Jane Friedman's Blog: Jane Friedman, page 53

How Big of a Problem Is “Head Hopping”?

Photo by ROMAN ODINTSOV

Ask the Editor is a column for your questions about the editing process and editors themselves. It’s a place to bring your conundrums and dilemmas and mixed feelings, no matter how big or small. Want to be considered? Learn more and submit your question.

This month’s Ask the Editor is sponsored by Legacy Launch Pad’s Bestselling Book Bulletin. Sign up to receive a bulletin every Thursday morning that includes one answer to a publishing question, one publishing tip, one publishing resource and one bit of publishing advice.

Question

I am a professional writer and former journalist, but I’m new to writing fiction. I’m wondering whether I’m guilty of “head hopping,” or of author intrusion, by allowing the reader to peek into the thoughts of minor characters of the story. If this is the case, is it a problem or is it the natural role of an omniscient narrator?

—Ready to Revise

Dear Ready to Revise:

I’m so glad you asked!

It’s natural for those new to writing fiction to revel in their ability to enter the mind of different characters in the story. It feels like a superpower, and it is: No other storytelling mode offers you the ability to enter into the point of view (POV) of the story’s characters in such an intimate and revealing way.

But like so many things with fiction, it’s important to realize that what’s fun for us as writers may not be fun for our readers. And that, like many things we admire in the work of our favorite writers, we may not yet have the chops to do these things well.

Yes, revealing what’s in the minds of minor characters is indeed a privilege of the omniscient POV. But the omniscient POV is an advanced technique, and therefore not something I recommend to those just starting out with fiction.

I’ll explore both of these in more detail, but first, an important distinction: When we talk about “head hopping,” we’re not talking about a story with multiple POVs. Rather, we’re talking about a story that includes multiple POVs within the same scene, without benefit of a line break or chapter break. “Head hopping” is what happens when an inexperienced writer fails to do it well.

Here’s why “head hopping” can be no fun for readers.

It can be jarring. Imagine cruising along in a story at top speed (we read fiction fast, in part because we feel like we’re really in the mind of the POV character, living the story), and then suddenly, it’s not clear whose head we’re in, or even what’s supposed to be happening.

For example, consider the following:

John perused the menu. That burger sounded good, but then again, he was trying to watch his weight—his wife was right, he wasn’t getting any younger, and Dr. Sykes had been warning him for years about his cholesterol. Maybe the salad? But then he’d be ravenous at his four o’clock.

All these finance guys always spent forever looking at the menu but then always ordered the same thing. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so stereotypical. Erik smiled, marshaling his patience. “Would you like me to come back?”

That second paragraph is likely to give your reader whiplash, because it’s not clear whose head we’re in—or even who Erik actually is (the server).

You want readers to read quickly, because that’s part of what creates what John Gardner called the “vivid and continuous dream” of fiction.

Reader whiplash destroys that illusion, forcing the reader to back up and reread to figure out what’s going on. And if your reader has to stop and reread just to figure out what’s going on, chances are they may stop reading altogether.

It can come off as self-indulgent. It takes cognitive energy for the reader to process the fact that they’re switching POVs, even when it’s done well (see below). So if you’re choosing to switch, the reader will assume that you have some important reason for doing so—that there’s something important that can only be revealed through the POV of this other character.

In the fiction of newer writers, that’s often not true. They’re switching POVs because they can. As a reader, that tends to feel self-indulgent—like the writer is just showing off and wasting our time.

How can omniscient POV be done well?

Here are my guidelines for the omniscient POV, should you feel your story warrants it—and that you have the chops as a writer to pull it off.

Make sure you have a real reason for switching POVs. In order to “earn” a POV shift, you need to reveal something from that POV that’s important to the story.

This might be something about the plot that the main POV character can’t see, or can’t know. Or it might just be an important outside perspective on one of the main characters.

In the example above, say, it might be the fact that the main POV character considers himself unique, but to this server character, Erik, he’s just like all these other guys who work in finance who frequent his restaurant for lunch.

Clearly “hand off” the POV. This is a technique you’ll see advanced writers use when they engage the omniscient POV (Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto is a great example): the person whose head we’re in encounters a second character, or looks at them, or thinks about them, then in the next paragraph, we take the POV of that second character.

I think of this as the “hand-off”—a technique that clearly signals that we’re moving from the perspective of one character into another, and gives us a clear line of demarcation for the switch (the paragraph break).

Put the name of the new POV character in the first line of the new paragraph. By doing this, you ensure that there’s no sentence from the new POV that could be read as originating in the POV of the old one.

Here’s how all that might come together in my example from above:

John perused the menu. That burger sounded good, but then again, he was trying to watch his weight—his wife was right, he wasn’t getting any younger, and Dr. Sykes had been warning him for years about his cholesterol. Maybe the salad? But then he’d be ravenous at his four o’clock. He glanced up at the server, whose name tag said Erik—he was slim, in his twenties. Probably never even thought about his weight.

Erik smiled, marshaling his patience. “Would you like me to come back?” All these finance guys always spent forever looking at the menu but then always ordered the same thing. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so stereotypical.

I hope this helps you revise—and helps all newer writers avoid the sin of “head hopping.”

—Susan de Freitas

This month’s Ask the Editor is sponsored by Legacy Launch Pad’s Bestselling Book Bulletin. Sign up to receive a bulletin every Thursday morning that includes one answer to a publishing question, one publishing tip, one publishing resource and one bit of publishing advice.

3 Key Strategies for Effective Fiction—Derived from Neuroscience

Photo by meo

Today’s post is by regular contributor Susan DeFreitas (@manzanitafire), an award-winning author, editor, and book coach. She offers an online course, Story Medicine, designed to help writers use their power as storytellers to support a more just and verdant world.

If you’ve read any of my other posts for Jane’s blog, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that, when it comes to story, I am a total geek.

So it should surprise no one that I am a super fan of the work of story coach Lisa Cron, who’s done so much to explicate the ways that reading fiction—reading stories, period—intersects with what we know about how the human brain works.

If you haven’t read her work, I say, run, don’t walk, to your local bookstore or library (or navigate to your favorite online retailer) to pick up your copy of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her work has been absolutely pivotal to me as both a writer and a book coach, cutting through the vague and often impractical advice I received in the study of creative writing, revealing what a story actually is and how it actually works.

I’m also a big fan of the work of Lisa Zunshine, who likewise explores fiction through the lens of brain science—but from a different angle, that of the study of literature.

For those of you who haven’t read the work of either of these authors—or who may find yourself intimidated by the science part of neuroscience—I thought I’d provide a few key strategies for fiction writers derived from what we know about the human brain, and the human brain on books.*

1. Reveal vulnerability

The neurotransmitter oxytocin is known as the “bonding chemical” for a reason: It’s released when we make a new friend, fall in love, or even (studies suggest) see an adorably cute little kitten or pup.

The same thing appears to occur when we observe a character in a moment of vulnerability—because sharing intimacies is something we do when we’re involved in the act of social bonding.

Maybe this character puts up a brave front but secretly feels lesser in every way than her best friend (My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante).

Maybe they’ve just lost his mother in a horrible explosion, and his dad is MIA (The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt).

Maybe he’s adopted someone who’s lost their parents in a terrible car crash and has absolutely no idea how to be a parent (“The Would-be Father,” Charles Baxter).

Whatever it is that makes your protagonist feel vulnerable, it’s the same thing that will make us feel for them—and care about their story.

2. Raise questions

Dopamine is the neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward, as well as memory and learning.

Because, as it turns out, learning things is super adaptive, and helpful in terms of passing on your genes. (Just like sex—which, you know, also feels good. Because science.)

Dopamine is released when we become curious, because that sends a signal to the brain that intriguing information is headed our way. Information that might just reveal something new about the world, and prove potentially useful in our lives. The brain loves to learn, and curiosity sends the signal that learning is about to occur.

That’s why raising questions in fiction is such a strong tactic for getting your reader hooked at the beginning. (What’s that weird look about? Who is that strange man? Why is this character lying?)

It’s also why raising questions is one of the strongest tactics for keeping your reader engaged with the story all the way through: when we’re curious about something, that curiosity compels us to keep turning the pages to find out what will happen next.

3. Use the senses

You know that magical feeling of being transported by fiction—the sense that you’re no longer reading the story, you’re living it?

Basically, when we’re caught up in a story, our brains can’t tell the difference between what the POV character is experiencing and what we’re actually experiencing ourselves—the same way our brains can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality.

