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Writing the Other: 4 Not So Easy (But Doable!) Steps

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Today’s post is by author and book coach Samantha Cameron.

Most writers know the importance of portraying underrepresented characters in their work but are anxious when it comes to writing about an identity other than their own. There’s pressure to get it right, and so many ways it can go wrong.

If you feel uncertain in any way about representing an underrepresented community in your work, I want you to pause, take a breath, and embrace this anxiety.

Wait, you might be thinking, aren’t you supposed to be giving me a pep talk about how this is going to be okay?

I will. In a minute. But first, I want you to embrace your anxiety about this issue, because it means you care. It means you understand that representing people whose experiences are different than your own is a meaningful responsibility. Of course you want to do it well, so that you don’t hurt people. And some part of you is worried about backlash if you “get it wrong.”

Because the consequences of getting this wrong can be significant, it can feel overwhelming to even approach this issue. So, some writers shut down and decide they don’t want to approach it at all.

Perfectionism is trying to save you from the dangers of criticism, which feeds you the lie, You’re better off not touching this. Let someone else do it. So, the first important thing to recognize is that there is no such thing as perfect representation. You’re never going to create a character that everyone universally agrees is perfect representation just like you’re never going to create a perfect book that everyone universally loves.

That doesn’t mean you stop trying. Just like you still strive to create a page-turning plot even though you know it will never be perfect. Rather than focusing on doing a perfect performance of what “good” representation is, your focus should be on creating three-dimensional characters and minimizes how much harm you do.

Okay, so how do you even do that? Although there is no formula for “perfect” representation, here are four steps that will pave the way to better representation—and better writing!

1. Conduct wide-ranging, deep research.

The first step is to conduct research about the community you are trying to represent. As much as possible, strive to see this community with inside eyes, rather than solely an outsider’s perspective. If your research about what it’s like to be transgender is exclusively from the New York Times, you won’t have the full picture or the same perspective as you would get by reading The Washington Blade, an exclusively LGBTQ+ newspaper, or by reading GLAAD’s reporting.

When you’re doing this research, start with sources that are already available—books, podcasts, blogs, etc.—rather than immediately turning to the people in your life who identify with the community you are trying to represent. I’ve been guilty of this, and I’m grateful to the friends who have indulged my questions and sent me resources before I knew better. Some of your friends and loved ones might be happy to talk to you, but it can be a lot of emotional work. They may not want to unpack that with you. Besides, there are plenty of other people who have made it a part of their paid work to educate people about these topics. Go to those resources first.

2. Engage the help of beta or sensitivity readers.

No matter how much research you do, you might miss something. So, seek feedback from sensitivity readers. They will specifically focus on your representation of a particular group. Some guidelines:

Have multiple sensitivity readers with a wide range of experiences. No group is a monolith, so a “pass” from one sensitivity reader does not guarantee your manuscript has avoided all harmful tropes.Look for areas of consensus. If most or all of your readers say that a certain part of your manuscript makes them feel a certain way and it’s not the way you wanted them to feel, that’s an indication to revise.Sensitivity readers are usually described as people who are from within the community you are trying to represent. I read an interesting piece from Brooke Warner in which she points out that while that kind of feedback is useful, you can get very good sensitivity readings from people outside of a community, and not very useful feedback from within. Basically, she’s pointing out that people can internalize tropes, biases and stereotypes about their own identities and not necessarily be aware of how that manifests on the page. Or, a particular person might not be bothered by a trope that really hurts a lot of other people in the community.3. Cultivate your awareness of bias and tropes.

Back in 2019, one of my friends pointed me to an excellent Harry Potter podcast called Witch, Please! The hosts are lady scholars who are fans of the series but evaluate it from a critical lens. Before I listened to this podcast, I had very little awareness of anti-fat bias. In the podcast, the hosts discuss the ways that Rowling uses fatness as a shortcut for moral degeneracy. She is able to use these tropes because she can count on her audience to have the same biases. The pervasiveness and invisibility are what makes tropes and stereotypes so pernicious.

I realized when I listened to this podcast that I had a character in one of my books where I’d done basically the same thing. I’d used his fatness as a shortcut for characterizing him as villainous. So, I went and reworked that character. Instead of making him fat, I made him muscular and conventionally attractive and had to rely on other ways of communicating to the reader that this was not a trustworthy guy. In addition to removing that particular anti-fat trope, reworking this relatively minor character made him much more compelling and scarier than he originally had been. Which leads to my next point…

4. Make your characters more than their marginalization.

To paraphrase Walt Whitman, we contain multitudes—and so should all your characters. We are all affected by facets of our identity, but that isn’t the whole sum of who we are. So, any time you are adding characters to your cast with an eye on “diversity,” treat them the way you treat any character. This means that you make sure these characters serve a purpose. They aren’t merely there to check the diversity box or be the butt of a joke, but to play a role in the story. They should matter such that their removal would alter the story. It also means making each character distinguishable by traits other than their race/sexual orientation/gender/body etc. So, if you have a gay character, they should also have other traits that distinguish them from other characters the same way that you would distinguish straight characters from each other. In addition to being better representation, this is better writing.

Finally, it’s okay to show your characters grappling with their own biases.

Many writers export the pressure we feel to be perfectly informed, anti-biased creatures onto our characters. For kid lit authors, this pressure is especially acute since our characters serve as role models to children. But, it can be more realistic, not to mention a much better learning experience, to show characters who are genuinely confronting their own bias.

Consider this example from Becky Albertalli’s Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda. Simon is a closeted gay teenager who has been exchanging anonymous emails with another closeted boy at his school. In this scene, Simon is at a Halloween party with his friends:

“Leah, did you know you have a really Irish face?”

She looks at me. “What?”

“You guys know what I mean. Like an Irish face. Are you Irish?”

“Um, not as far as I know.”

Abby laughs.

“My ancestors are Scottish,” someone says. I look up, and it’s Martin Addison wearing bunny ears.

“Yeah, exactly,” I say as Martin sits beside Abby, close but not too close. “Okay, and it’s so weird, right, because we have all these ancestors from all over the world, and here we are in Garett’s living room, and Martin’s ancestors are from Scotland, and I’m sorry, but Leah’s are totally from Ireland.”

“If you say so.”

“And Nick’s are from Israel.”

“Israel?” says Nick, fingers still sliding all over the frets of the guitar. “They’re from Russia.”

So I guess you learn something new every day, because I really thought Jewish people came from Israel.

“Okay, well, I’m English and German, and Abby’s, you know…” Oh God, I don’t know anything about Africa, and I don’t know if that makes me racist.

“West African. I think.”

“Exactly. I mean, it’s just the randomness of it. How did we all end up here?”

“Slavery, in my case,” Abby says.

And fucking fuck. I need to shut up. I needed to shut up about five minutes ago.

There are several reasons why this scene is so effective.

First, Simon’s biases are explicitly called out, giving Simon—and the reader—a chance to learn from them.Second, the call out isn’t just a random attempt to educate the reader. It is specifically relevant to the point of the book, which is about the ways that our assumptions can be misleading.Third, this moment is a plot clue. Several times in the narrative, Albertalli draws attention to Simon’s blind spots about Black people, because it is relevant to the plot.How’s your anxiety?

It’s possible that you’ve read all this and now feel more anxious and less confident than you did coming in. You might read this and think, this sounds like hard work.

Yes, it is.

Writing a book is hard work.

Taking care in your representation may not make anyone’s life easier, but at least you reduce your chances of hurting someone or making someone else’s life harder.

So, roll up your sleeves. This work isn’t easy. But you can do it.

Note from Jane: For writers seeking more guidance on this topic, consider Writing the Other by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward.

How and Where to Build Your Literary Community

Photo by Andraz Lazic on Unsplash

Today’s post is by writer Star Wuerdemann.

In 2015, I attended a writing retreat with Natalie Goldberg and had a terrible revelation. As I sat in a room among 75 people diligently scribbling in notebooks, I realized: I had no writer friends.

