find ways to instill every scene, every page—I’d venture to say nearly every line—with the questions and conflicts that are the rocket fuel of compelling story.

The key: Look ahead, not backward (you can’t pull a rope from behind), and focus on the obstacles, challenges, setbacks, and uncertainties in the current situation.

Rather than having the protagonist lean into what’s happening, think in terms of finding ways for her to lean away from it instead. Even amid her journey of self-discovery, look for what she resists, but what draws her in despite herself. For instance, rather than embracing the sanctuary of her hidey-hole, what if she resents having to flee? What if she’s outraged or irritated or upset about leaving her life and job and friends and everything comfortable and familiar? What if she disdains the facilities, complains to everyone around her, finds the kids annoying, phones it in as a counselor?

Authors often worry that a character and storyline like that will be whiny or off-putting or unlikable, jeopardizing reader investment. But there’s plenty of humor and pathos and even endearment to be mined from characters who bemoan and resist their situations—witness films like As Good As It Gets or Private Benjamin or Stripes or 28 Days, or books like Bonnie Garmus’s Lessons in Chemistry, Emily Giffin’s Something Blue, Jonathan Tropper’s This Is Where I Leave You, or Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove.

Rather than alienating readers from the character, you can make us root for their comeuppance or turnaround or redemption. And now you’ve got the makings of a powerful character arc, and somewhere to build from in showing how your on-the-lam protagonist slowly comes to appreciate her surroundings, despite her initial resistance … and that’s where the gold lies.

Now the stakes are higher. Now we get to see how she comes to accept and then appreciate the camp’s wild beauty and the nature and people around her, and you have built-in opportunities to mine endless tension from every single scene:

Rather than relaxing gratefully into the safety offered by the camp’s remoteness on her arrival, maybe she’s horrified by the primitive conditions?Instead of feeling safe and less lonely when assigned to a bunk with three other counselors, what if she squirms at the lack of privacy, feels excluded because all of them seem to already know each other, and bemoans they’re all at least a decade younger than she is?What if, instead of leaning into her romantic interest, she resists it, still stung by her last relationship that turned dangerous and sent her running here, or put off by the other character’s relentless, irritating positivity and cheer … even as she’s powerfully drawn to that person and their annoyingly happy energy despite herself. Every rom-com writer knows that if two characters feel a potent gravitational pull to one another, delicious tension arises from resisting it, not immediately embracing it (or each other).What if, instead of leaning right into a brand-new sense of purpose with the kids, she finds the little rugrats fairly disgusting, until an out-of-control mud fight drags her into their sense of play? Or she’s hilariously inappropriate with them … yet her realness and flaws hit a chord with the kids and to her surprise they adore her and the other counselors start asking how she’s reaching them so effectively? Or she’s the only one who finally connects with the troubled little boy who doesn’t ever speak?

All these scenarios give the author so much more juice to squeeze in the story, a series of little battles for your protagonist to face so you create the ups and downs that are the backbone of compelling story, instead of a smooth, boring straightaway.

And while the overarching suspense may come from the premise—if she fails or is kicked out, she’s right back in her stalker’s path—you make the stakes far greater than that by introducing new, even more meaningful suspense questions related to her inner journey: Does she have the stones to tough it out in the wilderness? Will she fail as a counselor or get kicked out and lose her safe retreat? Will she push away the love interest who is exactly what she needs to let go of her cranky or narrow worldview? Will she get out of her own damn way and embrace the opportunities she’s been thrust into?

Braiding together all these uncertainties that are directly related to her character journey weaves a rope strong enough to draw readers all the way through. Suspense questions like this pack much more punch than just the threat of her stalker—which is merely a framing device, a setup, a thread too slender from which to hang the entire story’s tension and suspense.

No matter your genre or premise, tension and suspense are the fuel of propulsive story—perhaps never more so than in the “quieter” stories and the upward trajectories.

That’s when it matters most to keep your foot on the pedal. Remember that triumphs are most compelling when the hero has to fight for them, so give them plenty of obstacles, challenges, setbacks, and uncertainties to navigate even when they’re on the right road.

Note from Jane: If you enjoyed this post, join us on Wednesday, Dec. 11 for the online class Mastering Suspense & Tension.

In Defense of Giving Up

Photo by Sebastian Sørensen

Today’s post is an abridged excerpt from “In Defence of Giving Up” by Stacey May Fowles in Bad Artist edited by Nellwyn Lampert, Pamela Oakley, Christian Smith, and Gillian Turnbull. Copyright © 2024 by the contributors. Reprinted with permission of TouchWood Editions.

Before my daughter was born, in early 2018, I was mostly convinced my worth lay in writing eight hundred–word pieces in very little time for very little money. As a “permalancer,” as we’re now known, I earned my living and reputation by writing frequent, short pieces about timely issues for a consistent handful of publications, delivering each on a tight deadline and then measuring my credibility via clicks, likes, and shares.

At the time, I was also pretty sure that the price of that worth was having complete strangers call me all sorts of vile names on the internet, and that the insults and threats I commonly found in my inbox were part of what it meant to be “successful.” Declining work wasn’t part of the deal, but professional exhaustion, being treated badly, hustling and fighting to be heard for very little money on very little sleep definitely was.

As far as I was concerned, suffering gracefully was what it meant to be a professional writer, and turning things down—or even creating some reasonable boundaries—meant you just couldn’t hack it. Besides, saying “no thanks” to invitations and assignments just meant that they would be handed to someone else standing right behind you, eager to take your place.

Better to be grateful, teeth gritted, with a smile on your face.

It’s no exaggeration to say that we exist in a poisonously positive culture, one that constantly discourages us from complaining, calling things out, and, of course, quitting entirely. “Never give up,” the personal mantras espouse; “Anything is possible,” the Instagram squares scream—even when we’re on the floor, unsure if we can self-care ourselves back up again.