This is because of something called mirror neurons, which essentially map an action we’re seeing or reading about, such as running or walking, onto the same parts of our brains that are active when we ourselves are running or walking.

This is why we’re often told to use the senses, and to be very specific when we describe what our characters are doing or seeing in our fiction: because doing so is the secret to getting your reader to map the experience of the POV character into their own brain.

This is especially important when it comes to scene—the place in fiction where the illusion of actually living the story is most complete, and we’re most fully transported into the world of the story.

These three strategies may seem simple, and in many ways they are, but I’ve seen again and again how effective they are in fiction, regardless of genre.

They’re also really useful for those working with story forms that don’t necessarily follow traditional forms—because as long as you do these three things, chances are, you’re going to draw your readers in, keep them engaged, and provide them with a compelling experience.

Now it’s your turn: What is it that makes your protagonist vulnerable?

What questions are you raising at the beginning of your story?

And what are the best strategies you’ve found for really making your reader feel like they’re there, in the world of your story?

* Please note that while I am inspired by the authors noted here, any inaccuracies contained in this article are my own.

A Primer on TV & Film Adaptation for Writers (Where the Rules Change Often)

Photo by Cedric Letsch on Unsplash

Today’s post is by Jeanne Veillette Bowerman (@jeannevb) of Pipeline Artists.

Hollywood is an odd place and ever-changing. If your literary agent or publisher wants to pitch your book to producers, managers or networks, they need to know the rules—or at least, the rules of the day.

But don’t get too stuck on them, because … you guessed it … they’ll change. Often.

Back in the day, an agent or publisher could pitch your book over the phone or mail a copy off for consideration. Now, the execs prefer a little more detail and insight before considering your story for an adaptation.

The million-dollar question: What does Hollywood want in a story?

Truth is, sometimes they don’t even know until they hear it. It’s a gut check of something that’s not only marketable, but also gives them tingles when they read the logline.

The elements of a great pitch package

Unless your rep has a personal relationship with a Hollywood executive, they’ll need a formal pitch package, which includes a logline, short synopsis, treatment, and possibly a pitch deck.

By no means is this list a rigid formula. As noted above, the rules change constantly, and each executive and company have different preferences. I know many who decide just on the logline alone.

Unlike the literary world, submission requirements are not always listed on the company’s site. One size definitely does not fit all, but if you have the following materials, your team will be ready for any question thrown at them.

Logline

This is the most important part of your pitch and the hardest to write. A compelling logline alone will make or break your chances. Oftentimes, an exec will read the two-to-three sentence logline and decide from there, regardless of the pitch package you’ve spent countless hours creating. I know. A lot of work for potentially no gain, so spend the time to create a standout logline.

Synopsis

A synopsis tests the concept’s strength, so don’t just use the blurb on the back of the book. Boil it down for them, without getting into the weeds. Keep it high level, showing complex characters, lots of potential for conflict, and a strong ending.

Treatments

These used to be more commonplace for both selling a feature screenplay or a book for adaptation. A treatment is just a lengthy synopsis of the book, usually 5 to 25 pages long, depending on the complexities of the story and the type of adaptation you’re pitching (feature film, TV series, limited series). Basically, it’s a well-written outline of the book. Even though they are not always needed, it’s helpful to have one in your back pocket.

The Book

The goal is always to get them to read the book, but don’t expect a high-level exec to read it. They won’t. They’ll pass it onto an assistant or someone in their coverage department to read and give them the bottom-line notes—pass or recommend.

Pitch Deck

Rather than craft a video to pitch an adaptation, it’s common to use a pitch deck (slideshow). Canva is a fantastic resource, full of free images and tools. The purpose of the pitch deck is simply to make it easier for the execs to get a feel for the tone of the book. These execs are visual people and pictures grab them. A slide deck can do the job of a video pitch for a lot less money, time, and aggravation.

Do you need the screenplay written in advance?

Yes and no.

Unless the author understands screenwriting, they shouldn’t write the script, especially when pitching a TV series. A pilot script (the screenplay for the very first episode) requires deep understanding of screenwriting, as you’re building the entire world, introducing characters, plus telling a compelling story in just 60 pages. That requires great understanding of the craft.

But … yes, you can write the script, even if it’s not great.

I know that seems counterintuitive, but developing a story costs a lot of money. If the execs have even a bad script for a great book, pre-approved by the author, the cost savings are astronomical. They already know what the author is willing to cut without a battle. Then, they simply hire a professional screenwriter to finish the job. In the ideal world, it’s not about control. It’s about a great story being told in a different medium that the author loves, too. If the author hates the adaptation, they’re less likely to promote it to their fan base—a fan base Hollywood is counting on to purchase movie tickets.

So, if you have a solid screenplay, it can greatly improve your odds of selling the rights. Plus, you then get at least a “Written by” credit, which means more money. That’s one of the reasons my company helps the novelist craft a solid script for submission to executives. (See the Book Pipeline Adaptation Contest.) Writers learning how to crossover into other mediums—whether it’s poetry, short stories, novels or scripts—only makes them more valuable as an artist. It never hurts to have as many tools in your toolbox as possible.

If your book isn’t a best seller or overflowing with glowing reviews, don’t panic. Of course it’s definitely worth mentioning if you have a robust amount of positive reviews. Strong book sales would definitely help, too. But if the producer doesn’t like the concept, they won’t care how many reviews or sales it has.

Parting advice

Like many industries, Hollywood is built on connections. You often hear, “It’s who you know.” While every author needs assistance connecting with a decision maker, be wary of any small press claiming they can help pitch the books they publish via a “sister” arm of their business. This possibly comes with a fee. Some of these operations require lots of book reviews, an angle to get the authors to encourage friends to buy and review the book that they themselves published and profit from. So take a deep research dive into anything that feels off to you. Trust your gut. There are a lot of scams out there.

Selling a story to Hollywood is much harder than getting a book published. After all, it costs millions of dollars to produce a TV show or feature film. But it only takes one “yes.” Do your research, surround yourself with a great team, find people who understand the industry and craft who have a track record and solid reputation, and you’ll dramatically increase your odds of success.

How to Write Your First Paragraph

Photo by Monstera

Today’s post is excerpted from the book The Linchpin Writer: Crafting Your Novel’s Key Moments by John Matthew Fox (@bookfox).

The first paragraph of a book is quite possibly not only the most important impression a reader will get of your book, it’s also the gateway for you to figure out where to start telling your story. And if you can identify the right place to start, you’re far ahead of the curve.

I went through my bookshelves and read the first paragraph of over a thousand books. This actually takes less time than you would think, and I would highly encourage you to do it with your own bookshelf. After all, most books have three paragraphs per page, so if you read a 333-page novel, you have read about 1,000 paragraphs. I mean, if you really want to become an expert at something (and first paragraphs are an excellent thing to excel at), then why not study a wheelbarrow’s worth of the best examples?

I wanted to do several things:

Find similarities between books. Did a number of books employ a similar strategy for the first paragraph?See whether there are any ways you shouldn’t start a book.Learn powerful strategies for book openings.

I don’t like studying first sentences of books—a sentence really doesn’t give the reader enough information or the writer enough room. And besides, you’ve probably seen a thousand articles about famous first lines, and they all quote the same twenty, and you think, Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not Fitzgerald or Hemingway, and this doesn’t help me write my book.

But a paragraph! Oh, a paragraph will give you enough direction to write your book, and your reader enough of a first impression to know whether they are excited to read more.

So to learn how to pull off the linchpin moment of a first paragraph, we’re going to dive into the four critical components of first paragraphs:

CharacterizationEnergy/toneMysteryEmotional bedrock

If you’ve got those four, there is a near bulletproof chance you have a splendid first paragraph, one that will make your readers yearn for more.

Remember Jonathan Safran Foer? He burst onto the scene as a 23-year-old wunderkind, publishing his first book to breathless praise and a lucrative advance. But what stuck with me was the way he talked about how he found his first paragraph. He was describing his process for writing Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, his second novel, and every day before he started writing, he’d read everything he had written up to that point. As he progressed further and further into the novel, this became more difficult. Sometimes he spent over an hour or two or three reading and editing previous writing before he got to the point where he wrote new material.

And he discovered that when he read the beginning of his book, the prose didn’t pop. He didn’t find the energy until he got to this paragraph, ten pages in:

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!”

So what did Foer do? He deleted the first ten pages of his manuscript. They were all just flotsam and jetsam, and they prepared Foer to write the actual first paragraph of his book, but they weren’t the first paragraph itself. Foer’s actual first paragraph was pretty deep into the book, but he was ruthless with his writing and killed his precious early words.