Now, nine years later, I have a solid writing community that continues to grow and support me. Along the way, I had the opportunity to ask Jane Friedman the most important step to take as an early writer. She said, “Build your website.” Then she laughed and admitted that was the pragmatic side; the other most important thing is to build your literary community.

What is literary community and why do people talk about it all the time?

Literary community is the collective connected through the making of literature: writing, reading, and publishing. Word folks, of all kinds. But more than that, it’s the people who are going to cheer you on when you succeed and encourage you when you fail. Which you will. A writing career is a long game; you need folks by your side.

Building community, while similar to networking, isn’t the same. A literary community will have connections that help your career, but it’s also going to be your support network. Your friends. Author Mary Boone, who has published over 70 books, says, “Community is how you are going to get the writing done.” 

But I write alone, you protest. Read the acknowledgements of pretty much any book you’ve appreciated and see just how many people get thanked by the author.

But how does one go about building literary community? 

It’s hard to make connections alone at your desk. Thankfully, for those who can’t physically show up for a myriad of reasons, there are many virtual opportunities.

Great, you say. Just where do I show up and find people?

Participate on social media (one place)

Many writers still mourn the loss of literary Twitter, and rightfully so, but literary folks remain online. Find the social media platform that works for you, not the one you think you should be on. Jane Friedman says, “It’s okay to play to your strengths… Go where you can sustain the activity, otherwise it’s not going to have any effect.”

Pick one place and build a presence there. Follow authors, bookstores, libraries, editors, publishers, literary agents, literary journals. Interact with the people and places that resonate with you. Build your knowledge about what is happening in the world of writing and publishing.

Have conversations in the newsletter space

Newsletters are having a moment and are a great way to participate in the literary community. Currently, there are a lot of newsletters on Substack which has the benefit of recommendations to other newsletters. Regardless of the platform, you can easily find out if someone has a newsletter from their website or social media. Find newsletters that interest you. Engage with the author and readers via comments.

One of my favorite newsletters is Pub Cheerleaders, co-written by Rachel León and Amy Giacalone, that promotes literary community with encouragement to writers and reading recommendations through book reviews and author interviews. Speaking of…

Be a cheerleaderShow up at local author events. Tip: It’s okay not to buy the book. Your presence is a contribution, especially if you ask a question.Share other writers’ successes on social media: publications, awards, new jobs/roles, etc.Tell people about an essay or story you loved. Put a book in someone’s hands.Tell writers when you appreciate them. Keep it simple and genuine: “I really enjoyed your piece,” or “I appreciated what you said about story structure.” This can be in-person or online. Join associations near and far

There are many professional organizations and associations dedicated to writing. Look for a writing association in your area to find local connections. There are genre-specific organizations that can offer opportunities for connection as well. (Women’s Fiction Writers Association, Romance Writers of America, National Association of Memoir Writers, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association, Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, to name a few). Check out The Authors Guild, a national organization that strongly advocates for the rights of writers. They also offer educational opportunities.

Take classes

If you live near a city, there is likely a writing center of some sort. If not, find an online class. If you can, take a multi-week class. Being in a regular group more easily fosters connection than a one-off event. There are many paid opportunities, of course, which run the gamut from wonderful to terrible. Do some research on the teacher and the organization offering a class and be thoughtful in your selection. (See Andromeda Romano-Lax’s recent post on Jane’s blog: Workshopper Beware.) And even if you end up in a not-great workshop, you may still find a great writing friend and/or reader.

Can’t afford a class? Writing is sometimes lamented as a “pay to play” game, and while it may be easier to build your community if you can afford paid events, there are many free opportunities and those that have minimal cost. And remember, many institutions have financial aid available these days.

Attend free (or nearly free) events

Who are the local authors to your area? What events do they have going on? Look for book festivals and literary fairs in your area. See if there are any drop-in writing groups (good places to look: Shut Up & Write! and Meetup). Check out your local bookstores and local library.

Nothing local? I attend free events from all over. I discover them through newsletters, social media posts, and from my writing community. One of my favorite free online events is run by Miami Book Fair called First Draft: A Virtual Literary Social.

Think outside the critique/workshop

Often writers think they want a writing group, meaning a group that gives feedback on each other’s work. Critique groups can be wonderful, but there are many other possibilities for groups, most of which cost nothing.

Write-ins. Here in Washington, I’ve coordinated with a local bookstore to start a drop-in writing group in their event space, advertised through their website. Write-ins can happen in-person or online. Do a brief check in, then set a timer for a prescribed amount of work time during which there is no talking. Check in at the end to see how it went for everyone.Writing-specific book club. Pick a craft book you’ve been wanting to read and partner with a friend or small group to read it and discuss. Or pick a book of your genre and do a close reading. One writing friend and I each read a novel for specific craft elements, and then get together via Zoom to discuss.Accountability groups. I belong to an accountability group hosted by authors Tessa Fontaine and Annie Hartnett. They co-lead Accountability Workshops designed to help writers fulfill their commitment to their own writing. Author Jami Attenberg runs #1000wordsofsummer, an online accountability community who commiserate and cheer each other on in writing, you guessed it, one thousand words a day. NaNoWriMo, a challenge to write 50,000 words of a novel in the month of November, has been happening since 1999. Book Banter Groups. Book Banter groups, often run by libraries or bookstores, are folks gathering to talk about the books they are reading and loving. If there isn’t one happening near you, you could start one.Try the Beta Reader Match Up

Ready to have your project read and still need to find willing beta readers? Several times a year, founder of the podcast The Sh*t No One Tells You About Writing, Bianca Marais, hosts a Beta Reader Match Up. There is a small fee ($20 at the time of writing this) and a detailed questionnaire that helps connect the right writers with each other.

Go to writers conferences

Attending a conference is a great way to connect with the literary community and meet a broad array of folks in the literary world. The Association of Writers & Writing Programs, aka AWP, hosts the largest conference but there are many others. AWP’s website has a directory of Writing Centers and Conferences: AWP Directory.

If you can’t afford a conference, consider volunteering. I volunteered for my first conference and while I didn’t get to attend as many panels, I got to meet and talk with folks I wouldn’t have as a regular attendee.

Consider graduate study

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention graduate study. Many people build their network by attending an MFA program, either in-person or low-residency. But it’s not a slam-dunk—every cohort is different, and not everyone finds their writing community through their program. Plus it can be very costly. I don’t have an MFA, but I do have a robust literary community.

Final thoughtsThe writing world is small. Smaller than you think! Your actions matter—treat other people with respect and kindness.Seek out peers—find the folks who are at a similar place in their writing career or have a similar dedication to their literary goals.Don’t buy into the scarcity construct—be generous. If you’re lucky enough to find yourself with a seat at the literary table, invite a friend to join. Rebecca Makkai says that it’s not just our job to make room, but to make the table bigger. Have faith there is space.

Much like writing and revising, building your literary community is both contrived and organic. You must deliberately seek out opportunities, but then allow the friendships and connections to unfold. Put your energy into people and places that are a good fit for you and your writing goals, and your literary community will thrive.

Going After the Widest Audience Possible: Q&A with Award-Winning Author Jami Fairleigh

For years now, the Indie Author Project has made an effort to find the best self-published books in communities across the U.S. and Canada. The project encompasses public libraries, authors, curators, and readers working together to connect library patrons with great self-published work, primarily in fiction.

The Indie Author Project recently named their 2023 national contest winner, Jami Fairleigh, of the King County library system in Washington state. Fairleigh is a biracial, Japanese-American writer, urban planner, and hobby collector from Washington. Her writing has been published by Terror House Magazine, Horror Tree, Defenestration, and Amsterdam Quarterly.

Fairleigh has published three fantasy novels, all part of the Elemental Artist series. The first released in 2021; the most recent released spring 2023.

I recently emailed questions to Fairleigh about her self-publishing journey so far, and she graciously responded.