If only I worked hard enough, I would think. If only I gave it my all, put in those extra hours, exerted myself to the point of exhaustion. If only I was really, truly committed, burning myself out in pursuit of my lifelong dreams, then I could have everything I always wanted. Then people would respect me. Then I would be successful.

In that spirit of “I can do it,” I have put off rest, and care, and healing. I have tried to prove myself worthy by what I can take, by how much I can suffer, by how far I will go—certainly not by how well I write, and definitely not by how well I can take care of myself.

And, by doing all this, I have learned a pretty nasty truth; the more you endure, the more you will be asked to endure.

It’s a well-worn cliché to say that having a baby changes you. Some would even say it’s a smug sentiment, spoken by people justifying the fact that their lives have been irrevocably altered, and not necessarily for the better. But I don’t actually think it’s necessary to have a baby to see the necessity of slowing down, of asserting boundaries, of saying a loud “no, thank you” instead of yes to every opportunity—it just happened to be necessary for me. But getting pregnant a month after that book’s launch was the invitation necessary for a genuine breather.

Professional writing and publishing culture is packed with the kinds of jobs that people respect you for but don’t pay overtime, or even that well at all. You may be admired by peers for your “glamorous” bylines, you may “matter” enough to be part of that beautiful, successful crowd, but you are also constantly on the verge of a health crisis, or an economic crisis, or a total breakdown.

That’s the thing about the pervasive culture of overwork in publishing—it does everything in its power to make you stay stuck. It builds a mystique around what you do and who that makes you, so much so that you desperately miss the frenzy when it’s gone, regardless of how much happier and healthier you are in its absence.

After some time spent being forced to slow down (my daughter turned six this year), I’m certainly no longer convinced that teetering on the edge of burnout is what success really looks like. I no longer think the only way to matter is by checking your email in the middle of the night, by over-scheduling and under-sleeping, by exposing yourself to abuse or destroying yourself in the process of “succeeding.” Instead, I’m committed to trying to find genuine ways to resist the delirious pressure to always be producing.

Bookshop • Amazon

We live in a culture that urges us to never quit, that tells us we must follow our dreams at all costs, that anything is possible. But one thing this toxic hustle culture doesn’t teach us is just how healing it can be to simply surrender, give up, and let go. It doesn’t tell us how and when to release our grip or guide us to a place of acceptance and openness to what we can become after doing so. It doesn’t let on how liberating and powerful it can be to opt out and step away.

What I’ve learned is this: If something doesn’t value you, quit it. If something is actively harming you, quit it. If you genuinely hate something, quit it. Because despite what you’ve been told, despite what you’ve clung to and what people will say, giving up can actually be a very good thing.

Writing the Author’s Note for a Novel

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Today’s post is by author Jennie Liu.

As writers, the happiness and relief are huge when we type THE END to our manuscripts. With each novel I’ve written, this has certainly been the case for me, but with my fourth manuscript, the sensation was slightly diminished because I knew by then what still lay ahead: writing the author’s note.

Now I love a good author’s note. I’m always eager to hear what writers say about their work. I find reading the note is a bit like chatting with the author. But for me, crafting the author’s note is an arduous task. For my historical YA novel, I spent close to thirty hours shaping and trimming down to a two-page piece.

So, what’s included in an author’s note?

The inspiration or your personal connection to the story

This piece is likely the most interesting to the reader. It can be as straightforward as sharing the spark for your story. You might also discuss your reason or goal for writing the story, the writing process, what you discovered, or how the story changed from your original idea. You can also touch on the theme and how it relates to you personally. 

Example: I started writing The Red Car to Hollywood in the spring of 2020 in response to my mounting dread and anger over the call to anti-Asian hate.

Historical context and the intersection of modern issues

Although readers are certainly not looking for a history lesson, some further insights into related historical information can be of interest, particularly if a story is built around a little-known event. Other material or resources can be acknowledged or referenced for further reading. Or you may want to address your research process. If your novel is historical, you may want to highlight or allude to the social issues that make the novel relevant to the modern day.

Example: … systemic racism also infected Hollywood, and for Asian actors this meant navigating stories with themes of “yellow peril” (the depiction of Asians as threatening to Westerners and Western values)

Disclaimers

This is the opportunity to set the record straight. If you’ve deviated from historical facts or compressed timelines, explanations can be made for what liberties were taken and why. Here is the chance to remind readers that a novel is a work of fiction and ask forgiveness for changes or possible errors to the historical record made in the interest of art.

Example: Although my depictions of Anna May Wong and her father in this novel draw on documentary evidence, they are fictionalized characters.

Acknowledgments

The acknowledgments to those who have helped you along the way are sometimes rolled into the author’s note or you may choose to give them their own pages. Sources or a selected bibliography of resources might also be included in the note or placed under its own heading.

Example: A great many books and articles served as resources for The Red Car to Hollywood. For further reading I’d recommend the following…

General advice for the author’s noteThere are no firm format or rules for the notes other than to be engaging and connect with your reader.Write in the first person. Not only is the information you’re providing referencing your process and point of view, but it’s nice to turn the page and hear the voice of the author, which is often very different from the style of the novel.Be concise and keep it brief. This is why I struggle with writing notes. Deciding what needs to be shared and paring it down can be difficult. I’ve seen notes that are half a page and others that are eight pages. Again, no set rules here, but the prevailing advice is to be brief. I suppose if you want to go long, the reader can simply choose not to read it.When you start a manuscript, create a document where you can toss in relevant material that you may want to address in your note. In my manuscript, I was juggling several themes and a historical context that’s not widely known. People were helping me with research. I was taking liberties with historical figures, compressing timelines, and guessing at minutiae that I couldn’t verify. All of this was causing me a lot of anxiety and mental clutter, so early on I found that by jotting down these notes and putting links to my sources in a document, I could kick the thoughts and worries away to process later. When it came time to write the author’s note, it was wonderful to have nine pages of material as a starting point.Is it necessary to write an author’s note?Amazon • Bookshop

No, but some genres and categories naturally lend themselves to further discussion. From a marketing perspective, the author’s note can help agents, editors, and the publicity and marketing teams with context, finding comparable titles, and sourcing media and publicity hooks. With my novels, the author’s note has been the most concise and direct way to communicate the themes and social relevance to my editor, librarians, and teachers, who are often the gatekeepers to my readers. In children’s and upmarket historical literature, the current social context goes a long way in getting your novel acquired and selling copies.