What does a first paragraph like this do well? First of all, it reveals the essential human relationship at the heart of the book. Oskar misses his father, who died on 9/11 in the Twin Towers, which is why Oskar wants to invent a teakettle that reads in his father’s voice. If you haven’t read the book, you don’t realize that connection, but Foer is already preparing you emotionally for the heartsickness this boy harbors for his dead father. This is the emotional bedrock of the book.

Also, the paragraph sets the tone and energy for this book. This paragraph zings! It’s got all the high-wire tension of an electrical line, just sizzling and crackling with voltage. Try reading it out loud. It fairly begs to be read quickly and after nine cups of coffee (which might be how Foer wrote it!).

Pay attention to the punctuation. The abundance of question marks fuels the energy—the first two sentences are questions, which accelerate the reader toward the answer.

And there are also two exclamation marks toward the end. What’s more, when Foer does calm down enough to end a sentence with a mundane period, that sentence is more winding than an Alpine road.

Lastly, the paragraph accomplishes a tremendous amount of characterization. We can tell this is a precocious child. Precocious because he’s cracking jokes in French and musing about sentient teakettles, and a child because he’s making fart jokes. So we have a wonderful mix of high and low culture, which is a fair approximation of Oskar’s personality. Just on the basis of this paragraph alone, I could talk to a lineup of kids and pick Oskar out.

In a very different vein, let’s look at Anne Enright’s opening to The Gathering:

I would like to write down what happened in my grandmother’s house the summer I was eight or nine, but I am not sure if it really did happen. I need to bear witness to an uncertain event. I feel it roaring inside me—this thing that may not have taken place. I don’t even know what name to put on it. I think you might call it a crime of the flesh, but the flesh is long fallen away and I am not sure what hurt may linger in the bones.

Now, many writers start their books with a mystery. But Enright starts with two mysteries!

First, the mystery of what happened in her grandmother’s house long ago, and, second, the mystery about whether it did or did not happen. The narrator seems confused. In fact, she states her uncertainty twice, just to make sure the reader gets it.

Also, right from the beginning, Enright starts to give away the mystery. Enright calls this event a “crime of the flesh,” which both withholds information (we don’t know exactly what happened), but also gives us good guesses about its sexual nature. Beginning writers often believe that creating mystery means withholding 90% of the information and giving the reader 10%; while the opposite is true: you should give away 90% and only withhold 10%.

Don’t underestimate the amount of characterization happening in this first paragraph. This is an exceptionally careful narrator. She’s worried about the hurt in the bones that this story might cause others. She wants to write it down, but hasn’t actually done so out of worry. She believes this event has happened, but also worries that it didn’t. This is not an impulsive character but an exceptionally thoughtful, slow-to-act character who moves methodically and prudently.

For a third example, let’s put Raymond Chandler under a microscope by checking out the first paragraph of The Big Sleep:

It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

What’s the most important word in this paragraph? The word that does more to convey this narrator’s personality than anything else? I would argue it’s “sober.” As if being sober at eleven o’clock in the morning is an accomplishment.

Also, because he describes his clothing in such great detail, we know he’s proud to be well dressed. But why is he proud? Because just like the “sober” line, he’s excited that he’s not in rags or naked. He has a low bar for success.

In the hands of a lesser writer, the book would go into Philip Marlowe’s backstory to establish a point in time when he was in rags and drunk. But Chandler wisely starts the story at a point right when he’s put together, and his amazement and pride at being halfway presentable communicates Marlowe’s typical status. This is compression at its finest—always look for ways to accomplish more in a shorter space.

Now if I would buttonhole this first paragraph into a category, it would be “Description.” I usually tell writers to avoid descriptive openings, especially when they’re describing the natural environment. But this description succeeds for two reasons. First, it’s the description of a person, not the weather or a place. Second, and more importantly, the last sentence opens up the main action of the book: “I was calling on four million dollars.”

He’s making a house call for a rich client. This is the action of the first chapter, and it’s going to start the mystery of the book. Essentially, a good description paragraph that opens a book will always use the last sentence to launch the reader into the action. A good rule of thumb is look squint eyed at any paragraph that is 100 percent description. Use the last sentence as a bridge to get away from mere description and tease the reader with impending action.

Think about it: the last sentence of your first paragraph is the springboard from which you launch into the rest of your book. It’s the very first break in the book, and thus the first chance readers have to stop reading. Don’t let them.

What’s the emotional bedrock of this paragraph? It’s his conflict with himself. Remember there are three levels of conflict that every book needs:

Conflict with othersConflict with the world (a big-picture issue like poverty or injustice)Conflict with oneself

With Marlowe, his conflict with others is the cases he’s trying to solve, the conflict with the world is his quest for justice, and his conflict with himself is overcoming his self-destructive alcoholism. So the emotional bedrock is that the reader sympathizes with a hero who isn’t perfect. We like flawed protagonists. So right from this first paragraph, our emotions tilt toward this guy.

Amazon • Bookshop

Thankfully, the strategies for your first paragraph are uniform across all genres. Yes, Chandler’s writing a crime novel, but no matter what you’re writing, you can learn from him. If you look at any well-written romance, mystery, literary, YA, sci-fi, fantasy, crime, thriller, historical, or horror novel, you can mine those first paragraphs to find techniques for your own books, even if you’re writing in a vastly different genre.

Learn from everything. Yes, everything. I’ve found that even genres looked down upon, like erotica or fan fiction, can teach a serious writer about pleasuring the reader and fulfilling reader expectations. Don’t be snobby—be a vacuum.

The Secret Sauce to Being a Good Writer

Photo by Nong V on Unsplash

Today’s post is by author and editor Michael Mohr.

Honestly, the No. 1 thing is: Ignore 99.999% of the industry fluff you hear about online. (Yes, I’m aware of the irony I am demonstrating here.) It’s not that people online are trying to fool you on purpose, necessarily, but rather that they all have their own agenda. (And, frankly, bottom lines.)

Here’s a controversial opinion: Writers are born, not made. You heard me right. Let me unpack that.

If you’re a natural-born writer, then you’ll write your ass off either way. If you’re not, no amount of classes or workshops will change that in a fundamental way. To be clear: Sometimes it takes “real” writers years, even decades, to succeed.

A great example is my good writer-friend Allison Landa, whose memoir, Bearded Lady: When You’re a Woman with a Beard, Your Secret Is Written All Over Your Face was finally just published by Woodhall Press after a 17-year (yep!) journey to publication, which had begun while she was still in the MFA program at St. Mary’s.

This doesn’t mean that because you have the internal drive to write but haven’t pumped out profound prose that you “aren’t a writer.” It probably means that you simply have to try harder or in more efficient ways. But sometimes, sadly, yes, there are people who wish they were writers, who enjoy writing sometimes or even often, but alas are not writers for one simple reason: They don’t have that deep, driving force which animates their lust for communication with other human beings via words on the page.

There’s nothing wrong with this. Not everyone is meant to be a teacher or a doctor or a lawyer. Not everyone, ergo, is a writer. In our contemporary culture of constant uplift and positivity, I think what sometimes gets lost is the torn, ragged flag of reality. Because some people are writers and others aren’t doesn’t make this statement pretentious; on the contrary (as Dostoevsky would quip), it makes it honest. (Of course, just my humble opinion.)

The second thing about being a writer is: My God, read a LOT. I mean A LOT. And in multiple genres.

Here’s a gold quote from Stephen King’s classic memoir/writing instruction manual, On Writing: “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

This is a tough one, isn’t it? Especially in the frenetic, busy landscape of contemporary life. Besides your day job, you have kids, a mortgage, or rent, student loans, podcasts, TV shows, friends, enemies, and of course the insipid omnipresence of everything ONLINE, from Facebook to Twitter to LinkedIn, etc. Choose your poison, really.

My point is: We are blanketed in and constantly pounded at by distractions. It’s incessant. The crucial key here is: Find the time to read. (And to write, of course; you’ve got to write as often as you can.)

I read all the time. In the morning after I get up and before doing my freelance editing work. While dog-walking (my side-gig) via listening to Audible on my earbuds, and at night before bed. I read everything from a history of the Civil War (just finished, Battle Cry of Freedom by James M. McPherson) to collected essays (Feel Free by Zadie Smith, 2018) to novels (Lost Souls by Balzac) to collected letters (Vincent van Gogh: A Life in Letters) to short story collections (Homesick for Another World: Stories by Ottessa Moshfegh) to memoirs (Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates) to controversial books on race such as John McWhorter’s Woke Racism (2021).