Jane Friedman: Your series falls into the humorous fantasy subgenre and off the top of my head, I can think of one well-known indie author, Lindsay Buroker, who combines fantasy and humor. But your works seem quite different than hers! Who do you consider your comps on either the traditional or indie side?

Jami Fairleigh: Oh boy. Right now, my expression must be much like the cartoon mouse who just got caught trying to steal a wedge of cheese. You know how people say you should write the book you wish someone would write? The part they don’t say is maybe no one has written it because they have no idea where such a book would live.

I like to describe Oil and Dust as post-apocalyptic fantasy with cozy vibes. Like a magical version of Bob Ross wandering around, making messes, and painting happy little clouds in Hugh Howey’s Wool or Emily St John Mandel’s Station Eleven.

Side note, I adore funny speculative fiction. I’m an avid reader of novels from Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, and Jasper Fforde. I didn’t intend for anyone to consider Oil and Dust as humorous fantasy, but it’s possible Amazon’s algorithm and I are amused by the same things.

Tell me about your path to publication for the Elemental Artist series. Was self-publishing the plan all along? How did you learn about the process once you decided to self-publish?

Before Oil and Dust, I’d started and abandoned over fifteen novels. Finishing the story surprised me. I sent it to a printer, then squinted at the box for a week. I didn’t know what to do with it. Luckily, I knew one professional author, so I reached out to Lindsey Sparks to ask why she had chosen to trek the indie route. Her passion for retaining her creative freedom and intellectual property really started me thinking, especially since I knew it would take four books to tell Matthew’s story. However, I still didn’t know if Oil and Dust had legs, so I sent it to Kim Kessler, a freelance developmental editor. The process was fantastic. Even better, it showed me it was possible to publish a book the way I wanted to by hiring a team of freelance professionals.

Going the indie route isn’t easy, and it isn’t cheap. For books as long as mine, developmental edits range from $1,000–$5,000 and copy edits are between $2,000–$3,000. That doesn’t include costs associated with proofreaders, formatting (or formatting software), ISBNs, covers, coaching, and marketing-related expenses.

There is a lot to learn if you go indie. But there are many resources to help you. Listen to podcasts, read books, attend online courses, join writing communities on whatever social media platform you prefer. You won’t have to go it alone—the indie-author community is wonderful and very supportive of other indie authors!

Your series covers look fantastic. Tell me about them.

Aren’t they pretty?? Andrew Brown at Design for Writers did a marvelous job. My initial request was impossible (I asked for a cover in “earth” colors but pretty, with a fantasy vibe, and including people silhouettes but no post-apocalyptic landscapes). Somehow, Andrew made it happen. Because I struggled to figure out good comparison titles (see above) I couldn’t use comp book covers as a starting place. Instead, he sent me to comb through the top selling fantasy and science fiction covers. My task was to understand what I did and didn’t respond to. That helped us get specific. It took a couple of iterations for us to come up with the concept of Oil and Dust. Afterward, the rest of the covers fell into place.

Unlike other indie authors I know, your books are available in hardcover as well as paperback and ebook. Did you release all three editions simultaneously? If so, that’s a meaningful investment upfront! Some authors I know will just do ebook and even wait on doing the paperback.

Yes! I actually released four—there’s also a large-print paperback version—and since I wanted to go wide, that meant separate cover versions for Amazon and IngramSpark too. It increased the cost and complexity, but all four versions of each book sell so I feel like I’m better meeting my reader’s needs.

Any plans for audiobook editions?

Absolutely. I wanted to release each audiobook at the same time as the other versions, but the first narrator I picked had production issues, throwing the timing off. As an audiobook fan myself, having a consistent narrator throughout the series is important to me. Instead of publishing the series with multiple narrators, I decided to wait on the audiobook versions until the series was done. Fingers crossed, I’ll publish the last book of the series this year, so we may move forward with audio narration soon!

The Indie Author of the Year Award is tied to the library community and partly chosen by librarians. Did you learn about this award through the library or elsewhere?

My local library organization (King County Library System) is huge, and I didn’t know how to approach them as a new, unknown indie author. Knock on doors with books in hand? Slide a couple of copies through the return book slot? I decided to do some research instead, and I learned about the Indie Author Project. Plot twist, people at the King County Library System were the ones who picked my book as the winner for the 2022 Indie Author Project regional contest (Washington State).

What has worked well for you in finding new readers for your series?

I chose to go wide from the start, wanting my books available to the largest audience possible. It was lucky I did too; Barnes & Noble picked Oil and Dust as one of their Top Indie Picks before it came out. They also picked it as their Nook Serial read in March 2022 right as the second book in the series came out. Many of my readers came from those two opportunities. It didn’t hurt that Oil and Dust also won 12th place in the Book Bloggers Novel of the Year contest (2022) and the Indie Author Project regional contest. From there, it’s primarily been word-of-mouth recommendations!

Learn more about Jami Fairleigh and her books.

The Case for Pursuing a Traditional Publishing Deal Without an Agent

Today’s post is by author Amy L. Bernstein.

Securing the services of a literary agent has long been the gold standard for authors pursuing a long and successful career in publishing.

It’s easy to understand why. At the turn of the twentieth century, the so-called “author’s representative” emerged as the figure who would help authors cut a better deal with publishers. Most publishers were unhappy about this since agents who skillfully leveraged their clients’ hot properties forced publishers to shell out more money on better terms.

By mid-century, the agenting game was well established. Legendary agents like Sterling Lord (Jack Kerouac and Doris Kearns Goodwin were among his clients) and Robert Gottlieb (Toni Morrison, Robert Caro) impressed writers with their ability to champion talent, nurture genius, and land lucrative publishing deals. Needless to say, authors couldn’t accomplish half so much on their own behalf. The gatekeepers had won—and were here to stay.

Fast forward to today. Agents still function as gatekeepers, especially to the Big Five publishers and many top-tier smaller publishers, such as Tin House (whose open-reading periods are limited to a few days a year). Breakout debuts by authors like Jessica George (represented by David Higham) and stratospheric careers like Bonnie Garmus’ (repped by Curtis Brown) would not be possible without agents in the mix.

But, dear authors, securing an agent is not the only path to getting happily published (outside of self-publishing).

One big reason to consider other strategies (especially with a first book) is that the agenting business model is showing serious signs of wear-and-tear. Many agents readily admit the industry is in flux.

According to the latest member survey by the Association of American Literary Agents, an overwhelming majority of agents report feeling burned out and are working too much uncompensated overtime. And no wonder, as roughly a fifth of them receive 100 or more queries per week. Many also feel underpaid, given that roughly two-thirds depend in part or entirely on commissions—and making a sale can take months, if not years. (Do you imagine this is an elite group? Roughly 30 percent of American agents earn less than $50,000 annually.)

There’s no need to put all your editorial eggs into this one (turbulent) basket.

Scores of traditional small presses operating professionally and ethically in North America (and the UK, Australia, and elsewhere) are open to reviewing manuscripts year-round or seasonally without charging a fee.

Before getting into nuts and bolts on this, let me anticipate some objections that I know are out there, because the lure of agent-magic is strong:

But going directly to a publisher is less prestigious than going with an agent!

Even if that were objectively true, by the time your book is out in the world, readers have no idea how it got there and aren’t thinking about who reps you. The means justify the ends.

But an agent will fight for a better contract, or a bigger advance, than I’d get by negotiating with the publisher myself!

There may be some truth to this, but the tradeoffs are worth considering. For one thing: you’re getting published! A small advance, or no advance, may be offset by your efforts to successfully market your book when it comes out. Secondly, consider spending a few hundred dollars for an attorney to review your contract. The Authors Guild does this for free, and some states (such as Maryland) offer pro bono legal services to artists.

But a small press can’t market my book effectively!

It’s true that the Big Five publishers have bigger marketing budgets for ads and other forms of publicity. But will they put any of that money behind your book? And even big-name authors are increasingly expected to help market their own books and participate on social media.