From beginning to end, writing and publishing a novel is all about telling a story and connecting to readers. As a greedy reader myself, I say a well fleshed out author’s note draws me in more deeply and makes a satisfying afterword to the experience of reading a novel.

5 Myths About Tarot That Storytellers Should Know

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Today’s post is excerpted from Tarot for Storytellers: A Modern Guide for Writers and Other Creatives by Kris Waldherr. Published by Muse Publications LLC.

I’m a storyteller. Chances are you are too. In fact, I’ll go one step further and state that everyone is a storyteller, even if they’ve never picked up a pen, drawn a picture, or pulled a tarot card, though writers have a special calling as such.

Ultimately, it’s human nature to tell stories. We seek stories all the time to better understand the world around us. Stories help us make sense of our life, seek creative solutions, find connections, and to experience empathy for others. Stories transport us, so we can see the forest for the trees.

It’s the same way with the tarot. Whenever we read tarot cards, we’re seeking stories, especially if we’re writers. Tarot can help us shape characters, uncover plot arcs, and understand the core themes behind our words. The cards can also help us untangle writer’s block, cut past overthinking brains, and quicken inspiration. Tarot helps us unearth the magic we seek.

Though the tarot is a powerful tool for storytelling, it comes loaded with a lot of preconceptions. If you’re new to the tarot, you may have picked up this book with some existing beliefs yourself, and possibly a little trepidation. It’s hard to avoid, for it’s a rare person who hasn’t encountered a film or novel where a tarot card plays a dramatic role: The Lovers card indicating a soulmate, or the Death card predicting someone’s unexpected demise—for the record, neither card are traditionally interpreted this way. Let’s look at some of these myths.

Myth #1: The tarot has to do with the supernatural.

From personal experience, this is the belief that most intimidates those new to the tarot. For what it’s worth, the tarot is just a set of cards with pictures on them; they only reflect what we bring to them. Though some people use the cards for spellcasting and fortunetelling, you don’t need to dabble in the supernatural to use the tarot for writing or to heighten creativity.

Myth #2: The tarot predicts the future.

Tarot can be used for fortunetelling, but that’s not the focus of my book, Tarot for Storytellers. And as far as predictions go, I believe the future is never written in stone; the cards simply reflect what might happen, if things continue as they have been. Plus life is complicated—there are so many factors we have no control over. (Don’t like what the cards suggest? Take action to change it.)

Myth #3: Your first tarot deck must be given to you or it’s bad luck.

Definitely not bad luck. Anyway, it’s better if you choose your first deck. Think of choosing a tarot deck as akin to choosing a friend: Who do you want to spend time with? There are decks featuring every imaginable type of art and subject—only you know which deck is best for you.

Myth #4: It’s bad luck to let another person handle your deck.

Not true, though a tarot deck shouldn’t be bandied about like a toy. When not in use, I keep my decks stored in a special area of my studio. This is out of respect for the cards, not fear.

Myth #5: You have to be psychic to use the tarot.

No, though if you’re psychic, all the better! That said, the tarot helps us develop intuition, which can seem akin to precognition. I think of intuition as a magical superpower we all possess; it’s when we take in information so quickly that we can’t break it down into a conscious chain of thought. Bottom line: If you’ve ever known something you couldn’t explain using logic, most likely this was your intuition at work.

Plotters versus pantsers

Whenever I mention the tarot to writers, one question that arises is whether plotters and pantsers should use the tarot differently—it’s a valid consideration.

One isn’t better than the other, just different—it’s all about how our brains are wired for creativity. Plotters need to process their thinking ahead of time. Pantsers need to think on the page or they get bored; they trust their subconscious to come up with answers they require at the right time.

If you’re a plotter, most likely using the tarot as part of your writing process will be a natural fit. You’ll love having a shiny, new tool to incorporate into your pre-writing routine—after all, the more information you have before you start drafting, the better! Later, when you revise your manuscript, the tarot will come in handy as you deepen and clarify what’s already on the page.

If you’re a pantser, you might worry whether the tarot will stifle your creativity. After all, your muse thrives on unpredictability and eureka moments while you write. My take: if anything, the tarot will enhance your creative process. By adding an element of happenstance to coax inspiration from your sub-conscious, it’ll amplify what’s already there.

That said, unlike a plotter, chances are you’ll get more from the tarot by using it while you draft and after you finish, when you’re wrestling your Messy First Draft into shape. You’ll also find the tarot valuable for brainstorming, if you need new story ideas.

Uncertain which camp you fall into? From personal experience, I’ve found most writers are a mix, or “plantsers.” I know I am! I only begin writing my novels after much research and many notes about plot and character and theme. Even so, my draft usually hits a dead end when I’m about 20,000 words into a manuscript; the tarot helps me navigate my way out when it does.

Another consideration: When you think about it, it’s not only fiction writers who can be categorized as plotters or pantsers. It’s the same for nonfiction writers, screenwriters, and other creatives. For example, I know visual artists who meticulously plan ahead, and others who only discover what they’re making once they start painting. Same for musicians who prefer improvisation over sheet music, or clothing designers who intuitively drape and cut fabric instead of sketching first. To reiterate, the “plotters versus pantsers” debate comes down to how brains are wired. Again, one isn’t better than the other—and, in either case, the tarot can enhance your process.