The point is to absorb literature and good writing. A process of literary osmosis. You won’t suddenly become Kafka, but you will start to feel more fluid in your ability to put words down on the page and in feeling filled with glorious, precise language which starts to feel more and more accessible where it wasn’t before. Many have said that great writers are great readers with ambition. (And ego.) I think this is absolutely true.

I remember seeing Jennifer Egan speak just after Manhattan Beach came out, at Mrs. Dalloway’s in Berkeley. She said something lovely, and I’m paraphrasing but it was something like this: The writing process for her involves intensive research and reading on the subject for a long, long time until she “feels pregnant with the prose” and dumps it all out onto a rough draft. I love this and feel similarly. Reading inspires you; it makes you jealous and want to write your own work, enter your own imagination, set your own linguistic cadence and rhythm, locate your own voice. If you want to write, a certain portal of entry is to start with reading.

When I read, I use half a dozen different color highlighters and a black “precise V7 Rolling ball pen” to circle and underline and mark and create marginalia which I often return to later. I read both lazily and for pleasure but also with my writing and editing brain on, looking to see what a writer did here or there or anywhere. I want to open the hood and take the engine apart. That’s the editor inside of me. That’s why I not only write but edit books.

The third thing writers need is a thick skin. Yes, we’re mostly all sensitive, smart, independent people and our writing is our “baby.” (To keep the Egan example going.) But, being sensitive, and writing largely in isolation, writers can sometimes be deeply and profoundly offended by an editor’s comments. To be sure not all editors are of equal quality. And you should slowly and scrupulously choose which editor to hire for your work. (And make sure you check their qualifications, experience, testimonials, etc.)

That said, once you find the right editor: You have to trust them. You’re often not going to accept every single suggestion, and that’s fine and good and normal; at the end of the day, you’re the author and it’s your work.

However, most of the time the editor knows best. Mainly because (a) they do this for a living, and (b) they are an objective, non-emotionally invested pair of eyes. This is a problem I see often as a book editor. Newer writers too often want things done fast, cheap, and all at once. But that’s not how editing works. Not good, serious, professional editing anyway. You’re going to pay some money for quality editing. Some of the suggestions will probably make you angry, frustrated, hurt, feeling rejected.

My advice: Take some deep breaths, get your bearings, pause for a while, honestly consider the feedback, and then proceed.

Remember: Besides your friends and family, when a book comes out it’s mostly going to be consumed by non-emotionally attached, objective readers. They don’t care about your sensitivities or feelings. They want depth and entertainment. You don’t hire an editor to hold your hand and tell you you’re a genius. You hire an editor to tell you the truth. Yes, they should always do it kindly, respectfully, without animus or judgment. This isn’t a moral exercise. This is the preparation of the writer for The Real World of Books. This is going to involve some surgery (sometimes a lot of it) on your manuscript.

In 2013 I interned for a literary agent for nine months—about a year before I’d started finally getting my writing published and was making a little money. I learned a lot from that agency. Eventually I began publishing a blog about it and then started my freelance editing career, which was slow-going until I got a fairly famous client (Christian Picciolini) at which point I more or less took off.

I have a degree in writing. My mother is an author and used to write for a national magazine. My uncle is a novelist, and two cousins are writers, one for a video game company and one as a travel writer. So, you might say it’s in my blood, my DNA.

But not everyone shares this familial background. Some are judged and mocked for even just the desire to write. Many are told they have better things to do with their time and that writing isn’t capitalistically feasible (aka: You won’t make any money).

But this brings us back full circle to the start of my essay: True writers will find a way to write. I know mothers who get up at 4:30 a.m. and write for an hour before waking their kids, then go to a 12-hour shift as a nurse. I know CEOs who write in the middle of the night. I know lawyers and doctors who have somehow found the time to do what they love. Because if you honestly love something (or someone), you make the time. We all know that. We all have a zillion excuses for why we can’t do A, B or C. But if you fall in love, you create the time. You find it, magically. You expand your ability to work.

So, what are you waiting for, writers? Get out there and WRITE!

20 Reasons Why Everybody Should Write Short Stories

Photo by K8 on Unsplash

Today’s guest post is by Elizabeth Sims (@ESimsAuthor). Join her on Nov. 16 for the online class Short Story Writing for Publication.

1. Short stories force you to practice economy of language as well as of plot material. Let’s see, the limit for the contest I want to enter is 2,500 words. How can I write my scenes with maximum impact and minimal words? Which of these many elements I just brainstormed on is the most compelling? Which are kind of weak? Nothing tentative or irrelevant can stay in. That’s a tremendously fun challenge.

2. A blank page is a blank page, but if you know it’s page one of 400, that’s one thing. Page one of 10 is quite another. You can have a complete draft of a short story done by teatime on Thursday!

3. You can try out different genres easily with short stories. Have you written a couple of paranormal novels, and you’re wondering what it’d be like to write an historical mystery? Write a short story! Middle-grade fiction? Give it a try! Via short story, it’s so easy to dip a toe into the unknown. You’ll see how it feels to you, how well you’ve done, whether your appetite is now satisfied—or whetted for more.

4. Apart from trying out different genres and ideas, short stories let you experiment with different forms and voices at low cost. First person? Third omniscient? Even second person? Mixed, right in one story? What the hey, give it a whirl. See how it feels.

5. When you write a short story, you’re joining a great old traditional practice, rife with imperishable names: Ray Bradbury, Katherine Anne Porter, Langston Hughes, Ernest Hemingway, Frank O’Hara, George Saunders, Joyce Carol Oates, Anton Chekhov, Flannery O’Connor, Kazuo Ishiguro, Sherman Alexie, Zora Neale Hurston.

6. Speaking of tradition, it’s easier to rip off a classic short story than a novel. Bear with me, I’m not advocating plagiarism! All I mean is, you can study a great short story for structure, and see how you might be able to mimic it with your own material.

7. If things are going poorly as you’re drafting a novel, it’s hard to abandon ship, even if you feel certain all is lost. The sunk-cost fallacy, right? Many of us have been there. But if things are going wrong in a short story, it’s much easier to toss that draft aside and figure, “Oh well, maybe I’ll get back to it someday.” Or not! You can forget about it without much angst.

I might add, the ability to throw away bad drafts is a skill in itself—a strength, really, come to think of it. You have to be strong! Because writing is emotional. We get attached to the pages we write, naturally. But if you can develop a more or less dispassionate approach when evaluating your own material—well, that’s how a professional does. A professional knows there’s more where that came from!

8. With a short story, you can go any length, from flash fiction to something in the thousands of words. If your story keeps growing, let it fly and call it a novelette or a novella. Maybe your story will keep growing all the way to novel status, who knows?

While we’re at it, here’s a general guide on length and terminology:

Micro-short story (aka flash fiction, sudden fiction, etc.): 5–100 wordsShort-short story: 100–1,000Short story: 1,000–5,000Novelette: 5,000–10,000Novella: 10,000–40,000Novel: 40,000–infinity

9. If you’re established to some extent, you can use a short story as an easy giveaway to tempt readers towards your longer works. Especially if you’ve got a few books in a series going, a short story or novelette featuring your main character can be fun to write and fun to giveaway through your website or newsletter.

10. Another thing that applies to writers of series: If you decide you want a “book zero” in order to supply backstory and whatever other goodies you’ve thought of, you don’t necessarily have to write a whole novel. A short story or novella could easily serve that purpose, and can be published quickly on any of the current digital platforms.

11. A short story is a break from the demands of a novel, which can get to feel onerous. Writing a short story in the midst of a tough slog in a novel can change your mental scenery and freshen the wind at your back.

12. You don’t need an agent to sell short stories, whether to the prestige literary magazines like the Hudson Review and Prairie Schooner, the genre specialty magazines like Suspense and Asimov’s Science Fiction, and even mainstream outlets like Harper’s and the Atlantic.

You’ll find that lots of established, big-name authors of novels like to write short fiction for magazines, so the possibility of finding yourself in good company is high.

13. There are a ton of short-story contests out there. One of my early efforts came in 12th in the Writer’s Digest contest, which gave me a huge boost in confidence. I got nothing more from it other than seeing my name and story title in the magazine, but it was a credential.