The best small presses will submit reviews to the same outlets as the Big Five, from Kirkus to Publishers Weekly, and will engage in guerrilla marketing techniques to get you noticed. The gap in marketing efforts is not as wide as you think—and you’ll be expected to self-market with any publisher.

Now that you’ve begun entertaining the idea that getting into bed with a publisher without an agent isn’t the kiss of death, let’s review how you can make that happen. I’m highlighting three strategies to get you headed in the right direction.

1. Find small presses

With the emergence of AI-assisted search tools, it is easier than ever to generate lists of “publishers accepting manuscripts without an agent.” (That very search term will yield results.) But AI-generated lists in particular may be incomplete as well as misleading, as they are likely to contain publishers that have switched over to agent-only submissions and/or may be outdated. Vanity presses that require authors to pay-to-play may be on that list, as well. So, beware! AI is not entirely reliable or particularly thorough for this task.

Here are five consistently reliable sources for tracking publishers open to queries (also bound to change over time):

Authors Publish. Run by a handful of dedicated saints who routinely refresh annotated lists of publishers and other literary outlets.The Writer’s Center. An independent home for literary arts, originally in the Washington, D.C., area, but now national in scope.Published to Death. Maintained by author Erica Verillo, who frequently writes about writing.Reedsy. A membership-based resource center for authors and publishing professionals.Duotrope. A subscription-based service for writers and artists that offers an extensive, searchable database of publishers and other literary outlets. Updated frequently.2. Vet the presses

Research each press or publisher thoroughly before submitting. To that end, here’s a vetting checklist.

Vanity press tip-offs. Scour the publisher’s website to ensure they do not charge authors a substantial reading fee or any fees associated with the publishing process. Some writers don’t mind paying, say, $10 for a reading fee to offset a small press’s labor cost or to defray the expense of using Submittable. That’s up to you. A small reading fee isn’t necessarily a red flag. However, a website that devotes more space to touting the publisher’s services and “packages,” as opposed to highlighting the authors it’s published, is a big red flag. Run away—unless you specifically want this model.

Professionalism. Are the covers of published books consistently professional? Are the genres compatible with yours? Are the titles well displayed on the website? Are the authors professionally profiled? Are book reviews excerpted? Are new releases highlighted? These are all hallmarks of a quality publisher. The website itself should also look updated and professional.

Distribution. Is there at least one distribution partner listed, such as Independent Publishers Group, America West, or Baker & Taylor? If not, seek answers on their distribution outlets.

The Amazon test. Look up a handful of the publisher’s titles on Amazon to ensure the listings appear correct, which formats are listed, how the books are priced, and to ascertain how many reviews have been posted. It’s not the only quality indicator, but it is an important one. Single-digit reviews may suggest weak marketing on the publisher’s part—or an unsuccessful marketing partnership between author and publisher.

Presence. How is the publisher faring on social media? Are they posting regularly on Instagram or Facebook? Do you see signs of real engagement? What are their follower numbers like? Some presses have only a few hundred followers while others have thousands. This could affect their ability to spread the word about your title.

Jane also has tips on evaluating small presses.

Step 3: Submit to a small press

One advantage of submitting to a small press rather than an agent is that many presses will request the full, complete manuscript—and they will read the whole thing before replying to you. At least this way, you know you’ve gotten a truly fair shake.

That said, some presses prefer that you query them with sample pages, as you would an agent. The key is to pay close attention to their preferences and follow them to the letter.

Because some presses have limited open-submission windows, it’s helpful to join their mailing lists and get notified when those windows open. (I post calendar reminders for just this purpose.)

Finally, note that many small presses are open to literary forms other than book-length work, such as novellas, short stories, or chapbooks. Getting a smaller work published first may open the door for your full-length books later on.

Related: Jane has a thorough list of what to ask a publisher before signing if you don’t have the benefit of an agent.

Keep your eyes on the prize

While it can be hard to let go of the dream of landing a prestige agent, kicking off your publishing career with a small press is a great way to get to know the industry, build your author profile, and establish a reputation.

This is a fluid business. You have time to prove yourself in the marketplace before seeking an agent. Indeed, with a few books from small presses under your belt, you may be better positioned to catch an agent’s eye.

And if not?

Keep writing. Keep getting published. And don’t worry about “the one that brung you to the dance.” Your ideal reader, browsing in a bookstore, is looking for your story, not your backstory.

3 Elements That Make Historical Romance Successful

Today’s post is by author and book coach Susanne Dunlap.

Saying that romance is a genre the literati love to hate is a hackneyed truism. The preponderance of tropes, if they’re not well handled, can give romance a predictable or formulaic feel. Why, then, are they so enduringly popular? Why do they continue to outsell so many other genres, when the story’s outcome in all cases is a given?

I have come late in life to this popular genre. Yet what began as curiosity is fast developing into an obsession. In the past few months, I have read or listened to approximately fifteen different historical romances. Apart from the sheer pleasure of the experience, I’ve learned a great deal about what makes a story worth reading and why the genre is so appealing. My interest—as a historian and historical novelist—is in romances set in the past. But minus the historical setting, I think most of my observations apply to any good romance.

In a nutshell, here’s what I found.

1. Good historical romances always honor reader expectations.

A wise woman, Tabitha Carvan, wrote in her fabulous, entertaining memoir This Is Not a Book about Benedict Cumberbatch, that the pursuit of novelty on the part of today’s authors is a recent goal in fiction. She is speaking in the context of the all-absorbing joys of fan fiction, whose adherents are numerous and surprisingly diverse.

One of the many she interviews is a professor of medieval literature in a Canadian university. This woman points out that “Medieval authors never thought, ‘What can I write that is wholly original and uniquely mine?’ Because nobody would want to read that.”

Readers of historical romance come to the genre not for something completely new, but because they have well-defined expectations of what their reading experience will be like. They want the happy-ever-after. They want the meet cute, the smoldering desire (whether it’s ultimately acted upon or not), the relationship transition through ups and downs. They don’t want the protagonists to die, or the wrong people to end up together. And they want this in a setting and society that has been well-researched and feels believable and real.

They return again and again to their favorite authors and select different types of romances not in spite of the similarities, but because of them. Formulaic? Yes. But authors fail to fulfill these expectations at their peril.

2. Good historical romances build absorbing (and historically accurate) worlds.

Selecting pertinent, speaking details is vital to bringing any world to life, historical or otherwise. But choosing these so they enhance the social and romantic aspects of your story is something the best historical romance authors have mastered.

Beyond that, the plots benefit from period-dependent twists on the essential romantic journey of the protagonists. The best HRs don’t overlay modern sensibilities on their protagonists, but really mine the strictures and social constructs of the day to build their characters and to add depth and texture to their predicaments—at the same time as revealing the universality of the experience of falling in love.

An example: Laura Kinsale’s Flowers from the Storm combines the requisite British duke (who happens to be a mathematical genius) with a young Quaker woman, whose father is the duke’s partner in mathematical inquiry. Kinsale has done her historical research thoroughly, from the exact nature of British Quaker beliefs and hierarchical structures and how they would affect the behavior of the female protagonist, to the neuroscience that allows her to accurately portray the young duke’s early stroke. Also part of her world are the machinations of a family who thinks the duke has gone mad and consigns him to a mental hospital—seeking to get their hands on his fortune.

Another more lighthearted example: In Bringing Down the Duke, Evie Dunmore places her feisty heroine believably in the world of the suffragist movement in late-nineteenth-century Britain, as well as makes her a student on a stipend at Lady Margaret College, Oxford. How she maneuvers this impecunious young woman into the path of a powerful duke is quite ingenious (if a little far-fetched). But the plot is believable partly because the heroine faces obstacles and forces of opposition specific to the time, partly because the duke has a political life where he must deal with real issues of the day.