If there’s one gift I hope tarot brings you, it’s the ability to trust your intuition. In today’s world, we’re continuously surrounded by messages that the only useful information is information that can be quantified with facts and figures. The tarot goes against this, for it urges us to look within our psyches, to trust that there’s more to life than what can be seen and measured. After all, like love and creativity, the best things in life are intangible. It’s the same with intuition, which the tarot helps us access and develop. When we write, our intuition tells us to honor our storytelling instinct, to know that the characters we create are worthy of empathy, that our tales offer catharsis, truth, and beauty. Our art holds value.

How to Describe Your Target Readership So It’s Meaningful to Agents and Publishers

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Who is the primary readership for your book? And have you stretched it too far or too thin in your book proposal’s target audience section?

Of all the areas I try to help nonfiction authors better understand, this one can be the most confounding, as I’ve discussed before. It’s common for writers to describe a readership that’s too broad to be meaningful, in the hopes of demonstrating the wide appeal or potential. For example:

“This book is for Baby Boomers.” That’s about 75 million people; not all of them are really your audience.“This book is for people seeking greater happiness in their lives.” But who isn’t seeking greater happiness?“Women make up more than 60 percent of all book purchasers and will be the main audience for this book.” It’s always a mistake to describe the US book buying audience as your audience.

But there can be the reverse problem, too. Authors who’ve internalized the message not to cast the net too widely (who have heard me say, “Your book is not for everyone and anyone”) may get so granular that it’s like reading the cross-tabs of a survey. E.g., “This book is for women aged 21–29 who live in urban centers and shop at Target while listening to Taylor Swift.” Maybe a handful of projects would benefit from getting that granular, but I don’t suggest trying to outperform Procter & Gamble in your consumer analysis. So what are we trying to do?

You want the agent or publisher to be nodding their head at your reader description and thinking, “Yes, I understand exactly who you’re talking about. I understand why this book will help those specific people. I see a path to reaching and communicating with those readers effectively.” We want a readership with clear edges. We want a readership that we can draw a circle around and say, “It’s really for these people (not those) and here’s why.”

A well-defined target audience may include one or more of the following:

Demographic information: age, gender, marital status, geography, education, income, etc. Not all books are for a particular demographic, but some are absolutely dependent on them. For example, a successful book proposal on investing money will likely be defined by demographics because someone who’s in their twenties will think about money quite differently than someone who is approaching retirement. You could write a book about investing for twenty-somethings called The 50-Year Nest Egg that would not be well-suited for someone turning 65 or 70. Or you could write a book about investing for someone who’s 10 years away from retirement who hasn’t yet saved a dime. Different demographics, different books, same topic.Established category readership. Novelists rarely have to define the readership for their book because there is an established audience for specific genres of fiction (e.g., romantasy, cozy mystery, domestic suspense, etc). So instead, novelists use comps to point to who their readership is within their genre. The same can be true for some nonfiction categories as well. For example, there is an ongoing readership for true crime stories. There are podcasts, TV shows, movies, books, and subreddits continually meeting demand for true-crime fans. But you do have to go further than simply saying “there’s an established readership.” Your target audience description should reference trends in your genre/category, how the zeitgeist is bringing forward certain types of stories (and how yours ties into that), and/or how you’re shedding new light or putting a twist on something we think we know. Publishers still need a clear idea of how they might market and position your book to an existing readership, where they would send review copies, where they would advertise, etc. How do you know if your nonfiction book has an established category readership? Look for book reviewers, niche media, publications, podcasts, and influencers who are focused on reviewing and discussing new books, movies, documentaries, TV shows, and trends. There are likely annual “best of” lists for your category, too.Trend or zeitgeist signals. Think back about 10 years ago, when cannabis was starting to become more widely available and legal across the country, in various forms. More and more people with chronic pain or illness were interested in using it, but they were overwhelmed with the choices available and where to buy from and who to trust. (They still are.) Science journalist Cheryl Pellerin pitched a book specifically for this (ongoing) moment in time, Healing with Cannabis. Both your proposal overview and your target readership section can discuss statistics and media-based evidence of a new set of circumstances and a new developing audience. You’ll be discussing this new environment or social phenomenon that’s taking shape that merits a book. Pellerin combined this trend discussion with the next category: people with specific problems.People with specific problems or goals. No matter their demographic, some people have very specific problems they’re trying to solve for or goals they want to achieve. But the danger here is defining the problem in such a way that you’re really talking about the human condition. People who want to eat better? Lead healthier lives? Have better relationships? Advance in their career? These are all issues that affect most middle-class and upper-class people (the key book-buying demographic, of course). And that’s when authors might be tempted to cite granular demographics and say, “Well, this is for 40–49 year olds who want to have better relationships!” Well, OK, but why them? What’s happening at that age? What’s the trend or zeitgeist factor that’s affecting them and not others? How does your book break new ground on this problem that will get their attention? Maybe it’s because you already have an established name or platform or reputation and you already reach the target readership for the book. If that’s the case, then you will likely have no problem describing your target readership because you’ve been serving them for a long time, heard all their questions, know their behaviors, and understand them inside and out. You know what they need or want before they know it themselves.

And that truly is what publishers and agents want to see come through in that target audience section: that you know on a bone-deep level what these readers respond to, and your book will deliver on it because you have that level of knowledge, experience, and insight that few other people possess. Going through a list of statistics or demographic cross-tabs doesn’t reflect that knowledge; it’s just a set of numbers. Stats are great for showing the magnitude of a problem or the growth of certain trends, and they can usefully upend assumptions that agents or publishers might have about your topic or your readership. But you have to add in intimate details as well, like what your reader is enthusiastic about, motivated by, preoccupied with, or struggling with. That drives the need for your book and how the book is marketed.

The challenge for memoirists

Publishers and agents turn down a lot of memoir because the author is unknown. They get a lot of grief for that, but it makes sense on a business level. Most of us only buy memoirs if they’re written by people we already know, particularly celebrities or people in the news. Or we might buy a memoir because of that person’s proximity to greatness, because they are/were an insider, because they’ve lived a life we will never lead, because we want to live vicariously through them. For such memoirs, it’s likely there will be media attention and publicity.