14. Short stories can be farmed out to anthologies. Sometimes an author will be asked to contribute a story to an upcoming anthology, which is cool. But you can simply get together with other writers and put together your own anthology. To make marketing easier, choose a theme for your collection. (Rather than Stories from the Hometown Writers Group, think of something like Bone Chilling Tales, or Stories of the Kitchen or suchlike.)

Another thing on collections: Even if some of your stories have been published in magazines, you can publish a group of them on your own, because magazines (generally speaking) only buy rights for their one-time use.

15. Short stories tend to be more successful at open mike reading nights than chapters from novels. The audience feels satisfied after hearing a complete little story.

16. In a similar vein, a short story is easier to bring to your critique group than a chapter from a novel. It’s a complete entity and easy for the group members to grasp and evaluate. If membership in your group is changeable, all the more so. Newbies won’t have to be brought up to speed on your novel project.

17. Short stories accommodate short attention spans and are easily translatable to the small screen, to podcasts, and to new media no one’s thought of yet.

18. You can easily publish a short story on any of the online publishing platforms. Sure, you can self-publish novels too, but publishing a short story is like running a fast market test. You can try out metadata tags, titling, supplemental material, whatever you want. Who’s reading this? Anybody leaving a review? What are they saying about it?

19. Another thing about publishing individual short stories: you can try out pseudonyms! Want to publish something vastly outside of your current wheelhouse? Want to publish a new concept anonymously? Use a pseudonym and see how it goes. I might note, lots of erotica authors use pseudonyms. Just saying.

20. Life is short. Stories are short. There’s something profound there.

Note from Jane: If you enjoyed this post, please join us on Nov. 16 for the online class Short Story Writing for Publication.

What You Should Know About Writing a Co-Authored Book

Photo by “My Life Through A Lens” on Unsplash

Today’s post is by Allison Kelley (@_alikelley), co-author of Jokes to Offend Men.

When people hear about my feminist, humor book, Jokes to Offend Men, first they ask: Do you actually hate men? (The answer of course is no, only on Thursdays).

And then they say: Wait there’s four authors? How does that work? A four-person book is an outlier, but what’s even stranger to me is that I am one of those authors.

Prior to writing this book I had none of the qualities it requires to write collaboratively. In fact I rejected the premise. But now, two plus years after I started, I am a convert. If you are also a type-A, control seeker that’s been scarred by having to work on group projects in school, I see you. I am you. But done right, group writing has some surprising benefits I hope you’ll consider.

When it comes to writing, I have always been wary of sharing the spotlight. In college, I took comedy writing classes in male-dominated spaces where I had to fight to have my voice heard. And on those rare occasions when I finally got people to listen to what I had to say, I held on for dear life.

I internalized those experiences throughout my twenties. I was always deeply protective of my writing and highly suspicious of anyone who was trying to “change my words.” I took all feedback extremely personally and didn’t know how to accept it without compromising my vision.

When people critiqued my work, all I heard in my warped brain was: You are not cut out to be a writer and you should give up now. What I didn’t realize until years later, was that (1) writers are not judged on the quality of their first draft, and (2) my self-preservation method was holding me back.

If you want to write collaboratively, you can’t be afraid to show the ugly stuff.

In my thirties, everything changed. I managed to get a few clips under my belt, writing humorous personal essays about my holy trifecta: 1990s pop culture, teen angst, and the suburbs. I also started writing satire for sites like McSweeney’s. This boosted my confidence and then, critically, I joined an online community of writers who I grew to respect and trust. Eventually that led me to achieve the very thing I was terrified of in my twenties: Being vulnerable.

We swapped pieces and gave each other feedback and for the first time I had some measure of what other people’s early drafts looked like. I was relieved and genuinely shocked to find out other people worked through multiple revisions. With the assurance that I would not be laughed out of the group, I began to solicit feedback, and then I watched as my writing *miraculously* became so much better.

You have to trust each other.

Over time, I developed a rapport with a few particular writers who both shared my sensibilities and were incredible editors. Then, a few years after I joined the group, the stars aligned. I finally had an idea and had the people who could help me write it.

The viral McSweeney’s piece, which served as the inspiration for Jokes to Offend Men, started out as a single joke. I knew it had potential, but on my own I had no clue where to go with it.

For 25-year-old Ali, the story would have ended there. I would have abandoned the idea, too afraid to show anyone my half-baked thinking and the judgment I was sure would follow. But 35-year-old Ali was learning to trust the people around her.

I emailed the other writers the joke: “A man walks into a bar. It’s a low one, so he gets a promotion within his first 6 months on the job.”

And then I asked, “Is this anything?,” knowing that at worst they too wouldn’t know what to do with it, but at best, it might inspire them and together we could make it “a thing.”

Through some mix of right time, right place, right painful lived experiences, the four of us were able to co-write and publish Jokes I’ve Told That My Male Colleagues Didn’t Like in a whirlwind 24 hours.

When that took off, I was ecstatic! It was the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t know it could get bigger. And again, if it was just me, the story would have ended there. Not bad, but certainly not a published book. It wasn’t until one of my co-writers suggested we expand the idea into a full-length book that a new dream began to take shape.

You have to slow down and be patient.

My entire life I’ve been racing to the finish line. Somewhere in the two years it took to write and sell our book, I put this quote on my phone as a reminder to slow down: “Be patient with yourself. Nothing in nature blooms all year.” Patience is a virtue I wish for anyone in the slow-moving world of publishing, but when writing a book with three other people, it takes on a whole new meaning.

Writing collaboratively means taking the time to hear each other out, consider other perspectives, allow someone to talk through their idea even if it’s not fully there. While our book is funny, we’re pulling from heavy source material re: sexual harassment, reproductive rights, the gender equity gap. I had to learn to give my co-writers the space to express what was important to them and what was frustrating them.

There were many times throughout the process of writing our book where I so desperately wanted to skip ahead to the pretty, finished end. I am nothing if not a conflict avoidant child of divorce and I hate the murky middle of things. But that is life and as it turns out, it was those lively discussions where we hashed it out and dissected the validity of every single joke, that made the material stronger.

You have to be committed to the idea and each other.

Another rule that applies to all authors: you better love your idea because you’re going to be spending a long time with it. But the particular nuance of co-writing comes from the commitment to each other. I think one of the scariest parts of writing on a team is that you are relying on others to get the job done. You have to be accountable to yourselves, and I’m talking about even before you sign any contracts holding you legally responsible.

Our original piece was published in February 2020 and shortly after we began meeting virtually on a weekly basis to write and talk. We were buoyed by the success of our one piece, but we knew writing a book-length volume of jokes was a totally different beast. It was awkward at first. We had to find our rhythm, not just in the writing, but as partners.

Amazon • Bookshop

Other than giving each other feedback and meeting in person once or twice, prior to writing this book most of us did not know each other that well. But we believed in the idea and were committed to giving it a shot. It became clear early on that we each offered something unique and having an equal partnership was the only way it was going to work.

That was no small feat—at the height of our workload we were meeting every week for 3-hour phone sessions, in addition to independently writing throughout the week. But that’s a testament to how much we all wanted this book to work. And it’s a testament to the power of co-writers. They can push you to dream bigger and accomplish something you never could have done on your own.

Writing Through the Impossible

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Today’s post is by author, editor and coach Jessica Conoley (@jaconoley).

One of the most phenomenal (and underrated) parts of having a creative freelance career, like writing, is our ability to mold the job to our needs.

Need flexibility to pick up kids? You’ve got it.

Want to learn about poisons of the sixteen hundreds? No one is stopping you from researching for 72 hours straight.

We have ownership of our time and our projects. We also have the freedom to shut our work down and devote ourselves to some other aspect of our lives.

But sometimes shutdowns just happen. And even worse sometimes these unplanned shutdowns are due to hardcore life chaos. Maybe it’s the death of a loved one, dissolution of a partnership (romantic or business), or a house fire that stops your writing and everything else. What we think was a temporary shutdown ends up being a life-altering event, and we have to find a whole new way of existing in order to move forward.

So, what do you do when you’re faced with an unexpected shutdown? How do you stay true to your creative ambitions and still handle what life is throwing at you?

I struggled with that question for 16 months as my mom was dying.

 Here’s what got me back on my writing track.