And don’t get me started on the variety and appeal of Georgette Heyer’s historical romances! Even the most hackneyed tropes feel fresh and engaging in her deft literary hands, and her research into British society and political and military history in the long Regency is breathtakingly deep—despite the fact that she was writing at a time when the Internet did not exist.

3. Good historical romances are character driven.

Really? I hear readers of literary fiction saying to themselves. But aside from differences in period, setting, and historical circumstances, plot in romance—no matter how cleverly contrived—doesn’t offer enough to keep a reader fully engaged from beginning to end.

Put simply, nowhere is the need to make your reader fall in love with your protagonists more important than in a romance. The two halves of a couple of any gender or sexual orientation must be fully rounded, must be relatable and winning in some way, and must power the story with their inner and outer motivations, hang-ups, desires, misbeliefs, and more.

The protagonists I particularly loved surprised me in good ways, or had me cringing as they made the wrong decisions and got into worse and worse predicaments and seemed less and less likely to end up with their soul mates. Their actions were never arbitrary, but seamlessly embedded in who they were in their time and place.

How do historical romance authors achieve this? Primarily by ensuring that the emotion is on the page. But they also make sure that protagonists have goals they cannot easily achieve, and that both internal and external motivations are clear and logical. Additionally, any complications and plot twists must not only affect the protagonists in a believable way, but push them along their inexorable arcs.

Bottom line, don’t judge a book by its genre.

My final words of wisdom: read (and write) what you love.

A book that demands intellectual engagement can be immensely pleasurable and rewarding to read. But something that simply transports us to another time and place, where there are no matters of life and death and all works out for the best in the best of all possible worlds, can be just as much so.

And if you approach a book with a writer’s eye, even the most pleasurable, light reading can teach you something that enriches your own storytelling craft.

Emotional Intimacy Between Characters Isn’t Just for Romance Novels

Photo by Viktor Talashuk on Unsplash

Today’s post is by romance author and book coach Trisha Jenn Loehr (@trishajennreads).

When writers think of writing intimate scenes, our minds often go straight to the bedroom—to romantic or sexual intimacy. But that puts an unnecessary constraint on what intimacy is when intimacy can be physical or emotional, platonic or romantic. At its simplest, intimacy in a relationship is the state of closeness or deep familiarity. Regardless of what their relationship is, emotional intimacy between characters often begins long before they get physically intimate (if they ever do) and some level of emotional intimacy belongs in every close relationship.

No matter what you’re writing (even if it’s not romance), emotional intimacy between characters is important to creating authentic relationships and creates the backbone for deep relationships between characters and readers.

Emotional intimacy is a bond based on mutual understanding, vulnerability, and trust.

Yes, these are necessary qualities of successful romantic relationships and make those steamy scenes in my favorite romance novels even more fun to read. Emotional intimacy can level up scenes with physical intimacy to the place where the physical interaction feels more profound and more impactful for both the character and the reader.

But pause and consider how important mutual understanding, vulnerability, and trust are to other relationships. A friendship or a familial relationship that lacks any of these things will be either flat and boring or will be full of tension and conflict caused by misunderstanding.

Think about your protagonist, regardless of whether they are romantically involved with anyone. They are likely to have close relationships with at least one, if not multiple, other characters.

A character will have varying levels of closeness (i.e., emotional intimacy) in relationships with:

friendscoworkersparentssiblingscousinsroommatesmentorsand yes, their partner or love interest.

There can even be moments of emotional intimacy between acquaintances or strangers who have a shared experience or mutual understanding.

These various levels of emotional intimacy allow the reader to get to know your protagonist and the other characters they interact with. Showing emotional intimacy between characters is a way to show various aspects of who that character is—what they like or don’t like, what they believe, and who they share their thoughts and hopes and dreams and fears with.

Moments of emotional intimacy enable readers to care about characters by seeing them be cared for and care for others. Writing moments of emotional intimacy (or the lack of it) between characters helps your readers assess the dynamics between the characters, their roles in the story, and the arc of change within the relationship or caused by their relationship.

Emotional intimacy is often shown in the small things, the quiet moments, and even moments unspoken.

In moments of emotional intimacy, characters are increasingly comfortable together. They open up to one another and communicate their truths, fears, and insecurities. They support each other without needing to be asked, or they validate the other person’s feelings.

Emotional intimacy can be shown through:

remembering someone’s preferencesshared or inside jokesunderstanding non-verbal cueshonest conversations about hopes, fears, dreams, traumaspositive physical reactions to another character that shows a feeling of safety or comfort

Emotional intimacy between friends/love interests: In Ali Hazelwood’s contemporary YA romance Check & Mate, one character anonymously sends a hotel room service order of chicken soup and three Snickers bars to another character who is having a stressful day. The recipient knows immediately who sent it (but tries to tell herself she’s wrong). This moment mirrors a scene earlier in the novel when she made him chicken soup while sick and commented on how she was charging him for the supplies she bought, including the “emotional support Snickers bar” that she purchased for herself.

Emotional intimacy between siblings: In Brenna Bailey’s queer small town romance Wishing on Winter, after retiring from his life as a rockstar, a man moves in with his sister to help her out. He goes grocery shopping to fill her fridge and buys all her favorite foods that he can think of, most notably the cookies with the jam in the middle.

Emotional intimacy between an acquaintance/mentor and mentee: In Julie Murphy’s YA novel Dumplin’, a teenage girl expresses her grief at the death of her late aunt. In losing her beloved aunt, she also lost her compass. Her friend suggests that maybe her aunt was only supposed to be her compass until she was able to be her own compass. This interaction spurs the teen girl to choose her own destiny, and leads to the friend becoming a mentor character later in the novel.

Emotional intimacy can be shown through character actions, dialogue, and internal narrative.

As seen in the above examples, emotional intimacy can be shown or developed through a variety of writing methods, including:

how characters interact with each other and with others (and how that might differ)what they know about one another and their shared or diverging memories/interpretations of eventswhat characters choose to disclose or talk about and with whomhow their thoughts about or around the other characters demonstrate their motivations, fears, weaknesses and more

Showcasing moments of emotional intimacy allow your reader to know your characters better, care for them more, and be more invested in the outcome of your story.

Workshopper Beware: Navigating the Risky Waters of Writing Classes and Retreats

Today’s post is by author and book coach Andromeda Romano-Lax (@romanolax).

Several years ago, I attended a writing workshop held in a beautiful locale, with sumptuous food and dreamy scenery. Only the teaching was bad. And not just bad. It was the most disorganized and downright toxic event I’d experienced in twenty-plus years.

Before attending this event, I thought I’d seen it all: middle-aged writers leaving in tears after being told they should give up on their projects; women being taken to task for their parenting, marriages, or some other personal choice or foible; racist micro-aggressions; genre prejudices; the withholding of attention except for teachers’ pets. There are so many ways for a workshop to go wrong, even when no one is left offended or devastated.

For a time, I attended private workshops or retreats when I jumped genres and was hoping to accelerate the learning process, with some networking on the side. That was the case when I signed up for a screenwriting workshop with a notable Hollywood writer at a high-prestige conference. He cancelled at the last minute due to delays on a movie set, to be replaced by another man who had made one low-budget, poorly rated sci-fi film about fifteen years earlier, and nothing since.

For part of each afternoon, “Nut Spitter,” as I came to privately call him, leaned back in a comfy armchair, eyes closed, one hand on his ample belly as he fed himself pieces of nuts that he would spray outward, in flecks and fragments, as he monologued.

By the second day, I realized I should sit further back in the half-circle.

By the third day, I realized I wasn’t going to learn much about screenwriting.

We never ended up doing any kind of workshopping in that particular “workshop.” We didn’t read screenplays, discuss structure, or do any writing exercises. Over several days, we mostly heard our teacher’s opinions about one-sentence loglines, a subject easily covered in one hour. I let the conference organizers know what was happening, but I didn’t request a refund because I feared offending them. I had a new novel coming out soon, and I didn’t want to burn any bridges. On top of that, tuition had been just part of my expenses. Lodging and airfare cost even more. There was no getting that money back.