So where does that leave unknown memoirists? Your writing has to be call-everyone-you-know-and-tell-them-about-it good, or your story needs to tie into the zeitgeist in some way or be aligned with societal trends and discussions that will motivate people to read your memoir and talk about it. For example, some years ago, there were a series of deals for what I’d call “climate change memoir.” Think about the most pressing sociopolitical issues of the day, and I guarantee you’ll find memoirs being sold that speak to those issues. Here’s a memoir deal from October 2024 announced in Publishers Marketplace: “Ber Anena’s THE LIES WE TELL FOR AMERICA, an exploration chronicling the author’s time at Columbia University during the COVID-19 pandemic, considering identity, immigration, and the stark realities of receiving a Western education as an international student.”

Is your target audience self-limiting?

Book proposals come together far more easily when the author has confidence and clarity on their target audience. And the easiest proposals to write are those where the audience is somewhat self-limited or even very self-limited. It’s a useful concept when determining whether you’ve sufficiently defined and narrowed your target audience so that a publisher or agent will be nodding their head.

Very self-limiting: Books where the audience is obvious from the book title or subtitle alone. Examples: how to coach youth sports, Instant Pot desserts for people on keto diets, travel guide to Porto for port wine enthusiasts. You still need to describe who these people are and trends relating to this readership. E.g., a travel guide to Porto for port enthusiasts is probably going to appeal mostly to older, British and European men and not 20-something women backpacking through Europe. Very self-limiting books may fail to secure a book deal because the audience appears too small to the agent/publisher or it’s on the decline. Good luck selling a book today for writers on how to make a living by freelancing for magazines. But that is exactly the sort of book that did well when I first got into the book publishing business in 1998.Somewhat self-limiting: Books where the audience is somewhat obvious but might be bigger than first meets the eye. Example: the art of painting animals on rocks. This was the first book of a continuing series with millions of copies sold over its lifetime. It appeals to hobbyist painters, the sort of people who shop at Michaels. You aren’t going to find research studies and demographics of people who paint on rocks. But there’s plenty of market evidence that people like craft painting and people loved this concept (and it was executed beautifully by the author). Another example: Poe for Your Problems by Catherine Baab-Muguira. This is an upmarket self-help book based on the life of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s going to have direct appeal to fans of Poe, but there’s a wider (yet still specific) audience of readers of literary self-help. You can read the author’s proposal here.Not self-limiting: This is dangerous territory, where the book topic might really be about the human condition, or it may touch the majority of the US population, or it could potentially be relevant to everyone. This is where authors struggle the most to say something useful in the target audience section—they’re trying to wrap their arms around the globe. Let’s use eating healthier or good nutrition as an example. It’s a goal that a lot of Americans have and it’s a shelf with countless books. The topic is not self-limiting. So unless you have a significant platform or established readership for this topic, you need to be focused about the audience you’re addressing. There are many ways that Americans might eat healthier and approaches will vary based on one’s life stage, resources, goals, and medical conditions. Are you focusing on a particular age group or demographic? Are you focusing on people on restricted diets? Are you focusing on people with particular challenges in their lives (lack of time, kids who are picky eaters)? Whose problems are you solving for?

Some of the most competitive categories to sell a book are business/money, health and fitness, self-help or self-improvement, cookbooks/food, and anything related to current events or issues that affect our daily lives. Or: categories that deal with issues that potentially affect everyone. So book proposals in these categories can be astoundingly weak if the audience has been left wide open and the author has not limited the audience. Ask: Does this issue pretty much concern everyone? If so, you may struggle with the target audience section until you determine specifically who you want to help and adjust your book’s unique selling position to address that audience.

Is memoir self-limiting? Not really, and this is part of the challenge of selling memoir. Most memoirists are encouraged to “find the universal” in their memoir and show how it’s going to be relevant to other people. This can be taken too far. If you’re an unknown writer, your memoir will most likely appeal to a small group of people who care about the issues or questions you are exploring (refer back to the zeitgeist discussion earlier). In some cases, I think it’s better to rely on your comp titles to indicate your target audience, as discussed here.

Sometimes authors write the book proposal not knowing who they’re writing for because they haven’t decided yet. The proposal writing process then forces clarity. If you’re struggling with your target audience section, that’s a good sign you’re on the road to clarity. Lean into the discomfort. Why are you having trouble? Are you trying to describe an audience you don’t in fact know or don’t care about? Are you guessing at or inventing the audience? (Should you do some research first?) Who do you really want to reach? Whose life do you really want to change? Who are you drawing the circle around, and who do you want to bring in closer? That’s your target readership.

My NaNoWriMo Was a Train Wreck

Today’s post is by author Elinor Florence.

Several years ago, I participated in National Novel Writing Month, a creative writing event known as NaNoWriMo.

I joined hundreds of thousands of other writers around the planet who tackled the ambitious goal of completing a 50,000-word novel in thirty days.

In one sense, I was successful. I dutifully churned out 2,000 words a day and at the end of the month, I had a 60,000-word first draft.

That was a mistake I will never make again.

Leaving the station

I began to research the concept for my historical novel seven months earlier, on April 1, 2020. By the time November rolled around I had read dozens of books, recorded a raft of notes, and dreamed up a story. I mistakenly believed I was ready to start writing.

Set in 1905, my novel titled Finding Flora concerns a Scottish newlywed who jumps off the train in the middle of the night to escape from her abusive husband, and finds herself alone on the vast prairie. Flora claims a homestead and endures the deprivations of pioneer life, supported in her struggles by several female neighbours including an American couple, a Welsh widow, and a Métis woman.

On the first day of November, I happily wrote the first thrilling chapter, in which Flora leaps from the train.

From there, it was all downhill.