Gratitude

It’s hard to find things to be grateful for when your life is in cinders, but gratitude primes your brain to look for solutions and positive opportunities amidst your awful situation. It helps shift your perspective and eventually may lead you to hope. I spent those months feeling grateful for:

The freedom to take on as little work as I wanted to. If I had still been tied to a corporate job, I wouldn’t have had the same freedom over my time. I wouldn’t have been able to care for mom the way I wanted to.The ability to lose myself in work. A lot of those 16 months sucked. Bad. I didn’t want to face them or think about them or feel them. Sometimes I didn’t. Somedays I buried myself in work and was grateful my career could be a sanctuary.Clients and colleagues who showed time and time again they valued me as a person, not just as an editor, coach, or writer. I was careful with the details I chose to share, but my clients and colleagues consistently showed me the good in the world, when it would have been so easy to get lost in the bad.

When you’re faced with the unimaginable and feel like writing is the farthest thing from possible, take five minutes to write about what you are grateful for at that very moment. You can start by listing five small basics: I ate today. I have fluffy slippers on. The sun came out, etc. If you’re feeling really ambitious, add some sensory details to flex that writing muscle. That simple list proves you have written—which as you know feels very, very good.

Quiet

A new reality was being built around me, and if I remained in autopilot-disaster mode, I would end up in a place I never intended to go—the place where writing had turned into something I used to do. I was the only person who could figure out my best way forward, but under the barrage of external pressures, I couldn’t hear myself think. To find some quiet I reduced external noise by:

Silencing phone notifications. Text messages, phone calls, email, and social media alerts were all paused. Immediate family, doctors’ offices, and my three BFFs were the only people I let ring through.Setting out-of-office notifications everywhere. I’m out on family leave and have delayed access to messages. If you need immediate access to me, please text. Thank you for your patience, and I look forward to speaking with you. Here’s the sneaky trick I pulled: I DIDN’T include my phone number in the out-of-office message. If the person didn’t have my number already, we didn’t have the level of relationship that warranted an immediate response.Curating my media intake. I only followed adorable animals and positive, introspective snippets. I stopped reading the news. My watching and reading habits turned to the familiar: I rewatched all of The Golden Girls. I let go of my self-imposed rule that I had to read only new books. Instead, I reread the same two books for 16 months straight.

If you have a physical reaction when something pops on your radar, that’s a good place to set an out of office, hit mute, or establish a boundary. In the midst of chaos, it’s time to do what’s right for you. As you claim your quiet time, you make space to find clarity about the next best step for you—and don’t be surprised if the next best step is sleep. Your brain knows it’s much easier to write once you catch up on rest.

Self-care

When I quieted all that noise, I realized that the path I was on led to mental and physical exhaustion—and exhaustion is not conducive to quality writing. While it felt like the last thing I could do was invest in myself, quiet, sensible me knew that feelings are just warning signs that something needs attention. Quiet, sensible me knew if I didn’t take care of myself, I wasn’t going to be able to take care of mom. Quiet, sensible me decided self-care was a top priority, regardless of time and financial restrictions. I looked at self-care that had worked for me in the past and recommitted to:

Exercise. I doubled the number of Pilates classes I was taking. Yes, it was good to move after so much time in waiting rooms and driving to doctors’ appointments, but having my teacher tell me what to do and not having to think for one whole hour was positively wonderful. I went on long, slow, walks outside because fresh air felt like a luxury after stagnant hospital air.Massage. Stress raises toxin levels in the body which leads to wear on your immune system. If I got sick, I couldn’t be around my chemo-treating mom. The clock was ticking on the number of days left with her, therefore getting sick was not an option. Massage had been an intermittent indulgence of the past, but it became a bi-weekly routine so my immune system could do its thing.Meditation. Sitting still, breathing, and sorting through the crap rolling around in my head helped bring that external quiet and calm to my internal thoughts. It gave me space to hear myself think and trust that the next step I was making was the right one for me. (I know some of you are rolling your eyes, and that’s totally okay. Early 2017 me thought meditation was a load of crap too, but that’s a different essay.)Writing. Writing is how I process emotions and learn lessons to my bones. Like many other creatives, if I am not actively creating, my mental health suffers. I committed to writing in any form I could muster and told myself judgement about the quality and usability of the writing was future-me’s job. All current-me had to do was get words on the page.

Writing was the hardest self-care for me to implement because I didn’t want to process what was happening. If I processed what was happening, it meant mom was really dying. All the time I wasn’t writing, I was in denial, which served as a coping mechanism and helped me through some really horrible moments. But, in the quiet I knew it was time to start accepting the inevitable.

When you’re investigating the right self-care steps, if there’s one that feels impossible it may be because that’s the place you do your heavy emotional processing. If you aren’t ready to process yet it is okay. Only you know when it’s time to move to that next step of acceptance. (I strongly suggest muting anyone who is trying to force you to move on before you’re ready.)

The questions to ask yourself are: Am I not doing this because it’s hard? Or am I not doing this because I’m not ready, yet? When you have your answer take a moment to be proud of yourself. Asking that question is very hard to do. Answering it honestly is even harder. You can decide what you want to do with that answer tomorrow.

Baby steps

I’d accepted writing, even though it was going to feel hard, was my next right step. After a few weeks of physical self-care, I had the energy to contemplate what writing might now look like. But, as I contemplated what to work on, overwhelm set in—words felt impossible. I sat in paralysis for a few days, before realizing I needed to back up a step—I’d missed the before-the-words-on-a-page part of writing. I wanted to start with something I knew I could accomplish, so I set a few micro-goals like:

Open my writing software. That was it. I didn’t have to write. I didn’t have to read. I didn’t have to decide what I was going to work on, all I had to do was open Word because that small action was a step toward new words.Read something I had written. I only released one creative-ish piece of writing in 2021. I opened it and read it. Because I’d been on hiatus, I saw it more objectively. It was good. If I could do that once, in the middle of the worst of it I could do it again—because now I was taking care of myself.Set a timer for five minutes and sit in front of an open document until the bell goes off. I needed every hack I could find at this point and muscle memory is real. Minute-by-minute my body sunk into my writing chair and reminded my brain this chair, this time of day, this sitting in front of my computer looking at an open document was something I did. Eventually, my body tricked my brain, and I deleted a word or two.

They were monumental, minuscule victories. (They also didn’t take very long, which was good because I was still running short on time.) I documented each win by adding a sticker to the calendar in my kitchen. As I made my morning tea, I’d look at the stickers. Most of the time I wished there were more, but sometimes I’d remember to be grateful for the handful that managed to make it onto the board.

What baby steps can you see that will move you forward? Even more important, how are you going to celebrate each of those baby steps you take? Place your celebration reminders in a place you see every day, multiple times a day. Subconsciously, each time you look at them, you acknowledge your progress and empower yourself to take the next step forward in creating your new normal.

Build

It was time to leverage the momentum from those baby steps into permanent this-is-my-new-existence-change. The most effective way to do that was by turning writing into a ritual I craved as much my morning cup of tea—an act where the day just felt wrong without it. It was time to turn writing into a habit.

Habit stacking (when you pair something you want to start doing with a habit you do daily) held the way forward. The one self-care I consistently accomplished, regardless of how bad things got, was meditation. My brain and body were fully committed to that deep quiet time to myself and wouldn’t let me skip it. If I linked it to meditation, my brain and body couldn’t let me skip writing either. After meditating, I habit stacked by:

Immediately sitting down in front of my computer.Opening only the piece I wanted to work on. All other tabs and applications stayed closed.Silencing my phone and (gently) tossing it across the room. On days when phone distraction was particularly tempting, I stashed it in the really fancy wooden box on the mantle in a whole different room.Setting my nursemaid software time for one minute longer than I had the day before. (Nursemaid software is internet/app blocking software that won’t let you access certain websites until the time limit expires. The one I use is called SelfControl.)Writing until the timer went off. I built up from five minutes on that first day. For word count oriented writers, you may want to try the Mary Robinette Kowal method of shooting for one sentence the first day, two the second, three the third, etc.

Build up your writing sessions by looking at tasks you have consistently completed throughout the chaos of your shutdown. What do you do no matter what? Drink coffee? Take the dog out? Listen to a podcast? Great, you’re halfway there. Now, how can you pair writing with that daily habit? It may take a few tries, but eventually your muscle memory and habits will automatically cue your body that it’s time to write and you’ll get to the desk on autopilot.