Heeding the siren call of a Big Name, as I’ve done at least three other times, doesn’t always lead to disappointment. At one workshop led by one of my all-time heroes, I had a great time. But then again, I wasn’t the person in that same workshop who’d just written a cancer memoir only to be told by the author-teacher (who didn’t write traditional memoir or know anything about marketing), that her topic had been “done” and she’d never see her story in print. (Needless to say, dozens of cancer memoirs have been published since.)

But the big reason I’ve attended workshops, even after I co-founded a nonprofit literary center and found work as a fiction mentor in a graduate creative writing program, was to improve my own teaching. There’s nothing like learning what to do—and what not to do—than by watching another instructor stagger across the minefield that is workshopping.

Because it is a minefield. A group of strangers, who may or may not be your ideal future readers (or sometimes only the instructor herself), passes judgment on the fate of your project, and possibly your entire writing future, following a quick reading of ten or twenty pages. (Or none!)

Hypothetical Workshop Leader may not recognize that pointing out the good helps writers as much as pointing out the bad. The leader may not have done enough teaching or editing to realize that most writers, even experienced ones, often don’t start in the right place in early drafts. A manuscript can appear much stronger—or weaker—once you’ve gotten past the first fifty pages, which is why a short-term class focused on limited pages may be the wrong place for seeking strong judgments about a book-length work. Luckily, in the last decade, many writing centers and private teachers have begun offering year-long writing classes that allow for discussion of full manuscripts.

Of course, sometimes you’re grateful a workshop doesn’t last very long. At the most recent I attended, the one held in the dreamy locale, I chose not to bring home a souvenir I’d bought. Every time I looked at the handwoven table runner, I’d think of the young woman who was pressured into verbally reenacting an exceptionally traumatic episode not shared in distributed pages. Or the several other women who were selectively bullied, ridiculed, or ignored. I worried most for the vulnerable writers who didn’t seem to realize this sort of workshop behavior, while not exactly unique, also wasn’t the norm. Frankly, I wanted to forget all of it.

Amazon • Bookshop

But much as I tried, I couldn’t. Six months later, I had the idea to use a toxic memoir workshop as the setting for a suspense novel. Called The Deepest Lake, it will be published in May. In the process of writing it, I’ve heard from other writers who have their own workshop horror stories, which is both validating and worrying in equal measure.

That’s not where the story ends. Because as a teacher and book coach, I’ve continued to ponder the damage that workshops—possibly even my own—do at times. Writing groups have their own issues, but at least the members know each other well. Friend Jill may tend to give spot-on advice, but you know that Joe will never accept an “unlikeable” narrator, Judy thinks one must always show and never tell, and Jeri has made it clear she only reads science fiction.

In more democratic, long-term groups, writers can make their own rules, like doing away with the outmoded “gag rule” that says that writers being workshopped shouldn’t speak, even to answer simple questions. Writing groups and longer workshops can allow for flexibility, prioritizing the writer’s needs with a particular draft. Maybe Jill is ready for a line-by-line analysis with strict attention to description and dialogue tags. Maybe Joe’s draft is tender and he doesn’t need prescriptions, only general feedback on whether the premise has energy. Maybe Judy doesn’t care if some readers don’t know what a “pavlova” is because her ideal readers are Aussie dessert experts. Maybe Jeri wants to hear more from people who don’t read science fiction because she’s hoping her interstellar novel will reach an entirely new audience.

But if writing groups can follow those more democratic and sensible rules, why can’t workshops? The answer is: with modifications, they can.

Last year, I learned about a workshop method called The Critical Response Process. Invented by choreographer Liz Lerman in 1990, CRP is a four-step method for giving and receiving feedback in a way that centers the artist and keeps discussions from going off the rails. Recently, as part of an MFA alumni group, I took a seminar on the method and practiced using it. In my next private online workshop, I gave it a try. The constructive atmosphere and positive student evaluations astounded me.

Decades of attending and teaching workshops have given me lots of stories, either vexing or funny. But only recently have I been brought to a belated epiphany. We don’t have to workshop the way we used to. If we do take a chance and sign up for a high-stakes retreat, we should arrive forearmed, aware not only of our right to walk away from manipulative ploys—like being asked to pay more money once you’ve arrived, only one gambit I’ve observed—or downright abusive methods. As students or as teachers, we should also be aware of newer methods, theories, and debates, like the ones outlined in Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses and The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop by Felicia Rose Chavez, both of which demystify workshops and make important arguments about the non-neutral nature of “craft.”

Sometimes, for some people, workshops are magical. But writers who attend them should be prepared for all of it—the magic and the toxic and the just-plain-weird. It doesn’t hurt, in-between those fun moments making friends or getting a great massage, to remember that you are the authority of your story.

Learn from others, but hold onto your power. That’s a lesson we writers often need to re-learn very step along the path to publication.

Substack Is Both Great and Terrible for Authors

I have been trying to convince writers of the value of a consistent email newsletter for more than a decade. Recently I dug up a 2014 presentation I gave at the James River Writers Conference, where the first slide says, “Email is not dead.” After that slide, I quoted novelist Dana Stabenow, who gave an inspirational talk where she couldn’t resist offering a practical tip at the end:

“Remember this if you remember nothing else from my speech tonight. It turns out that an active buy link in a newsletter targeted at people who really want to get it is the most effective means of selling your book.”

She’s 100% right. But that message is ironically harder than ever to get across in the era of Substack.

Substack launched in 2017 and in its early days, I saw it as a fantastic, easy-to-use platform for starting a paid newsletter. At that time, launching a paid newsletter was not straight forward. I know because I started mine (The Hot Sheet) in 2015. My tech stack was Mailchimp + ChargeBee + WordPress, which worked pretty well and cost a fixed fee of roughly $100 per month. The Hot Sheet was profitable from day one, mainly because I already had a blog and free newsletter reaching 20,000 people. Growth for The Hot Sheet has been steady but slow, with about 2,500 paid subscribers after eight years of continuous operation. It now earns six figures annually.

But if you told me I had to choose between keeping my free newsletter (now at ~30,000 subscribers) or the paid one, I’d keep the free one. There are a few reasons for that, but the biggest by far is that my free newsletter is a better marketing and promotion vehicle than the paid one. The free newsletters make people aware of a million other things I do that earn me (more) money. And the visibility it lends me has been superlative and ongoing since 2009. I feel confident that my free newsletter will not stop publishing until I retire from writing and publishing. Even then, I might still continue it. I actually enjoy doing it, which is part of the secret to most successful and sustainable newsletters.

Substack can confuse authors about the most important purpose of the email newsletter

Newsletters remain the best way to directly reach your readers and biggest fans. It helps you be less dependent on publishers, agents, retailers, bookstores, or anyone else to reach readers who enjoy your work. Your email newsletter ideally starts and grows as you become visible to readers and the larger world—because you’re publishing articles and essays, because you’re publishing books, because you’re speaking at events, because you’re active on social media, because people are recommending your work.

If you start an email newsletter to stay in touch with people who’ve read your work, then it’s no great mystery what goes in the newsletter. Generally, it’s news about your work! It offers updates about what you’re working on or anything new you’ve published, listings of events or opportunities to interact, behind the scenes of your writing life, notes about other authors you read or enjoy, and so on. Children’s author Meg Medina has a newsletter like this, as do many published authors.

If you’re an unpublished, unknown writer who has no work available, and no existing readership, could you benefit from and grow a newsletter—on Substack or elsewhere? Absolutely. If that describes you, it likely puts you in the role of “creator.” You have to figure out what you’re going to write, curate, recommend, or offer that’s of value to someone who is a total stranger to you (that is: someone who is not a reader and not an existing fan). In this sense, deciding to launch a Substack is no different than deciding you’ll blog, start a podcast, begin a YouTube channel, or make TikTok videos. You’re going to spend some serious time developing original content to attract an audience.