Wheels coming off

Almost immediately, I realized I needed more of the details that lend authenticity to every work of historical fiction. For example, I had located an old train schedule, but I had no idea what a sleeping compartment in a steam train looked like. I had researched the climate, but not what Flora might be wearing. Each time I hit a snag, I wrote (while swearing in my head) “blankety, blank, blank.”

My greatest challenge was Jessie, the Indigenous character. I had no concept of how she would have spoken and behaved in that time period. I was mortally afraid of writing the wrong thing and betraying my own Indigenous heritage.

But there were larger factual issues, ones that impacted the plot. For example, what were the government’s conditions for filing on a homestead and more importantly, keeping it? The time crunch led me to fabricate laws that later proved to be totally incorrect and resulted in massive headaches.

The storyline was another tangled web. I had imagined the book in broad strokes only, so I started each morning with no clue about what to write next. Nevertheless, I plodded along day after day, filling my word quota.

Screeching to a halt

At the end of the month, I had a shitty first draft, as Anne Lamott calls it. This one was beyond shitty. It was so badly written, so amateurish, that I moaned aloud when I reread it. The piece had no continuity, no rising tension, and no climax. It was little more than a jumble of scenes occupied by wooden characters.

I was so demoralized that I digitally shelved the manuscript for a year, hiding it under several layers of desktop folders, convinced that I never wanted to see the loathsome thing again.

Getting back on track

A year later, my writing buddies who liked the story idea urged me to revisit it. With the utmost reluctance, I fired up the literary boiler. I knew this revision would require more effort than putting lipstick on a pig. I would have to resurrect an entire porker from the dead.

Rewriting was far more difficult than firing off that scattergun first draft. I discovered untold flaws, consulted additional sources, and rewrote almost every scene. That took me four months.

I then submitted it to an Indigenous sensitivity editor. Thankfully she didn’t find anything offensive, but she red-flagged about a dozen instances that needed attention. (For example, I had Jessie wearing mukluks instead of moccasins—mukluks were not worn by Plains Cree in 1905.)

With those corrections made, I hired a professional developmental editor. She identified several major plot inconsistencies, a direct result of my overreliance on that dreadful first draft to drive the action. All too often, I had driven it recklessly in the wrong direction. Those revisions took a further three months of gruelling labor.

Finally, I felt ready to submit Finding Flora to a publisher. To my delight, Simon & Schuster offered me a contract!

But that didn’t mean my work was done. The publisher launched yet another structural edit. The story was told from two points of view, and my new editor tasked me with removing the second POV altogether. That took weeks of swearing and hair-tearing as I struggled to find other means of revealing the information previously relayed through the second character.

Reaching the stationBookshop • Amazon

My novel finally arrived at its final destination. Finding Flora will hit the bookstores on April 1, 2025—exactly five years to the fateful day when I started working on the book.

The only thing that remains of my original manuscript is the first chapter and that, too, has been rewritten multiple times. The plot now makes sense, the characters are fully developed, and, thanks to my slavish attention to historical detail, it has the ring of authenticity.

However, I believe I could have achieved this level of excellence much sooner, and with far less angst. Because of my NaNoWriMo, I estimate that I lost about two years.

In fairness, perhaps historical fiction isn’t the right genre for writing a speedy first draft. Perhaps a fantasy or a romance author might have more success. Surely NaNoWriMo wouldn’t be so popular if it didn’t work for so many people.

But if you are currently participating in this massive exercise, or plan to tackle it in future, these are my suggestions for a better experience.

1. Create a chapter-by-chapter, scene-by-scene outline. The quick-and-dirty process is better suited to pantsters than plotters like me. Creative ideas come thick and fast when you are forced to sit at your computer every day—in my case, too many ideas. I needed a blueprint to keep me on track. Prepare as detailed a plot as possible.

2. Do the bulk of your research ahead of time—preferably all of it. There’s nothing to take your head out of the game and waste precious hours like the necessity to look something up, especially if you absolutely must get it right from the get-go. Facts form the foundation of fiction.

3. Don’t imagine you will have anything resembling a finished book at the end of November. Unless you are a gifted writer, be prepared to spend weeks, perhaps months, tearing apart and rewriting your first draft.

4. Finally, don’t hesitate to give up in the middle of the month. My own reluctance to throw in the towel caused me months of unnecessary work and frustration trying to get my novel back on the right track.

I’m currently pondering my next novel, but I will never again make the fatal mistake of trying to write a first draft in thirty days.

Doubting Yourself Is Not Failing

Today’s post is excerpted from Wrangling the Doubt Monster: Fighting Fears, Finding Inspiration (Bancroft Press, 2025) by Amy L. Bernstein.

What do we have here?

A doubter’s manifesto. An article of affirmation. An artist who says: I see you.

The hope is you see yourself, realize you are not alone, learn that doubt is not your assassin.

You’ll need a bit of truth, a bit of courage. Some repetition too—because you need to hear this more than once. And a wisp of contradiction because … that’s life. I need this as much as you.

A young Sylvia Plath wrote in her journal that “the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” That sounds true, but I don’t think it is true.

Her assertion implies that only by banishing doubt can you effectively be creative—to practice your art. There are moments, to be sure, when an artist in the flow of creativity (cognitive disinhibition) does not feel doubt blocking the way.

But realistically, doubt is a near-constant companion of anyone making art in any form. Doubt is fuel as well as foe.

Let us therefore not engage in fruitless attempts to banish doubt, or even conquer it. Let us seek productive co-existence with this emotional shadow that hovers nearby, just out of sight, like a ghost.

Let us befriend the ghost.

René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.”

Equally true: “I doubt, therefore I am.”

Doubt is to life as water is to life. We do not live without either. We do not live without a persistent undercurrent of questions, both tiny and tremendous.

Anyone who claims never to doubt—or to “suffer” from a state of doubt—is lying, either to themselves or to everyone.

Doubt is baked into the human condition and transcends culture, epoch, and geography. People all over the world, in every time period, speak of doubt and the crises of faith it engenders.