Try again

Six minutes eventually led to seven, eight, and nine; but the real milestone would be if I could hit 25 minutes. In pre-sick-mom reality, that was when I made myself stand up and move around so I wouldn’t turn into the hunchback writer of Kansas City. I made it to eleven minutes. We got notice mom’s cancer had come back. I stopped writing. Then one morning I thought maybe I should try again:

I went back to the baby steps and began at opening a Word document. I built up to 14 minutes. Mom got put on hospice. I stopped writing. Then one morning I thought maybe I should try again.I went back to the baby steps and read something I had written. I built up to 17 minutes. Mom died. I stopped writing. Then one morning I thought maybe I should try again.I went back to the baby steps and sat in front of my computer for five minutes. I built up to 22 minutes. I got fantastic work news and wanted to call mom and tell her, but she wasn’t there to answer the phone. I stopped writing—but this time it was for a day-and-a-half, not weeks or months, so I sat down at my desk, set the Nursemaid timer for 23 minutes and tried again.

I needed the stops. You may need the stops. The writing isn’t easy. The rebuilding your life isn’t easy. If today is a stop that’s fine. If this week is a stop that’s fine. If this month is a stop that’s fine. You will remember the baby steps and take them faster after every stop. You will try again because you get to create the life you want, and creation isn’t always fluid and linear. It’s made of starts and stops and trying again. And the good news is you don’t have to do it alone. You will try again when you are ready.

Support

I had a solid creative support triangle in place before mom got sick. In my newfound quiet, I understood also needed a mom-is-dying support triangle. Looking through all my silenced notifications I reached out to select friends, family, and colleagues asking for what I needed. Some of the more unusual ways I relied on my support were:

Having my roommate open any physical mail that looked suspiciously “well intended.” He knew whether the contents would send me into an emotional tailspin or not.Asking a friend who was beta reading the same manuscript as me if I should finish it. (There was a cancer diagnosis in the opening pages.) She immediately told me to stop. I emailed the author and politely bowed out of the beta.Publicly declaring I was writing again and sharing my daily sticker progress with social media followers. I engineered the situation so I felt like people were counting on me to keep writing. That amorphous social media commitment got me into the writing chair many times, when all I really wanted to do was go to bed.

People want to help. When we’re in a shutdown they often don’t know how. Only you know what you need right now. It’s okay to get creative and specific in your asks. People appreciate when you are clear. Some people are going to “help” in ways they think are best, but you have no obligation to accept. It’s okay to say no. Does an offer of assistance bring you comfort, lower your stress level, or ease the situation significantly? Great, say “Thank you.” And take the help. Who listens when you tell them what you need? Those are good people to reach out to. Your support system is one of the easiest things to be grateful for when you’re looking for something to add to that gratitude list.

Before mom died, writing only these 11 pages in three-and-a-half months would have felt like failure. But in this new reality it doesn’t feel like failure, it feels like a baby step.

I’ll keep building up my time until I make it to four 25-minute blocks a day, and one of those days I’ll find the courage to start writing fiction again. That’s how and where I’ll really emotionally process what I have lost. But that feels too hard. I’m not ready, yet.

Just like writing this felt too hard not so long ago, but I needed to write it to know I still had the ability. And now it’s time to share it because someone out there needs to read it so they can move forward with their own feels-impossible project. And when they share their creation, someone will need it, too and so on. This is how we build our new way of existence. This is how we move forward.

How to Avoid Taking Edits Too Personally

Ask the Editor is a column for your questions about the editing process and editors themselves. It’s a place to bring your conundrums and dilemmas and mixed feelings, no matter how big or small. Want to be considered? Learn more and submit your question.

This month’s Ask the Editor is sponsored by 805 Writers Conference. The 805 Writers Conference delivers the information you need to succeed in publishing—all of the tools, skills, and resources—available virtually and in person—November 5 & 6. Conference sessions, specialty workshops, and a book expo featuring 50+ authors. Join us at the beach!

Question

I’ve just written my first nonfiction book, about gardening in my region. It’s a compilation of twelve years’ worth of newspaper and magazine articles and blog posts, about 45,000 words total. I’m planning to self-publish with a hybrid publisher, meaning I have to edit the manuscript, choose the fonts, choose and insert the photos in the right place, and so on. After the line edits, I have a proofreader in place, then I’ll send it off.

A retired editor friend of mine referred me to a working editor friend of hers to do the first edit, a line edit. I also asked for the editor’s thoughts about whether the title conveys what the book was about, and to see if the slant about gardening in the region was obvious. After she looked at the manuscript and did some editing on the first chapter, we agreed to work together and settled on a fee.

I didn’t realize how horrible I’d feel when the first round of edits came back. The changes in format and content, comments about structure, and questions about the content deflated me after two hours. I felt like nothing I’d done was right, that a year’s worth of work was being torn apart. In tears, I was afraid to tackle it the second day and the third.

My retired editor friend told me I was taking the edits too personally. She and I worked on a query and a book proposal of mine a couple years ago, and it took a toll on our friendship. We got through it and now we laugh, but she’s acutely aware of my response. She assured me that editors edit for the reader, not to chastise the writer. That was and still is hard for me to see.

So my question is, how can I detach from the process and thicken my skin?

—In Tears

Dear In Tears:

First things first: This sounds like a really challenging project! Combining different short bits of writing into a coherent whole is quite a puzzle in itself. Plus, it’s very likely that over twelve years, your style and approach to writing have evolved, maybe in ways that you haven’t been able to notice, because you’re so close to it. Which is just to say that as a starting point, it might be helpful to remember that this is a very complicated project you’ve undertaken.

In fact, the nature of this project reminds me in some ways of another kind of project: home organization! I wonder whether it could help to think of your book project as a closet make-over: you have collected twelve years of stuff, and let’s say you’ve spent a fair amount of time working on it on your own; you’ve emptied the closet and tossed the truly no-good stuff, removed the stuff that actually belongs in the attic, grouped similar items, and so on. You’ve put everything you want to keep back in the closet, more or less. But you know it could be better.

You want your closet to look the way a stranger’s closet looks at the end of an HGTV episode—everything just so, orderly and easy to make sense of, with clever storage solutions and labels. A place for everything and everything in its place, etc.

So you’ve called in help! You’ve hired an expert closet-organizer, who has jumped in to do her thing. She’s re-grouped some of your items, in the process discovering that you have, actually, no fewer than fourteen blue scarves, and she’s wondering whether you really meant to keep them all. Where you had sorted things into a stack of shoe boxes, she’s brought in a system of nifty containers, with a slightly better size and more regular dimensions, clean panels so you can see what’s inside, and a spot for a nice label.

And, looking at it all now, you’re feeling a little embarrassed. You didn’t realize you had so many  scarves, and ok, fine, that stack of shoe boxes was pretty wobbly and likely to fall over in the first week. You’re seeing all the things you might have done better, and the closet-organizer’s changes feel like a criticism.

But here’s the thing: the closet organizer isn’t thinking that at all. Sure, she saw problems, but she also understands that most people struggle with organizing the detritus of 21st-century life. In fact, she’s built a profession around helping them with this challenge!

The closet-organizer has two big advantages in this scenario:

First, it’s pretty easy to be objective about the contents of someone else’s closet. The closet-organizer doesn’t have a sentimental attachment to the shoes you wore to your wedding but can’t fit into now. (Do you need to keep these? she’ll ask politely. Could they be stored somewhere else, perhaps in the back corner of the closet or in the attic or maybe even not in your house at all?)

Second, the closet-organizer has organized a lot of closets, while you’ve probably mostly focused only on yours. That’s why you’re paying her! She’s learned, over time, which kind of hook holds up and which is plastic crap that will break the minute you hang anything heavier than a necklace on it. She’s learned that it’s worth it to get matching hangers, and she’s a whiz at that shirt-folding trick that lets you see everything in the drawer.

A small side note: can I promise that the heart of the closet-organizer is pure as driven snow? I cannot. It is possible, maybe even likely, that, deep down, she maintains a secret list of truly, exceptionally disastrous closets she’s encountered. (Yours probably isn’t one of them.) She might quietly be thinking, Lady, let some of the scarves go. (If she said that out loud, that’s a different story; I’m assuming your closet-organizer’s comments and notes were all polite and professional.) But you can’t really worry too much about that. And I can almost guarantee you that, ultimately, she’ll take some—maybe even a lot of—satisfaction from helping you tackle that closet. And you should, too: you’ve done a lot of work!

At the risk of stretching this metaphor too far, it’s also only fair to acknowledge that there’s another layer here, logistically: I’ve sort of assumed the kind of reality-show scenario where you left someone to organize your closet while you had a nice weekend away at the beach. But in fact, getting a manuscript back full of tracked changes is a little more grueling than that because you actually have to decide whether to approve each step: Do you need this blue scarf? How about this one? What if I move this blue scarf here, and stack this other blue scarf on top of it? Can I put the scarves in front of the wedding shoes, on the third shelf? Oh, but that doesn’t leave room for the shoes, so maybe they should move down a shelf.