Some writers do this because they think it will build them a platform that will land a book deal. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But I can guarantee one thing: starting a Substack that you charge for can easily hamper your platform-building efforts.

Some writers might like the idea of writing and publishing primarily in newsletter form, just like I do. If that describes you, go for it! Substack is a great tool for that, especially if you know you’ll want to monetize the effort at some point in the future. But you need to know what you’re in for.

Substack is part of the creator economy

Substack wants you to be a creator because this is their business model. They’re not like a Mailchimp or ConvertKit or email marketing service provider that charges you a fee for service. They offer you their tools for free, then they make money if you start charging for your newsletter. So every step of the way, Substack will put this idea in your head that you should charge. Or that people will or should or can support your newsletter efforts monetarily. This is not a bad thing if you are indeed pursuing newsletterdom as a creator and you are trying to build an audience who will pay for your work in newsletter form. But…

Getting readers to pay for a newsletter is like playing in master mode

Unknown and unpublished writers will have a hard time getting total strangers to either sign up or pay for their newsletter. Even Substack the company counsels its users to build a solid free offering and not paywall everything. Some of the most successful paid newsletters make a majority of their content available for free—and sometimes the most popular content is always free. That may seem counterintuitive—shouldn’t the popular content be behind the paywall? No, it’s the popular content that gets read and shared by people who don’t pay, but might decide to transition to paid once they’re exposed to your writing or value. The people who can be convinced to pay typically want the more granular thing you offer, the more obsessive thing you offer, the more exclusive part of your content. Consider a demand curve like this:

There will always be more freeloaders than people willing to pay. The percentage of people who pay is typically around 1–5% of the people who read you for free.

Where things get complicated: Substack has a built-in social network and recommendation engine

Today Substack has become immensely popular because when you write and publish on their platform, it’s more visible and discoverable than your average email newsletter. There’s a web-based version that people can comment on, share, and recommend. Substack also encourages each newsletter writer to recommend other newsletters as part of their sign-up process and profile. Sometimes I refer to Substack as the new, more connected era of blogging—it operates like a blogging tool that collects email addresses and delivers emails for you. But there’s more.

In April 2023, Substack launched Notes, which is a Twitter-like interface laid on top of the whole enterprise. So now you have a community of readers and writers visible to each other and commenting and recommending each other’s Substacks. And based on the reports I see and hear from numerous users, this social network, combined with the built-in recommendations system, leads to faster growth in newsletter subscribers.

If you’re able to achieve this boost, there’s little downside in taking advantage of the network effects if you don’t already have and maintain a newsletter elsewhere. (And yes, plenty of people have switched over to Substack from Mailchimp or similar, both to avoid the fees associated with email marketing providers and to get the added growth and to create paid offerings.)

I’ve also seen writers jump on the Substack bandwagon because they feel platform-building pressure or they don’t want to get “left behind.” And it’s true: there is a very active writing and publishing community on Substack. If you look at my Substack profile, you can see that I subscribe to and read more than 100 publications there. Lots of literary agents, editors, marketers, publicists and well-known journalists use Substack.

But here’s what concerns me: the value of a straightforward, free email newsletter is getting overshadowed

Writers who are unpublished or new to platform building will ask me: I can’t gain traction on my Substack. How do I get new readers?

Well, it’s no different than getting people to read your blog, subscribe to your podcast or YouTube channel, or follow you on social media. You have to be providing value or entertainment or something that’s desirable to your target reader. (You also must have some idea of your target readership in the first place!) You need some copywriting skills. You need to write compelling headlines or subject lines. You have to develop a good sense of what gets shared or talked about in online spaces. And obviously this is quite different than writing a novel or a memoir.

Moreover, Substack as a platform-building tool is really best for nonfiction writers. If you’re trying to publish your fiction on Substack, good luck with that.

Writing and publishing on Substack isn’t going to magically lead to a readership without a content strategy behind it. Alternatively, you’ll need built-in platform or visibility that will attract people your way (e.g., George Saunders).

In the long run, I worry that many authors will see the fuss and hype around Substack and decide that email newsletters are overrated. Or if they can’t achieve growth on Substack, they may decide once again that “email is dead.” And the rest of the writers who plow ahead might unfortunately burn out. See these comments I received recently when discussing Substack:

I am not against Substack1, but as usual, I am against the hype surrounding it. By all means experiment and give it a try if it gives you creative energy, and take advantage of its network effects while you can. But you’re not going to miss out if you decide it’s not right for you.

As you become known as an author, or when you publish your first book, I hope you’ll consider establishing a standard and free email newsletter that’s meant to primarily serve your readers, to keep them informed about your work. Because as Stabenow said, those are the people who are most likely to buy your next book. Cherish them.

I am well aware of the controversy surrounding Substack, and some writers have left the platform as a result. Each writer has to make their own personal decision in this matter. There is no exact equivalent to Substack if you want the social layer and recommendation system (and it’s hard to beat the fact it’s free), but there are alternative tools for starting a paid newsletter, such as Beehiiv and Ghost. ︎

Tropes: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Photo by Daisa TJ

Today’s post is by romance author and book coach Trisha Jenn Loehr (@trishajennreads).

Tropes are a staple of genre fiction. Some folks love to hate them; they even use “tropey” as a derogatory term.

And yet, writers still use them.

And many readers still celebrate them.

Why?

Because tropes, simply put, are things like themes, plot devices, archetypes, and structures that pop up regularly in stories, especially stories within distinct genre categories. Tropes have developed from storytelling patterns appreciated by readers and writers alike.

If you think about it, you likely have favorite tropes that draw you in, whether consciously (e.g., I’m looking for a fabulous enemies-to-lovers romance with an only-one-bed scene) or subconsciously (e.g., realizing that half the books on your shelf feature a protagonist battling against—and ultimately overcoming—an evil empire of some kind).

The Good: Tropes are tools for readers and for writers.

Tropes help readers find stories with elements they already know they like.

Readers, especially those who read genre fiction like romance, mystery, thriller, science fiction and fantasy, have specific tastes around the types of stories they enjoy. When they read back cover copy that indicates “this book has your favorite elements,” they’re more likely to take that book home and read it.

Just as we gravitate toward friend groups with similar interests or favorite foods for meals and snacks, readers gravitate toward stories they already know they will likely enjoy. If I’m trying out a new restaurant, I’ll often scan the menu for a variation on staples like the club sandwich or fish and chips because I know I usually like those dishes and it’s fun to see how different chefs make their version of a common dish. The same goes for stories. Tropes allow readers to experiment with new authors and new books in a safe way because they are already familiar with some elements of the story.

Tropes are a grab bag of elements for writers to play with. Whether we’re looking at overarching structural tropes in fantasy and sci-fi novels or relationship elements in romance novels, tropes give us a wide array of components to experiment with as we write.

Think about it, how many books or movies can you name that feature one (or more) of the following common tropes?

A grumpy or quirky detectiveA “chosen one” who must save the worldA love triangleAn evil leader who wants all power for themselvesA damsel in distressA fake relationshipA reluctant heroAn ensemble of unlikely companions

You can probably come up with a long list, right?

After all, as Mark Twain wrote in The Autobiography of Mark Twain, “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.”

And that my friends, is the goal—to take ideas and story components and put them together in new and interesting ways. The key to using tropes well is to tweak them so that, while still familiar enough to be recognizable and draw a reader in, you’ve used the tropes in unique, memorable ways rather than simply repeating the same thing over and over.

The Bad: Tropes used poorly or in boring, predictable ways annoy readers.

When writers don’t do the work to use tropes in surprising ways, readers get bored. Overused tropes plopped into a story without something transforming or fresh leads to predictable stories. That’s when readers toss out the insult of “lazy writing.”