Doubt is with us/within us/us.

Doubting is not failing. Doubting is not succeeding. Doubting is not about getting ahead or falling behind; stopping or starting.

Doubting exists in that liminal space where every aspect of art-making is a shade of effort—an embryo of creation.

Doubting may feel like rocket fuel or like doom—but imagine it is neither of those.

Hold space for doubt without imposing labels. Reserve judgment: of yourself of your art-in-progress of what’s in your head/hand/heart. Doubt arises during the many phases of art becoming art.

Let it be. Leave it alone. Keep working.

Every single act of creating is also an act of doubting.

You cannot “make” without wondering. You cannot wonder without questioning. You cannot question—deeply—without exposing yourself to the unknown. Becoming exposed leads to feeling vulnerable. Feeling vulnerable leaves you open to uncertainty. Uncertainty is a close cousin of doubt: a state where truth and clarity shimmer like ghosts.

So much you do not know, cannot pin down. Cannot point to and say, Yes! That!

When you create, you will doubt: Accepting that is your gift to yourself.

Note from Jane: Enjoy this? Then do consider Wrangling the Doubt Monster: Fighting Fears, Finding Inspiration (Bancroft Press, 2025) by Amy L. Bernstein.

The Human-Interest Approach: Focusing on People to Convey Facts

Photo by Onin

Today’s post is by book coach Nicole Pope.

In journalism, we call them human interest stories—articles or broadcasts that cover the news from the perspective of individuals who are affected by the events.

Casualty numbers after an earthquake, for example, may feel abstract to readers far away. An article giving voice to a mother struggling to feed her children after the family lost all their possessions in the disaster has greater resonance. It exposes the personal cost.

The human-interest approach is also a powerful tool that can elevate nonfiction writing from informative to truly impactful. It infuses dry facts and data with soul and elicits an emotional response from the readers.

Academics or experts seeking to reach a broader audience, in particular, may find this technique useful. When they transition from addressing an audience of peers in scholarly publications, they sometimes struggle to strike a balance between authority and readability to make their work more accessible. One key concern is to share their knowledge with readers without dumbing down or oversimplifying.

Writing for an audience of non-experts involves a major shift in writing style that goes beyond using simpler language. It requires writers to become storytellers and deploy narrative skills to craft a tale that incorporates their analytical perspective.

This is where the human-interest approach can help. Framing information through the lens of people’s experiences creates a bridge with the readers’ daily lives and makes complex facts easier to absorb.

Tips to add a human-interest dimension

Researched and narrative nonfiction books can be built around an individual’s story that resonates with readers. In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, science writer Rebecca Skloot covered genetic research and medical ethics, particularly about race, through the extraordinary tale of a long-deceased woman whose cells have been used for medical purposes for decades.

But stories of personal struggles, amazing achievements or epic quests do not need to run through an entire book or be its main focus to strike a chord with readers.

If you’re a writer seeking a potent way to impart information, here are a few tips:

Illustrate specific facts with stories or anecdotes. This is particularly effective when dealing with statistics, scientific facts, or complex issues. In his recent book Fluke: Chance, Chaos, and Why Everything We Do Matters, political scientist Brian Klaas shows how it’s done. The author draws on chaos theory and a wealth of scientific data to demonstrate how random events affect our daily lives. What makes his book so powerful are the outstanding real-life anecdotes—surprising, funny or moving—that he deploys throughout the book to bolster his ideas.Profile key players. Provide ample details about the people who play a role or are mentioned in your book, whether they’re historical figures, inventors, explorers or ordinary folk. Tell their life story and describe the person behind the name, using descriptive terms that engage all of the readers’ senses and bring these characters to life for your audience.Don’t rely solely on secondary sources. Avoid the temptation to build a case for your ideas only through written resources. Interviews can be an effective way to add another layer to your narrative. You don’t have to be a professional journalist to conduct them, as long as you thoroughly check your sources. Don’t be afraid to contact people whose voice can enrich your content. You’ll be surprised how many will respond positively if they feel you are taking an interest in their work or their life experience. A first-hand account or a well-selected quote not only adds credibility to your content but can also be used to break up fact-heavy sections and sustain reader interest.Hook the reader in the lead paragraph. Grab the reader’s attention at the start of a chapter or book section by starting with an intriguing anecdote or create suspense by starting at a critical moment in time and highlighting the stakes through real-life examples. You can then provide context to support the story you’ve shared and return to the more factual aspect of your text.The power of storytelling

It may seem obvious but it bears repeating. Nonfiction—not just fiction—best holds readers’ attention when it is supported by a compelling narrative. This also applies to big-idea and research-based nonfiction that aims to convey facts, share expertise, or challenge conventional perceptions.

The most thought-provoking nonfiction books are often written by talented authors who skillfully weave facts and vivid details about people to promote innovative ideas and alternative perspectives on important topics. They challenge their audience’s perceptions by highlighting what is at stake.

Injecting a human-interest layer to researched nonfiction should not be seen as a gimmick designed only to increase a book’s commercial appeal. People-focused stories that trigger readers’ imagination and spark an emotional reaction can achieve far more than making data more “digestible.” Well-chosen anecdotes can also foster a deeper understanding of the topics and messages at the heart of the book and add a memorable aspect that boosts their impact.

In a recent podcast interview, historian and philosopher Yuval Noah Harari, author of the best-selling Sapiens: A Brief History of Mankind and the recently published Nexus, which tackles the advent of AI and its impact, acknowledged that “for story animals like us, concrete is almost always better than abstract… Something concrete, something sensory that you can imagine, that you can visualize.” Books convey important messages, he added, but in many cases, what readers retain are “a few anecdotes, a few stories.”

5 Things Painting the Bathroom Reminded Me about Writing a Novel

Photo by Ivan Samkov

Today’s post is by writer and editor Sarah Welch.

Earlier this month, I painted our downstairs powder room.