And it’s true: that process can very quickly feel overwhelming. So I’m also going to suggest a little hack that might make it feel a little more like the reality-show beach-trip scenario. When I send line edits to writers, I almost always send two versions of the file. The first version has everything tracked in: formatting changes, sentence-level suggestions, queries, notes, straight apostrophes changed to “curly,” etc. It can look like a lot of changes, especially if global changes in formatting (every single apostrophe, changed!) are tracked in—sort of like getting a paper back covered in red ink. To make the second file, I save a copy of the first file and then accept all of my suggested changes in one fell swoop. I tell writers that of course they don’t need to accept all of my suggestions, but that it might be easier to start from that clean file and then go back to the other file when it seems helpful. In other words, it’s sort of like “Ta-da! Here’s what your closet would look like if I organized it, but see what works and what doesn’t work for you, and then we can go back and play around with it some more if you don’t like how parts of it look.”

Which is to say that, if you generally trust your editor—as it sounds like you do—maybe a way to approach the manuscript you got back is to take a bit of it, save a new file, hit “Accept All Changes” and see what it looks like. In the best-case scenario, you’ll be delighted by how well the manuscript reads: there’s all of your stuff, just a little more shipshape than you left it. Probably, you’ll still have a little bit of rearranging and polishing left to do. And ultimately, especially given that you’re self-publishing, you can decide to accept or reject any of the changes—keep every single scarf, if you really must. But I suspect that not having to engage with every single change might make the whole process feel a little less daunting.

Good luck!

—Hattie Fletcher

This month’s Ask the Editor is sponsored by 805 Writers Conference. The 805 Writers Conference delivers the information you need to succeed in publishing—all of the tools, skills, and resources—available virtually and in person—November 5 & 6. Conference sessions, specialty workshops, and a book expo featuring 50+ authors. Join us at the beach!

Using Weather to Convey Mood in Fiction

Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash

Today’s guest post is by writing coach, workshop instructor, and author C. S. Lakin (@cslakin).

Writers are sometimes told not to write about weather. It’s boring, right? An unimportant element that adds nothing useful to a story. Dry details. Who wants to read about a dark and stormy night? No wonder Snoopy never got past typing that first line of his great magnum opus.

But weather affects us every moment of every day and night. We make decisions for how we will spend our day, even our life, based on weather. And weather greatly affects our mood, whether we notice or not.

Since we want our characters to act and react believably, they should also be affected by weather. Sure, at times they aren’t going to notice it. But there are plenty of opportunities to have characters interact with weather in ways that can be purposeful and powerful in your story.

Ways to use weather effectively

Weather can be used to convey moods in fiction because we tend to associate specific feelings with certain kinds of weather. Rainy days to many are gloomy. Sunshine makes us feel happy.

But characters in our fiction—just like you and me—might react to weather much differently than expected due to the mood they’re in. I love the fog and rain and cold of autumn—especially after a scorching hot summer. But someone with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) might find such weather depressing.

Weather is often used metaphorically and as motif in fiction. In my novel Someone to Blame, Matt is fighting his grief over the loss of his two sons. In this moment, the weather is used to show his unclarity about his life:

Matt brushed the remnants of broken glass off the passenger seat and got into his truck. Fog enveloped him as he left the parking lot, erased his surroundings. He leaned forward to find the road through his windshield. Gravel turned to asphalt; houses drifted by like ghosts.

As he drove back to town he searched his feelings, tried to assess whether he was upset, angry, or what. It wasn’t the lack of feeling that set him on edge as much as the realization that he didn’t care. His life had fallen into patterns of routine, of requisite conversation. Of measured responses and expected behaviors. He knew his heart was numb, all the nerve endings severed. He was sleepwalking through a different kind of fog. Somehow he couldn’t see a way to connect the dots of his life.

Note how weather is used strategically to both enhance and mirror Matt’s mood and feelings in that moment. The weather gets him thinking deeply about his life by the imagery used sparked by the weather.

Here is a passage from Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novel The Shadow of the Wind, which brings mood and weather into play:

That Sunday, clouds spilled down from the sky and swamped the streets with a hot mist that made the thermometers on the walls perspire. Halfway through the afternoon, the temperature was already grazing the nineties as I set off towards Calle Canuda for my appointment with Barceló, carrying the book under my arm and with beads of sweat on my forehead. … A grand stone staircase led up from a palatial courtyard to a ghostly network of passageways and reading rooms. … I glided up to the first floor, blessing the blades of a fan that swirled above the sleepy readers melting like ice cubes over their books.

Zafón’s passage combines the elements of the weather with bits of physical description, setting a mood for the locale that affects what his character notices. He’s keenly aware of the heat, and though he never thinks Boy, it’s hot, we sense his discomfort by the beads of sweat, the appreciation for the swirling fan, and his observation of the “melting readers”—a strong and fresh image that sums up the impact of the weather.

Here’s another passage from the same book, again showing how the weather description helps set the mood of the character. I’ll put in boldface the masterful words used to paint a mood picture:

A reef of clouds and lightning raced across the skies from the sea. … My hands were shaking, and my mind wasn’t far behind. I looked up and saw the storm spilling like rivers of blackened blood from the clouds, blotting out the moon and covering the roofs of the city in darkness. I tried to speed up, but I was consumed with fear and walked with leaden feet, chased by the rain. I took refuge under the canopy of a newspaper kiosk, trying to collect my thoughts and decide what to do next. A clap of thunder roared close by, and I felt the ground shake under my feet. …

On the flooding pavements the streetlamps blinked, then went out like candles snuffed by the wind. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in the streets, and the darkness of the blackout spread with a fetid smell that rose from the sewers. The night became opaque, impenetrable, as the rain folded the city in its shroud.

Using strong verbs and adjectives will help you craft setting descriptions that are masterful. Every word counts. To borrow unfaithfully from Animal Farm: All words are created equal, but some words are more equal than others. Some words are plain boring, and others take our breath away.

And, of course, it’s not just the words but how they are used—a paintbrush in the hands of a master will create something quite different from the same brush in the hands of a toddler.

Throwing words and imagery around in a random, thoughtless way may present a tableau that resembles a Jackson Pollack modern art piece. It may be colorful but there’s no identifiable picture that emerges, no matter how long you stare at it. We don’t want readers scratching their heads trying to figure out what the mood of the scene is meant to convey.

Let’s take a look at a passage from James Lee Burke’s Bitteroot:

Early the next morning the air was unseasonably cold and a milk-white fog blew off the river and hung as thick as wet cotton on the two-acre tank behind my barn. As I walked along the levee I could hear bass flopping out in the fog. I stood in the weeds and cast a Rapala between two flooded willow trees, heard it hit the water, then began retrieving it toward me. The sun looking like a glowing red spark behind the gray silhouette of the barn.

Rain was moving out of the south, dimming the fields in the distance, clicking now on the asphalt county road at the foot of his property. … The air was dense and cool, like air from a cave, and the pine trees shook in the wind and scattered pine needles across the top of Kyle’s trailer.

A bolt of lightning crashed in a field across the road and illuminated the trees, burning all the shadows from the clearing, and Kyle saw the tinkling sound was only the wind playing tricks on him. A solitary drop of water struck his head, hard, like a marble, and he finished gathering the arrow shafts from the hay bale.

The weather in Burke’s novels is tactile, personal, evident, front and center. And this isn’t because the novels I’ve read of his are set in Montana, which is all about “big sky” and nature. Burke describes interiors just as deliciously as he describes exteriors.

Look at how Burke relied predominantly on visuals. But those bits of sound added the perfect texture to those sights. Bass flopping and rain clicking and tinkling (can you hear those?) and lightning crashing. The shift in focus to a single drop of water hitting his head hard, like a marble, makes the weather personal and tactile.

This is all about caring. Caring that every sentence uses the best words in a concise and specific way. You don’t need a lot of words to describe setting in a powerful way. Remember: mood has to reflect and inform the character in that moment of time.

Don’t discount the power of weather in your settings. Make weather an important element in your characters’ lives, just as it is in your life. And spend time choosing just the right words and imagery to reflect and inform your character’s mood. Your writing will soar to new heights when you do.

Note from Jane: If you enjoyed this post, check out C. S. Lakin’s new online course on how to craft powerful settings. Enroll before October 24 and get 30% off with coupon code EARLYBIRD.