An enemies-to-lovers romance (forgive me for using this example again, but it’s one of my absolute favorites) without a compelling, layered reason for being enemies feels forced. The surface reason for being enemies is usually not the real reason why the two characters dislike one another (even if they think it is). The layers of emotional depth a writer can build using backstory and story-present, bit by bit, to make an enemies-to-lovers trope feel fresh, is what makes it an intriguing take on the trope rather than unnecessary conflict for the sake of keywords.

When a trope gets used in a way that’s too similar to another work, it feels to many readers like the same story with new character names. This is often how people describe Hallmark movies or Nicholas Sparks novels. But many, many, movie-goers and readers love them. Why? Because they recognize the storytelling patterns and elements that they like and are comforted by knowing how the story will progress.

Readers don’t want to read the exact same story over and over again. But they do want to read similar stories that use loved elements in new ways. Tropes used poorly run the risk of becoming clichés.

The Ugly: Writers can stuff too many tropes into their story.

Tropes are often confused with clichés. Tropes, in and of themselves, are not so bad, as we’ve already discussed. Clichés and stereotypes, however, are ideas or patterns that are no longer effective storytelling or enjoyable for readers because they are so overused in the same boring way or are no longer acceptable to readers that they become a turn-off rather than a turn-on.

Trope stuffing happens when a writer throws every trope they can think of into a novel in an effort to try to appeal to all readers or all keyword searches at a retailer like Amazon. You’d never toss random spices from your spice rack onto your food with no intentionality for what flavors go together and what quantity works. A few tropes used thoughtfully and intentionally will create a much more interesting and cohesive story than one in which every possible trope is used.

Clichés and stereotypes can be boring and, almost as often, offensive to readers. We are realizing that a lot of stories we’ve loved are problematic and some tropes that used to be common have become unacceptable: The damsel in distress who needs the big suave man to come and save her because she’s incapable of helping herself. The evil villain with no backstory and no depth. That token diverse side character who is immediately killed off or sent on a pointless side quest. The all-white, all-male, all-straight ensemble cast of heroes or anti-heroes.

Being intentional about writing the world we live in—and the world we want to live in—is an important consideration when choosing tropes.

The challenge

Take a look at your current work-in-progress. See if you can identify the tropes you’re using. Make a list in one column and then, in the next column, brainstorm ideas for how you can play with those tropes in new, interesting, distinct ways. 

If you’re stuck, grab a few of your favorite books from your shelf and think about the tropes they use. What do you enjoy about those tropes? And in what ways did those authors that you enjoyed reading, rework those tropes into something fresh?

Tropes are tools for our art. Just as a painter uses brushes and watercolors to blend and create, we as writers can experiment with, blend and bend, and upend tropes to make our stories both familiar and refreshing for our readers.

Author Platform Follows the Work

Photo by John Schnobrich on Unsplash

Today’s post is by writer Mirella Stoyanova (@mirellastoyanova).

Note from Jane: Mirella’s original title for her piece was “I’d Rather Be Writing.” I retitled it to make a different point, one that I deeply hope more writers truly grasp and understand, for their sanity and success. I’m grateful to Mirella for her graciousness in letting me retitle.

I have always wanted to sit at the popular kids’ table.

To know that I am enough, as is, is possibly one of the most difficult lessons I have ever had to learn. It’s what led me to become a therapist, and like all good life lessons, it’s one I know I will revisit throughout my lifetime, albeit in new ways.

So it should come as no surprise that my entry into the field of writing might entail a similar kind of learning curve. I can’t help but be lured in by well-intentioned writing advice and industry professionals (some of whom I embarrassingly relegate to near celebrity status) who dole it out.

Last spring, I completed an early draft of my memoir and humbly discovered soon after that fame and fortune would not immediately (or perhaps ever) follow should I decide to pursue the long and winding path to traditional publication.

I was pregnant and due any day, so I took the most reasonable suggestion I was offered: to set my manuscript aside for a nondescript period of time. I then diverted my attention to what other writing-related work I could do as I recovered from childbirth.

Up until that point, I had read and followed the very sensible advice dispensed in two books—Before and After the Book Deal by Courtney Maum and The Business of Being a Writer by Jane Friedman—so I had a few ideas about how I wanted to direct my energy. I was going to continue to learn about platform building. I was also going to figure out what it meant to be a good literary citizen and, I hoped, be one.

I was noble in my pursuit those first few months of my son’s life, even if slightly ineffectual. I read books and attended workshops on related topics, tested out a writing-focused social media page (and failed miserably), and even lugged my husband and our newborn son to an event at our local library where I bought a few 99-cent board books (which was lovely, but ultimately unhelpful).

Being relatively new to the literary world meant that I had only vague notions of how to go about these writing-adjacent activities. I knew little in practice about what it meant for me to build an author platform. With limited time, energy, and no real writing community, I found myself at a loss for how to direct my efforts.

Around this time, I stumbled onto a few popular writing-related resources on social media and while previously I had only ever used my account to follow authors I admired, the lure of indispensable writing advice and built-in community called me right in. I began to engage (as you do) and was delighted to find myself interacting with industry experts of all stripes.

And I’ll be honest, I learned a lot. I studied and honed my craft in virtual workshops led by industry professionals so knowledgeable and passionate about storytelling that I had no doubt as to the quality of their instruction. I also engaged in meaningful conversations with other writers about the industry at large—the challenges it faces, as well as practical solutions for navigating the publishing landscape as an emerging writer.

Then something funny happened. Sort of.

In finding the platform-building content I was so desperately looking for, I somewhat, if only temporarily, lost myself.

It’s a compelling idea for any emerging or otherwise distraction-prone writer—that there is something other than a strong grasp of craft and sheer will that one needs to have to achieve literary success. Like the notion that I must wear the latest trendy clothes or that my hair must be Pantene straight to sit with the popular kids.

I mistakenly believed that to get agented and eventually published that I would need to build an author platform on social media—and that I needed to do it yesterday. Never mind the fact that I am not a published writer nor do I have any literary background or experience.

And I, like any other human being who came of age in today’s quick-fix society, bought right into the hype.

Now I’m going to give myself a little bit of grace here. While ordinarily I consider myself to be highly focused, I gave birth to a very cute, (now) months-old distraction that might have you believe otherwise.

Still, for a while there, things got pretty unhinged.

I fretted over photos, worried about how I would out myself as a writer to friends and family, and prepared—mind, body, and soul—to sell myself out to the creator economy. It was easy to do, after all, much easier than sitting my butt down in a chair and revising my manuscript.

My desire to be liked by these individuals—agents who I may one day query, writing professionals who kindly respond when you comment on their social media pages and offer no shortage of both free and paid opportunities to connect and be a part of their literary communities—almost entirely eclipsed any and all other perspectives on my writing career, including the most important one I need to stay grounded in moving forward. My own.

While author platform is important, I think new writers are particularly vulnerable to getting the order of operations wrong.

The author platform follows the work. Not the other way around.

Notably, none of the authors I admire had particularly robust social media platforms before they became successful.

Why should I, a therapist from Seattle, with my a la carte MFA?

I did post about my writing, eventually, and although (mercifully) none of my friends or family unfollowed me, I later archived the platform-specific content that I wrote up, despite it performing relatively well.

I realize now that my author platform follows from who I am, not how I look on social media—and that it builds from my writing and from my work and membership to various legitimate communities that I show up to and for in very real ways both on and offline—like the social work community here in Seattle and the community of transracial adoptees of which I am a part, here in the Pacific Northwest.

And while I appreciate the advice of well-meaning publication professionals and their effort to build a platform for their businesses (which are not based in the work of writing but rather the work of marketing), as a writer myself, as memoirist of color, and as someone who writes about personal trauma I have experienced, I have a lot to lose if I blindly follow anyone’s half-baked opinion about how to build an author platform, even if it is an expert one.

So I’m excusing myself from the popular kids’ table for now. I’m no longer interested in fitting in at the cost of alienating myself from the very real connections that I have made and choose to maintain over social media.

I know I am enough, as is, and that my people will find me, eventually. But until then, the truth is, I’d rather be writing.