I had never painted a room before, but I was sick of the plain white, haphazardly decorated space, and it seemed like a good place to try something bold.

As I was working, I realized I could draw a lot of parallels between painting the bathroom and writing a novel. You’ve probably heard me talk about the intersections between writing and other art forms once or a million times, but I’d never considered that a more practical variation of painting—walls as opposed to pictures—could apply, too. But sure enough, I quickly found myself facing very similar challenges to the ones I coach my writing clients through.

Here were my takeaways:

1. You can prep forever, but eventually you have to start.

I waited several days between prepping the bathroom and actually painting it. I’d taped off the edges, covered the floor and the mirror, wrapped the toilet and sink pedestals, and gathered my supplies. But then I just kept prepping. Maybe I should place the tape differently here. Maybe I should cover the toilet in a different way. Maybe I should…

What I needed to do was start painting. Would I inevitably have to adjust some of the prep work as I painted? Of course. But if I waited until I thought the prep was perfect, I would’ve likely ended up with a permanently taped- and drop-clothed guest bathroom. Which would’ve been awkward at the holidays.

I see novelists do this, too. Whether they’re researching a historic time period or fiddling with their outlines, it’s so easy to keep prepping and postpone writing. It feels safer that way, doesn’t it? If you never start painting, you don’t risk turning the bathroom a hideous shade of streaky awful. If you never start writing, you don’t risk your manuscript failing to live up to your vision.

Sure, getting started means potentially failing. But it also means giving yourself an opportunity to succeed. There will absolutely be tape lines to adjust and plot questions to answer along the way, and that’s okay. Sometimes you have to get into it—so it’s practical instead of theoretical—in order to see exactly how to get that prep work just right, anyway.

2. It’s tempting to edit as you go. It’s better (usually) if you don’t.

While I was tackling the first coat, I found myself constantly tempted to go back over spots that still had little white speckles showing under the paint. But I knew that doing that was likely to lead to splotches and streaks, so (for the most part) I refrained.

Same with writing, right? We’re tempted to make each scene and line and word perfect on the first try, which ultimately hinders us from finishing the story. I let those little speckles live on the wall until the second coat, and as authors, we can let imperfect wording, hollow descriptions, and even entire scenes stay as they are until it’s time to begin edits.

I will note that when my roller slipped and I accidentally slapped a bunch of navy paint onto the window, I stopped to clean that up right away before it dried. For authors, that paint on the window might equate to the realization that you’ve written yourself into a giant plot hole, or that a character has made an inauthentic decision that will take the story in a whole new direction. In that case, go head and redirect before your mistake impacts the next fifty pages.

3. While there are general “best practices,” there are a lot of “right” ways to do the job.

I did a lot of research before I got started (see point 1 about indefinite prep), and for the most part, I followed the best practices I read online. Cut in the corners, paint one wall at a time, etc. But there were some “rules” I encountered that I knew immediately I would be better off disregarding. One of those was a Reddit post claiming (very authoritatively) that a “tight space painter” was a waste of money, and anyone with a modicum of skill could paint behind a toilet or sink with a regular brush.

Now, I had never heard of a “tight space painter,” but I knew immediately from this post deriding them that I would need one, so I quickly added it to cart. And I’m so glad I did, because it alleviated my anxiety about some of the trickier parts of the paint job, and it made things so much easier in the end.

In my one-on-one sessions with members of my writing group, I constantly find myself giving authors permission to break the “rules” that they feel they must follow even when they hinder their writing practices. When a “tried and true” (or, at least, widely accepted) rule, guideline, or best practice is no longer serving you and your writing process, then that rule no longer applies. Throwing it out the window in favor of the tools or systems or processes that will make your work better and even—God forbid—more fun does not make you any less of a writer.

4. At a certain point, you have to stop before you make it worse.

For literally three days after I finished painting, I found myself rushing back out to the garage to grab the paint can and a tiny brush in order to fix an uneven line or a spot around the edge of the outlet cover, or even one or two of those darn white speckles that only showed up in a very specific light.

As I wiped wet paint off the base of the hand towel rod for the umpteenth time, I began to fear that this fixation on making it perfect would go the same way as those horror stories of people who cut their own hair and, in the process of trying to make their bangs even, wind up chopping them way too close. So, I finally decided it was time to call this project done.

Are there still imperfections? Sure. Did my husband ask me when I was going touch up the caulking below the baseboards behind the sink the other day? He did. Did I throttle him right then and there? No, and I’m very proud of myself for that restraint. The job is finished. It’s time to step away.

A few months ago, an Inkwell member asked me how she could be confident it was time to hand her latest draft over to a beta reader. She was having the same problem I had with the finished paint job—she just kept finding things to fix, and she couldn’t stop trying to fix them. I told her, “When you can’t tell whether you’re making things better or worse, it’s time to step away from the manuscript.” She was at the point where she was too close to it—she couldn’t see the big picture anymore, and she’d lost sight of her pride in the story. It was time. She gave the manuscript to her very first beta reader and, though she’d had to psych herself up to hit the “send” button, she breathed a huge sigh of relief.

5. The finished product is something to be immensely proud of.

Baseboard caulking and occasional speckle aside, the powder bath is now my favorite room in the house. (Is that weird? I accept it.) Not only do I love the way it turned out, but I feel a sense of pride every time I walk into that room and see what I accomplished. I did this! It was hard, and I was nervous, but I did it. And I’m proud of myself for it.

I hope that’s how every author I work with feels about their finished manuscripts, too. Whether you’re typing “the end” of your very first draft, submitting an edited draft to an agent, or uploading final files to self-publish, you have created something entirely new, and you should celebrate that accomplishment. It’s easy to focus on what you would change or what you haven’t accomplished, but isn’t it so much more rewarding acknowledge yourself for putting your all into a project and finishing it to the best of your abilities?

You did it! I’m proud of you, and I hope you’re proud of yourself.